My cabbie took a wrong turn this evening. And there they were: trees I just knew I wanted to hug. A chikoo tree, laden with brown orbs hiding under leathery green leaves reminding me of dusty sunsets in the desert.
Then around the corner from it was a moringa tree - mauve flowers and drumsticks like a witch’s talons. Countless tongues wagging in the evening breeze. The drumstick on the highest branch is always spared the sambhar.
Across it was a tree of custard apples. It’s a shy introvert this one, stands in plain sight with fruit the colour of leaves. No one seems to love these, they’re always hanging out by themselves - near petrol pumps in Jeevan Bhima Nagar, watching a garbage dump in Indiranagar, lonesome by the temple in Yemalur.
Then the mango trees, full of leathery copper-brown-red fresh leaves and bunches of flowers-in-the-making. A blushing bride and an expectant mother all in one. What’s the Tamizh word for that colour again? My grandmother had a saree that colour.
Serendipity is my favourite word but surely there must be a word for meeting again for the first time, a tree you’ve met before?