Gulmohur and the things I miss the most about India.
Terracotta water pots
Growing up I never thought that googling a picture of Gulmohur would bring tears to my eyes. That it would evoke the kind of yearning which envelopes the being. That so many memories of my childhood and youth are somehow held in the deep greens and brilliant vermillion of the tree. Against the blue of the sky, and later, on the brown of the earth as I walk in the sweetness of the early mornings, with the stingless chill that only summer mornings in India have… As I breathe in the indefinable smell of morning dew… As I hear the temple bells, the traffic and the azaan… the chai on the dusty roads… the calm of the midnight moon… the wind in the hair at 30 kmph on a kinetic Honda… the feeling of clean after a long, sweaty day… the toothy smile of the kid who just smeared his candy on your dress… the softness of salwar kameez… maati…