Semal

It’s mid-February and the city is beginning to slowly come alive again. The temperature is still fairly low but it’s not bitterly cold, unlike what it was just ten days ago. A few people, carefully covered in thick sweaters and scarves, can now be seen taking a stroll in the park, but not too many have dared to venture out yet. Most of them prefer to stay in the warmth of their homes, watching TV, sharing hot snacks, and spending time with family. 

The park watchman nurses the tiny glass of strong almost bitter tea that he has bought from the chaiwala who stands just outside the park gate with his handcart, wishing he could stay at home and spend time with his wife and kids. His duty ends late evening, and by the time he gets home his wife is exhausted from the day’s work and the kids are fast asleep.

He looks around at the almost empty park. Nothing really to see, most trees are drab and colourless at this time of the year. But there is one spot, in a far corner, that is vibrant with colour and full of life. A semal tree stands there; it too is leafless but the semal flowers are in full bloom, and underneath the tall tree is a carpet of deep red. While the rest of the park is fairly deserted, the semal tree is never short of visitors. Couples in love always seem to find their way there and many a romantic conversation takes place beneath its crimson canopy. There are barbets and parakeets perched in the tree’s tall branches and love birds seated on the bench beneath. Its trunk has spikes to keep animals away, but there is no stopping those in love. When they lean against it to steal a kiss or two, all they can feel is yearning and tenderness. Sometimes there is heartbreak as well. Once in a while, some young man may be seen to leave alone, head bowed down, dejection written all over his face, the young lady he came with leaving separately. Sometimes, a woman may be seen crying, the man looking on helplessly. 

The watchman is only a silent spectator, he is not part of the drama that plays out under the red umbrella of the tree. He often wishes he could be like the others, get his wife here and spend some romantic moments beneath the flaming canopy, perhaps put a semal flower with its thick, luscious red leaves in her braid. That’s a wish that will never come true, they will grow old, his wife slaving at cleaning others’ homes and he slogging at keeping people safe, working as a watchman during the daytime at the colony near his jhuggi-jhopdi and in the evenings at the park. Till spring lasts, he will just have to look on with envy at the semal tree from afar, there is no point in going near its fiery red intensity alone.

By May the flowers will have been shed, and the couples will be replaced by little children collecting the fruit capsules that burst on impact when they fall on the ground below, replacing the red flowers with a white carpet of silky white cotton. He will watch others’ children play, hear their squeals of laughter, and see them throw the soft cottony fibres at each other in glee. Then, at the end of the day, he will go home to his tired wife, and his sleeping children and fall into a welcome stupor on his hard floor-bed.