I don’t like the colour pink. No, actually I hate the colour pink. I hate it with a vengeance, not because pink is a girl colour and I am rebelling against gender stereotyping, but because, well, I just don’t like it very much. Like how I don’t like brinjal. There isn’t a reason for it. So ok, I don’t like pink, in all its shades and hues. The best girl friend threatens to have a pink themed wedding; I tell her I will wear black. I don’t mind shades very far away from the baby pink spectrum, like mauve and violet and purple.
I like the pink on trees though. When I list to myself, very often off late, the reasons why I still live in a city, in this city, I write down the trees. Especially in the Vasantha Ruthu, the spring season, when trees in
rise up and bloom and open their branches to the wide blue sky, unmindful of the dirtiness of the roads and people below. I love the jacarandas and the other pale pink and yellow and darker pink and violet flowers, the names of which I have never thought to find out. Bangalore
I keep promising myself that early one morning, I will take myself to one of the larger parks in the city and take pictures of these trees. Maybe I will do that some time in the summer this year. Are most of the trees in Lalbagh and
in bloom yet? I wonder. Cubbon Park
When work took me to those parts of the city earlier, I would look at the flowering trees and long to sit under one with a thick book of poetry, maybe Neruda; or perhaps Keats and Kuvempu would have been more appropriate. I never did that, you know. Journalism is not a place where you have the time or column space for poetry. On Sunday summer evenings, I imagined having a summer dress on and a wicker picnic basket packed with lemonade and some snacks and a light novel too, friends and I would find a spot under a wide tree and speak of youth and music. Maybe one of us would have a guitar to strum along.
Maybe my dreams are too English!
I never did that picnic thing either. In fact, I have never been on an outdoor picnic in
; I don’t like the crowds everywhere here. We do a lot of those picnics back home though. Bangalore
This Sunday perhaps I will go to the park to see the flowers. I will stop for tea at Koshy’s, I find myself becoming a sometimes-regular there. I will perhaps meet friends and share the pot of green tea I order for, then walk up to
to see the jacarandas and the other flowers. There used to be a musical hour at Band Stand there every Sunday, where a ‘light music’ group or amateur singers or out-of-work orchestra groups would entertain the crowds in the evening. People would sit on the grass and watch their kids bounce a newly-bought red balloon about, munching on spicy puffed rice or biting into fried corn. Some would walk by and stay for a song or two. Lovers, hand in hand, the girl, always coy, the boy, always macho in the eyes of his beloved, would find a corner to sit, if the band began playing romantic numbers. There used to be an old world charm to that one hour below the Band Stand. I am a big sucker for those old world charm things. Cubbon Park
P.S. As it turns out, this happens to be my 500th blog post! I am telling myself it is another milestone!