An Ode to the Amaltas
Golden Shower. That’s what they said about Dilli in June. When the heat becomes unbearable, pushing people inside their abode for respite, Dilli blooms yellow.
This beauty cannot be explained to those who haven’t been witnesses before. Neither can it be described to the inhabitants of those parts of Dilli who haven’t been in the areas afforded the luxury of trees. But since I am leaving my home in less than 20 days, I will attempt to do so as an ode to them.
It is because of my love for these flowers, dear Amaltas, that I keep coming back to Dilli, irrespective of my almost-edgy dislike for the city.
The story begins in the fourth month of the year, April, and it begins slowly with tiny greenish buds over hundreds of trees alongside the roads. Before you can adore them for long enough, by mid-May, these buds grow into flowers that are so yellow and golden in colour that one cannot help but wish to stay out for a little longer just to look at them. One cannot help but stop in their tracks, pause a little, sigh longer, smile more, and widen their eyes. These luscious yellow beauties adorn the melancholic roads and give something like a halt to tired travellers.
In the heart of historic roads and urban buildings, a poem takes birth in the form of bright yellow flowers. The history goes back to the pre-Independence era. When the region of Lutyens Delhi was being transformed into the national capital in the 1920s by Edward Lutyens, a lot of Amaltas trees were planted in the surrounding areas. Now, although many new buildings have emerged, these trees from beyond the time known to the residents remain fruitful and ageless.
The branches aim for the sky, defying the scorching heat and giving much-needed shade to pedestrians, labourers, hawkers, and others, irrespective of their identities. The flowers, many on one branch, hurdled together, hang so beautifully, like teardrops on a painfully difficult day or raindrops in a drizzle. They are the kind of flowers a lover plucks from his beloved’s wrists. They are the kind of flowers a child enriches his mother’s hair with.
Unsurprisingly, I have many memories connected to Amaltas. One evening, while I was sitting outside in my garden, a strong storm seemed imminent. Before the storm, winds started blowing, and a branch full of flowers fell into my lap. It smelled so fragrant and summery that I couldn’t help but smile and take it with me inside. Nature soothed my ennui and gave me one of its children.
Another memory is a reminder of a deeply cherished person in my life who often bought me flowers and leaves of many kinds. One such flower is Amaltas, which I have dried and kept in one of my favourite books. These flowers pull me towards them, comfort me in pain, and give me more reasons to appreciate my life.
I wish that next June I could come back home to my favourite flowers, get an opportunity to sit under its trees, and write a poem so achingly stuck in my throat.
I wish that the new inhabitants of this city would compensate for my departure.
With love,
A.A
