There in the corner of a busy road in Secunderabad stands a Gulmohar tree. I think she is middle-aged. Beneath her branches, this morning some cars and motorcycles and a lone auto rickshaw is parked. A fine breeze is blowing. And every time the tide hits the tree, the branches poise and surf elegantly over it. Then they wait for the next tide of wind to surf again.
The bright reddish-orange flowers hold on to her branches, like kids on an adventure ride going "weeee" , their petals flapping close in the gust, every time the branches surf the wind.
Below the cars honk and push, autos zigzag in search of customers and motorcycles surge in another never-ending desire.
I watch this play from a distance and in my mind's eye reach the tree and hug her trunk. For now I know how that rooted still trunk and playful branches lead to each other.
