City Hangout – Frangipani Island, Niti Marg
White stars.
[Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi]
Traffic islands seldom distinguish themselves as works of beauty.
But then there’s that traffic island in Central Delhi that contains a grove of fulgent frangipani trees, laden with white flowers resembling stars. It’s as though some generous angel had decided to endow the treetops with Christmas decorations.
The very air at this traffic island at Niti Marg is scented with the sweet perfume of the frangipanis. So powerful, that one feels slightly overwhelmed, like drinking a vintage wine.
The dependable Wikipedia informs that the name frangipani comes from a 16th century marquis of Italian nobility who boasted to have invented a perfume derived from these flowers. The claim was false. The genus itself memorializes the 17th century French botanist Charles Plumier who documented many plant and animal species the world over. In India, many of us call it champa. Rabindranath Tagore wrote a poem called The Champa Flower.
This frangipani circle near the Egyptian Embassy is nearly deserted this afternoon, with every branch of these trees laden with flowers, some young and fresh. Others droopy, ready to fall on the wild grass which already looks like a dense graveyard laden with flowers. Some of these dead frangipanis are still white, while others have gone coal-black.
A pool filled with beer bottles and plastic containers lies in the very center of the grove. This degradation is partly offset by the reflections of sky and clouds in the surprisingly clear water. Occasionally a frangipani is sighted, drifting slowly in the pool. The sight is like a sad poem.
Dream-like grove
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SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, “Baby, where are you?” and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree’s shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
“Where have you been, you naughty child?”
“I won’t tell you, mother.” That’s what you and I would say then.
– from http://nkganesha.blogspot.com/2018/07/the-champa-flower-poem-by-rabindranath.html