The Semal tree very close to our house has flowered again.
For a long time, I thought it was a Palash: now, however, I know that Palash trees are not to be found in this — or any — part of Delhi; this, most definitely, is the Bombax Ceiba; commonly known as the Semal.
The residents of a house on the second floor of a building rarely count its altitude as a virtue. It is usually a source of complaint. This, for me, changes for the few months of the year where I am able to get a sight of the flowering Semal from inside the house, via a perfectly placed living room window.
Today, however, the sight struck a unique chord. A realisation, of sorts; a reminder, in effect.
Two sequential sightings of this flowered Semal is the most visible depiction of the passage of a definite period of time: devoid of the imagined reality of 31 December turning into the first day of January, or the astronomical invisibility of the cosmic interplay between the Earth and the Sun.
A year has passed. It did so too on January the first; today, however, the concept seemed more than academic.
I am usually unfazed towards the end of years and the beginning of newer ones; generally not giving in to the mental temptation of evaluating the progress made through this arbitrary period of time. The resilience seems to have stemmed from an indifference to the number at the end of the date. Today, the indifference seemed to have been found out. In the face of an inquisitive Semal seemingly asking me what I had managed to do in the intervening time between two flowering seasons, I had to reflect.
What was I worrying about a year ago?
In the typical storyline of the self-help exercise which involves trying to answer this question after posing it to oneself, the respondents usually struggle to remember; the futility of ‘worrying’ is thus established.
To me, answers came thick and fast.
I was definitely worried. Worried about how I was going to even begin the process of getting to where I eventually wanted to get. About being inadequately skilled, inadequately talented, inadequately sociable and inadequately embellished — with labels, the kinds that portray success and achievement in society, and bring along with them a measure of respect. Worried about what I had to show for the ever increasing reservoir of time that had passed.
I still worry. The subjects of concern have perhaps shifted; but the propensity to wistfully deliberate has remained.
The memory of a rich diversity of experience — gained in this period of time — flooded in, seemingly as response. Each of these experiences has contributed to a spectrum of learning.
The first-ever foray into a workplace; the re-evaluation of a relationship; the will to invest in new friendship; the liberation of a life lived with greater impulse; the futility of narrative; the subjectivity of joy; the unraveling of conviction and the acknowledgement of possibility; the rebellion that is optimism; the bedrock of old friendship; the absolute foundation that is family.
So much has been gained, and some lost: a transformative period of time. It took the Semal for me to be able to identify it in summary.
The flowers have already begun to drop from the branches. An indication; a trigger, almost, to lumber on. There seems to be no finish line: the Semal is perfectly okay with this absence of a summit, and so, it seems to me, must we.
Joy’s soul, after all, lies in the doing
(Originally published March 2019)