You know it is the beginning of our spring in Bangalore when the Mahogany sheds its leaves. Indeed, I never cease to be amazed at just how many Mahogany trees there are in the city, judging from the millions of leaves on most roads in the older residential areas. The early mornings are a joy to behold, for all through the night the leaves have gently drifted down onto the road, forming a carpet of shades of brown.
This morning I am out with my son in Defence Colony. He is on his little cycle, while I am on foot, jogging to keep pace with him. We pass an impatient supervisor from the Municipality, who is ordering the street sweepers to sweep the roads clean of leaves, while they grumble and gossip amongst themselves. I would love to see the carpet of leaves remain, but……
One of the sweepers has a little child. He is an active fellow and cannot sit still, which feature draws my attention. I then notice his preoccupation: he picks up many leaves that have been swept onto the side of the road, drops some and collects the rest, comparing them to the ones he has put away, sizing them for colour, shape, form and condition. He pays close attention to each leaf, as if it were a potential friend and takes an instant decision to reject or add to the pile by his side.
“Do you like these leaves?” I ask in Tamil
“Yes.”
“But why are you collecting them?”
He does not have an immediate answer, prompting me to repeat the q.
“Because,” he replies, “I don’t get so many at any other time of the year.”
I continue my walk-jog, marvelling at the reply. A Honda Civic, with a busy, harried owner at the helm, drives past me at some speed and over a leaf-carpet, sending a rush of leaves up into the air. There are a number of morning walkers – brisk, tuned individuals – most of whom have ear-plugs with music on, a tight exercise schedule and certainly no time for leaves. I cross a small group of college students, walking to their tuition class, all with their heads down, their attention exclusively on the the mobiles in their palms.
Fifteen minutes later, we are back a full circle and the boy has followed his mother further down the road, his collection of Mahogany leaves in a plastic bag. He is still looking around, but clearly, with a satisfactory collection, his standards are now high. As i cross them – mother and child – I wonder just how inaccurate English is as a language. We don’t grow to be adults, we regress to that condition.
