Nidhi Jamwal*
On the way from Silchar to some villages along the Indo-Bangladesh border in Cachar district of Assam, a majestic tree with flaming red flowers caught my attention. The Semal tree, also known as Silk Cotton tree or Bombax Ceiba, was difficult to ignore in the vast landscape of paddy fields dotted with bamboo huts in the valley of the Barak River in northeast India.
Is it spring already? I quickly pulled out my phone and took a picture of the lone flowering beauty, one of my favourite trees.
The sight of the Semal’s branches with no leaves and only big red flowers transported me to a picturesque hill town in Jammu & Kashmir (J&K) in north India where I grew up.
All I did was shut my weary eyes to go right back to my childhood and the Semal tree in our colony in Jyotipuram in Reasi district. Back then, I did not know its botanical name, I just knew that the blooming tree heralded the spring and forced us to stand and stare at its flamboyant beauty.
We nicknamed it raja-rani-ka-ped (King and Queen’s tree) and loved collecting its five-petal flowers that curled outwards. It was many years later after I moved to Delhi for higher studies that I learnt that my raja-rani-ka-ped was actually the Semal tree.
My friends and I spent many spring afternoons, playing and running-catching around the tree. I can see us, in our hand-tailored cotton frocks with their frills, laces and buttons, lovingly sewed by our mother.
Unlike the giant banyan tree in Ramlila Ground which allowed kids to clamber all over it and swing from its hanging roots, the raja-rani-ka-ped in our colony was rather aloof. But it showered its red flowers as if to welcome Spring.
Back then, spring was actually a real season though now it is no more than a fading memory. Early heatwaves have banished Spring and global warming is wiping out both seasons and species.
There was a time when Basant (spring) unfolded unhurriedly. We patiently waited to shed the layers of woollens we wore in the biting cold winter of J&K.
A month or two later, after it had indulged us with its breezy afternoons and bursts of flowers, the Basant departed, making way for the summers. The mercury rose gradually after the festival of Holi followed by Baisakhi on April 13.
Now, the heatwaves are barging in, in February itself when the harvest of the wheat crop is still some weeks away. The high temperatures affect both production and productivity of the wheat, which is a direct hit on our granaries and the food thali.
While spring was synonymous with Semal, the summers were all about Rooh Afza. In the 80s, a refrigerator was a luxury. And, it was almost always stocked with a bottle of thick maroon syrup, claiming it to be Sharbat E Azam. Its advertisements on television announced the arrival of the harsh Indian summer season, like nothing else did.
I was never a Rooh Afza fan. I preferred the lemon squash. But Rooh Afza had pride of place in our fridge. It was an unspoken rule at home that guests visiting us on scorching summer days were first offered Rooh Afza in a glass topped with big ice cubes.
My mother tried hard to convert me to a Rooh Afza lover. She squeezed lemon into it, or added it to milk (which made the milk look like Gelusil syrup) – but I kept my distance from it, but always offered it to our guests. The problem was when I visited friends in summers, their mothers always insisted I have a glass of Rooh Afza, and I could not refuse.
It’s been years since anyone offered me Rooh Afza. I hope the disappearing Springs will return along with the Semal trees. I may even allow myself to fall in love with Rooh Afza.
I worry the rising temperatures and the early heatwaves will obliterate my childhood memories altogether and all I will have left are photographs taken on my mobile of solitary trees, disappearing bylanes and crumbling edifices.
*Nidhi Jamwal is a journalist based in Mumbai. She writes on environment, climate, and rural issues.
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