My Friend, the Gulmohar
(Based on a True Story)
It was the year I moved from kindergarten to first grade—still a child, yet slowly awakening to the world around me.
I have always believed that memories—especially those from childhood—cling to us with uncanny clarity. They survive not just in the mind but in the soul, seared into our being by joy, sorrow, or something deeper.
This is the story of one such memory—of my first friendship, pure and wordless.
One morning, possibly a Sunday—since my father, grandfather, and uncle were all at home—my mother, brushing her teeth with a neem twig on the veranda, said:
“That Gulmohar tree? Your grandfather planted it five years before you were born.”
For the first time, I really looked at the tree.
It stood there like a groom adorned in red and saffron blooms, poised to set out for his wedding.
From that day, I was enchanted.
Every morning before school, I would glance at the tree. And every evening, upon returning, I would greet it again, my snack bowl in hand, seated on the veranda, gazing at my silent companion.
I began to feel the tree wanted to speak.
It pulled me toward it—not with sound, but with something more ancient and alive.
I would play beneath its branches, sometimes even eating the fallen leaves.
Mom scolded me: “You’re not a goat!”
But I couldn’t explain why I loved it so.
When I asked if trees could speak, she laughed. “They just give us oxygen and shade. That’s all.”
But I knew this one was different.
This one spoke—to me.
During exams, I’d whisper to it:
“Lucky you! No school, no homework…”
In those moments, I envied its carefree existence.
But time has its own ways.
By the time I reached the fifth grade, I began falling seriously ill.
Sixth grade passed entirely at home.
My only routine was the evening—sitting in a reclining chair, watching the Gulmohar.
My only joy was speaking to it.
It became my confidant.
The only friend who stayed.
As I weakened, I could no longer approach it. We would just exchange long, silent glances.
And then something strange began to happen.
The tree too began to weaken.
Though watered regularly, it dried.
Its vibrant branches shriveled, the birds left, and it seemed to grieve.
Then one day—it fell.
Collapsed to the ground. Gone.
My mother said simply, “The tree’s dead. It had dried up anyway.”
But I knew the truth.
“It couldn’t bear my pain, Mom,” I said. “That’s why it died.”
She dismissed it. “Trees don’t feel like humans do.”
But I knew better.
My friend had absorbed my sorrow. It withered with me. And in the end, it died of grief.
I asked to be taken to it.
Cradled in my mother’s arms, I reached out and touched my fallen friend one last time.
I still feel that touch.
Still mourn that parting.
Nature follows a rhythm—birth and death, sunrise and sunset.
But this wasn’t just nature. This was love.
This was friendship.
Even now, whenever I see a Gulmohar, I see him—alive, smiling, and waiting outside that childhood home…
The only true witness to my pain.