<p>If only trees had legs to migrate to safer places, they would surely flee urban Bengaluru to grow and find peace elsewhere. Trees grow silently; nobody hears them. But when they fall, everyone hears the thud.</p>.<p>They stay firmly rooted, grounding us in turn and adding new colours each season and drawing deeply from ground water below. The roadside trees of Bengaluru strive to stand tall and proud, though they are uncared for, abused, ill-treated and defaced. Nails are mercilessly driven into their trunks with cables wound tightly around them as if to suffocate them from top to bottom. In our ever-expanding metros, their end is only a matter of time.</p>.<p>Recently, a 50-year-old uchekai mara (Spathodea campanulata) crashed in between two tall apartment blocks on a narrow road. The mammoth tree lay sprawled like a wounded soldier. Its branches pierced windows and shattered glass, crashed into a compound wall, snapped a web of cables – TV and electric alike – and brought traffic to a halt. Birds quickly found refuge on neighbouring trees, squirrels darted about in search of scattered seeds, and sleepy residents who missed the midnight drama stared aghast from their balconies the next morning.</p>.<p>Fortunately, the cars parked inside the apartment premises were spared, and the night watchman had just stepped outside for a break. Oh, what a fall it was! Frantic calls to namma Greater Bengaluru Authority (GBA), the new avatar of the BBMP, brought the usual slow response, leading to traffic snarls and further inconvenience.</p>.<p>The debris lay uncleared for days on the pavement – no-man’s land as usual – hindering pedestrians and senior citizens.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The fall of the mighty tree has left a gaping void in the neighbourhood, exposing balconies directly to the road across the narrow lane. Windows that once hid behind the tree’s generous cover now sit behind drawn blinds. The mighty tree is sorely missed – for its cool breeze, its colourful presence and the comfort it offered through the year. Such is the fate of a tree in our fast-growing metros.</p>.<p class="bodytext">‘Uchekai tree’ – named for its ampule-shaped buds filled with water that children and adults alike delight in squirting – is the local name for African tulip or Nandi flame. Also known as ‘<span class="italic">neerukai mara</span>’ in Kannada, it blooms resplendently every August-September. Clusters of golden-green water buds with lush leaves unfurl into bright, showy orange-yellow flowers. When undisturbed, Spathodea trees can grow up to 80 feet. Fast-growing and generous, they offer water-filled buds to birds and bees. As children, we played with its kidney-shaped buds, squirting water at one another as if it were Holi. The orange flowers live their brief lives and fall; open buds droop within a couple of days. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Looking out from our balcony now, I can’t help humming Kishore Kumar’s classics from <span class="italic">Padosan</span>: <span class="italic">Mere Saamane wali khidki mein</span>… and <span class="italic">Ek chaturanaar</span>…</p>
<p>If only trees had legs to migrate to safer places, they would surely flee urban Bengaluru to grow and find peace elsewhere. Trees grow silently; nobody hears them. But when they fall, everyone hears the thud.</p>.<p>They stay firmly rooted, grounding us in turn and adding new colours each season and drawing deeply from ground water below. The roadside trees of Bengaluru strive to stand tall and proud, though they are uncared for, abused, ill-treated and defaced. Nails are mercilessly driven into their trunks with cables wound tightly around them as if to suffocate them from top to bottom. In our ever-expanding metros, their end is only a matter of time.</p>.<p>Recently, a 50-year-old uchekai mara (Spathodea campanulata) crashed in between two tall apartment blocks on a narrow road. The mammoth tree lay sprawled like a wounded soldier. Its branches pierced windows and shattered glass, crashed into a compound wall, snapped a web of cables – TV and electric alike – and brought traffic to a halt. Birds quickly found refuge on neighbouring trees, squirrels darted about in search of scattered seeds, and sleepy residents who missed the midnight drama stared aghast from their balconies the next morning.</p>.<p>Fortunately, the cars parked inside the apartment premises were spared, and the night watchman had just stepped outside for a break. Oh, what a fall it was! Frantic calls to namma Greater Bengaluru Authority (GBA), the new avatar of the BBMP, brought the usual slow response, leading to traffic snarls and further inconvenience.</p>.<p>The debris lay uncleared for days on the pavement – no-man’s land as usual – hindering pedestrians and senior citizens.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The fall of the mighty tree has left a gaping void in the neighbourhood, exposing balconies directly to the road across the narrow lane. Windows that once hid behind the tree’s generous cover now sit behind drawn blinds. The mighty tree is sorely missed – for its cool breeze, its colourful presence and the comfort it offered through the year. Such is the fate of a tree in our fast-growing metros.</p>.<p class="bodytext">‘Uchekai tree’ – named for its ampule-shaped buds filled with water that children and adults alike delight in squirting – is the local name for African tulip or Nandi flame. Also known as ‘<span class="italic">neerukai mara</span>’ in Kannada, it blooms resplendently every August-September. Clusters of golden-green water buds with lush leaves unfurl into bright, showy orange-yellow flowers. When undisturbed, Spathodea trees can grow up to 80 feet. Fast-growing and generous, they offer water-filled buds to birds and bees. As children, we played with its kidney-shaped buds, squirting water at one another as if it were Holi. The orange flowers live their brief lives and fall; open buds droop within a couple of days. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Looking out from our balcony now, I can’t help humming Kishore Kumar’s classics from <span class="italic">Padosan</span>: <span class="italic">Mere Saamane wali khidki mein</span>… and <span class="italic">Ek chaturanaar</span>…</p>
