The scene is full of descending motion expressing immense silence (like the snowfall in the Himalayas). A small crowd has gathered, wordlessly watching the surreal phenomenon, here in central Delhi, in a stone courtyard overlooking poet Ghalib’s tomb. Hundreds of leaves are drifting down from an enormous pilkhan tree, its branches spread superwide.
In the western world, the month of March is a time when new leaves appear on trees that were bare during the winter. In Delhi, the month of March is a time when scores of trees become bare, making a big show of letting go of their leaves. This is part of their annual strategy to survive the forthcoming summer’s extended dry spell. Leaves being discarded to temporarily stop the transpiration of water.
Indeed, leaves are falling across Delhi, upon the pavements, upon the manholes, upon the parked cars, and upon us citizens. In Connaught Place, the escalators of N Block subway are littered with fallen leaves. Some distance away, a huge peepal across the road from Regal Cinema too has gone leafless, and yet, is looking regal. Outside the India Habitat Centre, yellow neem leaves are lying thickly along a part of the pave. On Mathura Road, a brown dog is napping under a peepal, its leaves falling over him like party confetti. On Sardar Patel Marg, a gun-toting guard is standing alert under a half-bare tree, its leaves falling over and around him.
Meanwhile, here in the courtyard beside Ghalib’s grave, the aforementioned pilkhan tree is continuing to shed hundreds of leaves in front of awestruck spectators, exuding a kind of sadness without cause. This being evening, the sun has retreated into a corner of the courtyard’s sky. But the shafts of its smog-ridden rays are forcefully radiating through the tree’s foliage. In some time, the downpour pauses. An elderly spectator walks closer to the tree—see photo. He predicts that the pilkhan will become leafless in a matter of days. But soon afterwards, he says, it will get covered in new leaves. “Like the one over there.” He points to another pilkhan standing in a distant corner. That tree is covered with leaves aglow in a tint of bronze. It is shedding no leaf.
{{/usCountry}}Meanwhile, here in the courtyard beside Ghalib’s grave, the aforementioned pilkhan tree is continuing to shed hundreds of leaves in front of awestruck spectators, exuding a kind of sadness without cause. This being evening, the sun has retreated into a corner of the courtyard’s sky. But the shafts of its smog-ridden rays are forcefully radiating through the tree’s foliage. In some time, the downpour pauses. An elderly spectator walks closer to the tree—see photo. He predicts that the pilkhan will become leafless in a matter of days. But soon afterwards, he says, it will get covered in new leaves. “Like the one over there.” He points to another pilkhan standing in a distant corner. That tree is covered with leaves aglow in a tint of bronze. It is shedding no leaf.
{{/usCountry}}