THE RECALCITRANT CHAMPA

Supposing I became a champa flower,

just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, 

and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon 

the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?

~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Champa Flower

A potted money plant, its leaves hugging a moss-

stick like fledglings reluctant to duck out of a mother's 

wings. Next to it, buds of cape jasmine on a plant 

with ambitions of turning into a tree and hosting busy

 

mynahs and chipmunks, quintessential arboreal seekers. 

A few pots down the line, a curry leaf plant stirs the air 

with smoky memories of mustard crackling in a pot 

about to sizzle with the zing of tangy lentils. 

At the far end stands the champa, a frangipani tree. 

Crowded with lush, fat leaves, but refusing to flower. 

In Tagore's poem, a little boy imagines himself as 

a flower hiding in the foliage to tease his mother. 

This frangipani at the far corner of the balcony won't 

hide or let hide. This diva of a verdant assembly 

commands attention without a single flower stashing 

heady fragrance in its pinwheel frame. 

This cheeky Champa wants to be seen just the way she is.