March has begun in all its dry, baking heat in Bangalore, the kind that settles early in the day and lingers, pressing gently but persistently against skin and stone alike.
Dry leaves drift down in no particular hurry, spinning lazily through the warm air before settling over roads and narrow lanes, forming a soft, uneven carpet that crunches underfoot in a quiet riot of yellows and browns.
And even as the earth seems to shed, it renews.
Bright new leaves push through, almost painfully green, translucent in the sunlight, their freshness startling against the deep, tired brown of old branches, as though hope insists on arriving even in the harshest of seasons.
The trees—those beloved, unnamed sentinels of Bangalore—are beginning their annual transformation, covering themselves in an unapologetic abundance of colour: pale pinks that blush in the morning light, brilliant yellows that catch the sun and hold it, deep violets and rich reds that stand out boldly against the sky.
There is one tree in particular that draws me in every year.
Its flowers are odd, almost whimsical—round, green, like miniature bottle brushes, unassuming at first glance, easy to overlook if you are not paying attention.
But they bloom at night.
And in the still, sharp air of early morning, before the day gathers its noise and heat, they release a fragrance that is at once delicate and unmistakable, lingering just long enough to be noticed, just strong enough to stay with you.
“What is this tree called in Kannada?” I asked my maid one morning, curiosity finally overcoming habit.
“It’s the Bhagya mara, madam,” she said with certainty. “Used for furniture and things. Very strong, very good. It brings good luck.”
Bhagya.
Luck.
Fortune.
It seems like an apt name for something that offers such quiet delight, asking for nothing, expecting nothing, and yet enriching the morning simply by being what it is.
And perhaps that is what I find myself noticing more and more these days—the small, unassuming gifts that arrive without announcement, that do not solve anything, do not change the larger picture, and yet soften it in ways that are difficult to articulate.
A fragrance in the morning air.
A burst of unexpected colour.
A moment of pause before the day begins in earnest.
March in Bangalore is not gentle.
It is dry, sharp, and relentless in its heat.
And yet, it holds these moments.
These small, generous offerings.
If we stop long enough to notice them.
Have you seen this tree?
Or its flowers?