O’ Trees of Bengaluru, May Your Tribe Increase

Dinesh Srivastava

We moved to Bengaluru about five years ago, after living in Mumbai for 10 years and in Kolkata for forty years. The Frau was very excited about our move to Bengaluru, after years of hot and humid Kolkata. I tried to tell her that, we were going to miss the excellent spread of sweets and mishti doi (sweet curd), the fabulous feasts during weddings and many festivals, and the splendour and magnificence of the celebration of Durga Puja. Her reply was simple, “We shall see”. You see, we are rudderless boats cast in the ocean called India, constantly buffeted by the winds, waves, and cyclones of ‘papi pet ka sawal’ aka job, having moved out of our village from one of the poorest districts of India when I was twelve and then out of the nearest city- on the bank of the Ganges when I was eighteen. I have been so far away and for so long, that I get to speak my mother tongue only when I talk to my siblings.

These wonderings- including the extended stays in Europe, the USA, and Canada etc., have led to the evolution and development of a defence and survival mechanism. Thus, our eyes have developed an acute sense which helps them look for and treasure even the slightest sights and sounds which can endear our current place of stay to us and lessen the pangs of separation from our home and the pains of being an eternal refugee. Thus, emboldened and fortified, we march on- to face difficulties, slights, inconveniences, new friendships,  victories, and snide remarks, taking them all in our strides.

For example- the first thing I told The Frau- who loves walking on footpaths to inhale and internalise the sights, the sounds, and the smells of a city- was that there were no reasonable footpaths in Bengaluru, at least in the area we were to live and work. She charged me with trying to discourage her, as I had done every day during our married life and started preparing to move.

When we arrived, we were told that Namma Bengaluru (my Bengaluru) was a city of lakes. Not long afterwards, we realised that yes, there were several thousand lakes across the city at one time. And yes, in that golden era they were even connected- lovingly sharing their bounties and hardships, but only a few hundred survive. The rest have vanished like the proverbial bridges and roads whose existence is often privileged information, and which have either metamorphosed as ultra-modern housing complexes or uber-congested colonies. We had also been told that it was an airconditioned city, but soon we started feeling the need for one. Out disappointments were mounting.

Till we went to Cubbon Park and Lal Bag! We immediately fell in love with it- the majestic trees of Cubbon Park and the majestic trees, vast lake, languorous walkways, and vibrant flowering beds of Lal Bag. We were told that the tree selection in Lal Bag was such that one or the other tree was covered with flowers as the seasons changed. But then it was far away from where we lived or rather could afford to live.

The chaotic traffic even around our remote housing complex was so bad that I could not see the most beautiful objects that the city has to offer- its trees! With some trials, I adjusted my journeys to and from my work to times when the traffic was leaner. It was then that I noticed the magnificent rain trees (shiris), their ample girths testifying to their antiquity, joining their vast and dense canopies from the two sides of the road and making a green tunnel for me to drive dreamily. I loved to see their leaves folding onto themselves when the sun went down.  When it got hot and other trees were done with shedding their leaves and getting shiny new ones, and flowered and dropped all their flowers- the rain trees took over. No wonder that our beloved Hindi writer Hazari Prasad Dwivedi was so fond of them. They beckoned me lovingly under their canopy of pinkish flowers- looking like mini-crests of cranes shining adamantly and proudly, surrounded by glistening leaves, their canopy spread like a giant floral print. Looking below, I could see their little thread-like orange/yellow petals covering the roads and blown around by the gentlest breeze. By evening, these would all be collected near the curves of the road on either side.

Not to be outdone- the pongamia (karanj or honge) trees, though not very tall or thick, but with very dense foliage of lush green glistening leaves, spread a carpet of their pinkish-white flowers. After some effort, I was able to go to work before the municipal workers started sweeping them out of the way. The pink trumpet and yellow trumpet are other trees which spread a lovely carpet on the road. I love to drive before these are swept aside and yet almost cry out in anguish as my tyres crush them. Then, there is this lone tree of harsingar (Parijat), its pleasant smell reaches me well before I see it, with yet another carpet of snow-white flowers with an orange-red centre. Another one of my favourites growing all over the city is African tulip. I wonder what simile Kalidas would have given to its bright orange-red flowers covering its green leaves like floral prints of a green silk saree.

Just when I start getting annoyed by the men and women overtaking me from left and right and taking a sudden left or right turn in front of me, without giving me any signal- the jarul trees soothe my nerves with their light purple flowers or the gold trees fill me with hope with their plentiful shiny yellow flowers and akash mallika (the tree jasmine) with its tender fragrance and white trumpet-like flowers bring me peace. After all, it had brought peace to quarrelling wives of Lord Krishna- what had planted it in the courtyard of Satyabhama, while its flowers fell in the courtyard of Rukmini!

The months of March and April also see the flowering of the neem and the jamun trees- along with ample food for a variety of birds! I wish that there were many more kachanar trees, though, for they attract the lovely sunbirds and bees while filling their surrounding with the gentlest fragrance.

At one time, I had struggled to know the name of the tree with brown, large cucumber-like fruits, and long ropes of flowers hanging from them, after seeing them in Jammu, Manipur, and Mandu- only to know that it came to India from Africa in two waves- first with the Arab merchants and then with the British- the sausage tree. Now sausage tree is so common in Bengaluru that it is found even in narrow lanes- giving me immense delight. I did notice a cannon ball tree too along one of the roads- which always reminded me of one such tree in the garden of one of the institutes in Chennai, which had hundreds of birds living on it, who performed, every morning and evening, throughout the year. I am so very happy to see long rows of flowering ashoka trees, silk cotton trees, palas, jacaranda, and the amaltas trees- with their wonderful flowers like a golden shower. I am also happy that the false ashoka (pendula ashoka)- beloved of the rich for their gardens, is not so common here. It is a pleasure to see all the jackfruit trees laden with their large fruits as we walk around some rich neighbourhoods.

I am delighted that peepal trees are so quite common in Bengaluru, and one even gets to see an occasional banyan tree. Even though I dislike the ever-present eucalyptus, it does impress me with its height and milky white trunk. Silver oak trees abound in some areas. I admire the jugad of bougainvillaea, which uses trees to climb up and dazzle us with its flowers from great heights when the sun starts getting cruel.

The multi-tiered wild almond trees look most magnificent after winter- when their large leaves turn yellow, rust-red, dark rust-red, and drop almost in unison, and are quickly replaced by new translucent green leaves- which get darker green by the day and bunches of flowers developing into fruits.

Just when the traffic to the airport starts giving me anxious moments the row of flowering cherries, gives me hope with their flowers or with the promise of flowers. The rows of teaks, with their large leaves and bouquet like flowers, the royal palms, occasional fish-tail palms, occasional date palms, and of course abundance of coconut palms, add their bit in making me happy.

The evergreen- Norfolk pine was known to me from my days in Kolkata- where it is rather popular. But there is a difference- the Norfolk pines of Bengaluru are ramrod straight and grow to heights of 60 to 80 feet or even more towering over their neighbours and modest multistorey buildings. The older Norfolk pines of Kolkata are often bent and struggle to keep their crest pointing up. It is known that these trees can grow to heights of 150 feet or even more and remain ramrod straight despite facing strong winds. A highly decorated botanist friend of mine, on enquiry, speculated that the Norfolk pines of Kolkata may be getting bent due to excess water in the soil there. Who knows?

Then one day, 3 years ago, as I drove down a low fly-over, my eyes witnessed a most surreal sight. On the right of the road stood a giant gulmohar tree covered with bright red flowers. And on the left of the road stood two copper pod trees covered with vibrant yellow flowers. And their branches mingled above the road, forming a canopy of vibrant red and yellow flowers. The setting sun cast an ethereal glow over them. I wondered, if the famed author Amitav Gosh, writing about the affair of Raja Neel Ratan and his mistress in his novel, Sea of Poppies- had seen something like this to describe the heap of intertwined and entangled yellow silk dhoti of Neel and the red silk saree of his mistress Elokeshi!

Be as it may, I now know that I am going to be in eternal love with Bengaluru, just because of its trees- may their tribe increase,   for they are giving me a lesson in tenacity amid rapid urbanisation and widening roads, by holding on to their shrinking spaces and still giving us whatever relief they can provide, in the face of the onset of global warming and climate change. And that is the only relief, as far as we can see.

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Bio: Dr D. K. Srivastava (born 1952) graduated from the Allahabad University, India in 1970 and joined the Training School at Bhabha Atomic Research Center, Mumbai and thereafter the Variable Energy Cyclotron Project in 1971. He retired as Distinguished Scientist and Director of the Variable Energy Cyclotron Center, Kolkata in 2016. After spending 3 more years there as DAE Raja Ramanna Fellow, he moved to National Institute of Advanced Studies, Bengaluru as Homi Bhabha Chair Professor, a position he held till August 2019. At present he is Honorary Visiting Professor and Indian National Science Academy Senior Scientist at National Institute of Advanced Studies, Bengaluru.

He is a Fellow of National Academy of Sciences, India, and Indian National Science Academy, recipient of several national and international awards- including outstanding referee award of American Physical Society, Outstanding Service Award for Nuclear Education by Indian Nuclear Society, Homi Bhabha Lecture Award of Institute of Physics, UK, and G. N. Ramchandran Award of Sastra University. He is editorial board member of several journals including Scientific Reports and MDPI Physics. He is honorary professor at Amity University, NOIDA, UP, and has held visiting positions at universities in USA, Germany, Canada, and South Africa of various durations. He has about 170 publications in refereed journals on physics of quark gluon plasma and low energy nuclear physics.

At present he is working on various aspects of climate change, renewable and nuclear energies, risk communication, education, and strategies for research, with about 30 papers on these topics. He has given about 600 talks on various aspects of his work and outreach. He has co-authored three books on science outreach, “Climate Change and Energy Options for a Sustainable Future”, “Art and Science of Managing Public Risks”, and “Science Beyond Border: International Collaborations in Basics Sciences”, which are published by World Scientific Publishing Company, Singapore. He has written two books of science stories for children (in Hindi and English), and two books of short stories in English.

A short story ‘Just a few leaves of Tulsi’ in English, and ‘Ammi ne aapko salam bheja hai’ in Hindi, were earlier published in Setu.

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Setu, May 2025

Fiction: A Leaf of Tulsi

- Dinesh Srivastava

It was rather warm and I decided to sit in the lawn of the motel in Lafayette, where I was staying. I had gone to the Purdue University for a conference. Most of the other delegates were staying near the university. I sat alone and looked at the sun as it slowly sank beneath the horizon, leaving a glowing colourful cloud in its wake. I had not noticed Vivek. He had walked silently and stood behind me looking at those very clouds. I turned back when he gently coughed. I had seen him during the conference but there had been far too many people surrounding him.  I had noted that he was the only other Indian in the meeting. I asked him to have a seat.  He sat down and introduced himself. We started talking. Of-course I had heard of him. In fact, the newspapers of the day had carried a long interview with him along with his photograph. He was from University of California at Berkeley and his work in the field of astronomy was very well recognized.

He was telling me about his work, when he stopped in mid-sentence and got up. I followed his gaze to the small house towards the back of the hotel. An elderly woman in a sari, her head covered, a small lamp in her hands, was going around some potted plant in front of the house. It did not take us long to realize that she was performing Tulsi-puja, as millions of women in India have done for hundreds of years. We waited for her to finish and slowly approached her. She had noticed us and waited for us. She offered us crystal sugar and leaves of Tulsi. She blessed us profusely as we reverentially touched her feet. No introductions were necessary and we walked back silently to our seats. Her simple gestures triggered varied emotions in our minds. This is the story of Vivek, or rather his mother.

***

My mother belonged to a generation where women of good families never crossed the threshold of the house into which they were married.  Thus confined, she created a world of her own- which centred on her family: my father, me, gods and goddesses, various festivals, fasts, and rituals. She ventured out only very occasionally, that also only after my father's death, when it became essential for her.

I wonder how she lived all those years, confined within the four walls of the house. She never complained. She even avoided talking directly to my father. When she wanted to tell him some-thing, she would ask me to ‘tell father’. When she needed to call us inside the house, she stood behind the door and gently rattled the chain holding the doors. If she knew that we were close-by, she would just shake her hands, producing a gentle tinkle of her glass bangles. Only women, small children, and the family priest could come into the house.

Every evening, as our cows returned from the grazing fields and the sun dipped below the horizon, she  lit a lamp of pure ghee near the Tulsi (basil) plant in our court-yard and walked around it three times with folded hands. Every morning, after a bath, she offered water from a shiny brass pot to the Tulsi plant. She went around it three times keeping the plant on her right, saying prayers and offering a bit of water as she completed the round. The regularity and the constancy of this act gave me a feeling of strong comfort and bliss.  This is one of my fondest memories and some-how that is how I remember my mother.

Whenever I had a fever, she plucked some leaves of Tulsi, and boiled them with black pepper and made me drink that very bitter concoction. I hated the taste, but always felt better afterwards. She had kept my fever under control with the same concoction, even when I had suffered from malaria. Today I look back and wonder; how she had lived in that remote village armed only with her faith in gods and goddesses and some simple home remedies. As summer roared and evenings brought a mild breeze, the scorpions with their raised poisonous tails came out in search of food. Being a restless child, running all over the place, I often stepped on them in the dark, only to get a nasty sting. I would scream and my mother would light a lamp and look for the sting, remove the barb and apply a paste of Tulsi leaves. Diarrhoea was my most common problem, in my childhood. She always cured it by giving me some concoction of Tulsi leaves. She cured our coughs by making us chew leaves of Tulsi with ginger and honey.

Her whole life revolved around Tulsi and her faith in Tulsi was phenomenal! She used to hold a "Satyanarayan Puja" on every full moon day at our home near the Tulsi plant. The family priest came in the morning and started asking for all the things needed for the Puja. I ran in and out of the house collecting all that he asked for; a tiny branch of mango along with leaves, dry sticks of mango, some sand, various grains, turmeric powder, water, a small plant of banana, cow-dung, etc. My mother prepared gently roasted some floor, adding sugar or jaggery to it. She prepared the "charanamrit"- washings off the feet of Lord Shaligram using curd with dry-fruits and Tulsi-leaves. We knew the story by heart, yet we sat around, reverentially, rejoicing at the end of each chapter, when the priest blew his conch shell.

I enjoyed these occasions immensely, especially the "hawan" (the fire sacrifice), while chanting "swaha" with the priest and offering ghee to the fire, while my other offered a mixture of barley, rice, sesame, ghee, various incenses and powder of sandalwood. Soon the house was full of mildly scented fumes from the hawan. The final sounding of conch shell by the priest brought women and children from the neighbourhood in hordes. I used to enjoy this moment, as I could lord over all the kids and offered them smaller or larger quantities of the "prasad" (offerings) depending on my liking for them. My mother often sat near the plant, doing simple chores and composing or just singing hymns in praise of various gods and goddesses and of-course "Ma Tulsii". I found a large notebook of her hymns after her death and some of them were really quite lyrical and moving. It also contained a long lyrical poem describing the humbling of Satyabhama, one of the wives of Lord Krishna, whose entire collection of ornaments could not outweigh Him, while just a leaf of Tulsi outweighed Him.

 One day, my father brought her a book on homeopathy along with a small box of medicines. She carefully read the book and started practicing homeopathy. She prescribed medicines in the name of "Tulsi Ma". The women of the village came with their children suffering from cold and fever and diarrhoea and worms and boils and dog-bites and even injuries.  They gathered around her on Tuesdays and Thursdays near the Tulsi plant.  She listened to the symptoms and administered medicines, asking them to pray to "Tulsi Ma" to cure them. If they got better, she made a special offering of jaggery, ghee, and honey during her prayers. I was yet to develop a distrust of homeopathy and it was going to be decades until I was to hear of the placebo effect.

When my father got a job in the city, it was time for us to move. She carefully nursed a seedling of the Tulsi and by the time we were ready to leave, it was a few inches tall. A trusted servant was to look after the house and the fields. My mother repeatedly requested his wife to nurse the original plant, and light a lamp and offer water every day.  She had stood near the plant and prayed for a long-time with tears in her eyes, before leaving. She never let the pot with the little Tulsi out of her sight in our bullock-cart ride of three days, with stops on the way. She prayed and lit a lamp near it when we stopped for a rest in the evening and offered water to it after a bath when we started again in the morning. The Tulsi plant and the Ramayan were her "talismans".

We slowly settled in the city. In a few months, the Tulsi plant, installed into a large cemented pot, grew to its full height with many branches. My mother became popular in the neighbourhood, with her knowledge of home-remedies, many of which used leaves of Tulsi from our house. Yes, her faith in Tulsi was supreme!  I also saw the first and the only fight between my father and mother around this time. As my mother was very religious, non-vegetarian meals were never prepared in our house. My father had developed a taste for meat in company of his friends and one day he brought some cooked meat to the house. Just as he was looking for a place to keep it, someone called him at the door. He left the pot with the meat on the platform around the Tulsi plant and went to see the person. My mother screamed, shouted, wept, and prayed in turn, apologizing to "Ma Tulsi" on behalf of her ignorant husband.

 By morning, my father was quite subdued and my mother was shivering with fever. She whispered to me to tell father that she had to go to the village to bring back "Ma Tulsi", who had surely deserted us because of his act. He quietly arranged for us to travel to the village. During those three days, my mother lived on water.  As she alighted from the bullock-cart, she ran inside and wept profusely near the plant nursed daily by our servant's wife. We journeyed back with a new seedling, which was "installed" a-fresh in our house. My father gave up meat altogether. Our life returned to our daily routine. To her regular gathering of women, she started reciting from the Ramayan and often asked me to recite and read out the meaning, when she was tired. Occasionally, she organized continuous recitation of the Ramayan from the beginning to the end. She took turns with me and some literate women of the neighbourhood, to recite it. She distributed simple offerings of Tulsi leaves and crystal sugar or jaggery, when it was over. Though tired, her face would glow with reverence and bliss on such occasions.

 I went to all my tests, examinations, and competitions with a leaf of Tulsi in my mouth and a mark of turmeric and raw rice in the middle of my forehead. I had to offer the result cards and the trophies to "Ma Tulsi" before showing it to my father. Several years later, I left for California with a leaf of Tulsi in my mouth, a mark of turmeric and raw rice on my forehead, blessings of my parents on my head, and tears of my mother behind me. She had wanted just one promise from me. She wanted me to return to India to offer her Tulsi leaves with the holy water from the Ganges, when her time came.

When I decided to settle down in California, she reminded me of the promise I had made to her, especially as my father had passed away. I requested her to accompany me to our new house. She refused at first, when I told her that she could not carry a Tulsi plant with her. Yet, the lure of being with her grandchild broke her resolve. She was very happy to see that we had a big lawn with a hedge of roses around it. I often saw her working in the rose-bed and watering the lawns and other plants. She had brought seeds of Tulsi with her. She planted them and nursed them to several large plants. She treated our guests to the tea she made with leaves of Tulsi, ginger, and honey.

I would often see her sitting with Mary; my wife, playing with the baby or patting him to sleep and chatting amicably, even though she spoke no English and Mary spoke only a smattering of Hindi. On these occasions, her face glowed with warmth, affection, and fulfillment.  Soon enough, my mother happily incorporated Christ into her pantheon. She had learnt from Mary, who was Greek, that, Tulsi had grown over the tomb of Christ.  She started offering leaves of Tulsi and a lamp at the little altar Mary had in the house. I found it most amusing but was even more surprised when I found that Mary had continued to offer water to the plant of Tulsi and light a lamp near it every day, after my mother had returned to India.

I tried to get my mother to move to California with us. She firmly refused, telling that she could not leave the house with the memories of my father in it. I succeeded in persuading her to stay in the city, which had better medical facilities. Occasionally she travelled to our village, which by now had a better connectivity, to inspect our fields and the house which were still in the care of our servant and his wife.

I was not prepared, for what I was to see. She had known but had never told me. The servant had died. His only son was alcoholic and a loafer. He had systematically pillaged our house, the surrounding mango orchard, and the fields. He had cut and sold several trees and taken a loan against the fields. However, that was not all! First, he had sold the doors, the windows, the cots, and the vessels of the house. Then he had sold the fired clay tiles, which had covered the roof of our house. Finally, he had sold all the seasoned wood, which had supported the roof on the clay walls. The two intervening monsoons had reduced the walls into a mound of clay.  I looked away while the widow of our servant held on to the feet of my mother and wept, murmuring her helplessness.  My mother sat in the car, shedding silent tears.

I slowly walked to the spot where our house had once stood. Several small trees of acacia, neem, and peepal were growing where I had played as a child and where my mother had sat and dispensed medicines to the simple women of the village. So many memories came flooding back to me and a lump started rising in my throat. I was almost turning away when I noticed some-thing familiar. I saw the large cemented pot, which used to hold the Tulsi plant of my mother, lying on its side, almost completely buried under a heap of soil and grass. I slowly walked to it and called out to my mother. Near one of the small trees of peepal, surrounded by grass, several inches tall, we saw several plants of Tulsi, growing lustily and swaying in the breeze.

My mother wiped her tears and asked the widowed wife of our servant to get her clothes from the car and fresh water from the well. She prayed for a long time and lit a lamp near the Tulsi plants. We cleaned the pot, filled it with fresh soil, and planted several sturdy plants of Tulsi in it. My mother rested for a while and then asked me to call the doctor of the village dispensary. She donated the land and the orchard surrounding the house to the dispensary and asked me to sell the fields and give the proceeds to the doctor to build a decent hospital. She put only one condition; the potted plants of Tulsi were to be looked-after.  When we returned to the city, she complained of being tired. In the morning, she got up, took a bath, offered her prayers to Tulsi, and then sat down with exhaustion. She called me and told me that the time had come for me to fulfill my promise to her. I wept and poured water from the Ganges- kept for this purpose in the house, and a few leaves of Tulsi into her mouth. She closed her eyes and a smile full of bliss covered her face.

I went to see the hospital a year later. They had named it after her- Radha Devi Hospital. I was happy to see that the plants of Tulsi were prospering. The employees, especially the nurses, took good care of the Tulsi plants, and worshipped them on a regular basis.  The Tulsi plants she had grown in a corner of our lawn in California survive to this day. Three years after her death our daughter was born. As I held her, Mary told me that she would call her Vrinda- in the memory our mother and her love for Tulsi. She also told that my mother had confided in her that her maiden name was Vrinda, which is another name for Tulsi. She had adopted the name Radha after her wedding, for the women married into our family had to change their name as well. I called our village and requested them to change the name of the hospital to Vrindavan.

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Next morning as we proceeded to Vivek's car to go to the meeting, the elderly woman, whom we had met the previous evening, called out to us.  She put a mark of turmeric powder and rice on our foreheads and gave us each a leaf of Tulsi and crystal sugar. She smiled at Vivek and told him in Gujarati, "May Tulsi Ma bring you glory". Vivek's eyes turned moist as he touched her feet.

Later, it was my turn to have moist eyes, as Vivek received a standing ovation when he concluded his talk.

Setu, May 2019