An Imaginary Conversation with a Pretty Girl
Have you ever played with a Gulmohur flower?
No. But have plucked them! Does plucking count as playing?
It may. Did you think of the Gulmohur as your friend? Or as yet another patch of merciless red smeared against the tepid tiny green leaves that you can mess with?
I don't remember. I did pluck. A few. From the branches that stooped low from the trees that grew on the margins of our dusty playing field.
Why did you pluck them? To play with them?
I don't know. I think I thought that they did not belong to anyone. And no one would miss them. A few flowers less among the thousands that grow on the scores of trees that lined our playing field.
I am sure the branches would have missed them, if not the tree. A little lesser red. Gulmohurs love the red.
Oh! Do they? I love the red too. And now I remember thats why I plucked them! I tried to put it in my hair - like my crowning glory. But it wouldn't stay. My hair were cut so short. And my friends laughed. Because boys don't put flowers in their hair. They said. Oh yes! Boys dont put flowers in their hair. And boy don't like red. And boys dont wander off the playing fields to pluck flowers from Gulmohur trees.