Mr. Neginhal’s Raintree

To me, a full-grown Indian raintree can give meaning to a whole afternoon. “Broccoli tree” Mira calls it, for its mushrooming symmetrical appearance.

During the rainy season, from under their massive canopies, the whole world transforms into a shady botanical womb. For some reason, I had the vague impression that these green giants were the result of meticulous English intervention to spruce up their favorite railway cantonment.

Apparently, it was a local, Mr. Neginhal, whom we have to thank. As a forest officer, Neginhal went around town, asking residents which tree they would like planted near their homes. The marauding public authorities today don’t extend such trivial courtesies when razing down these trees en masse.

There is a superb specimen that has survived the chaos of the BBMP near where I used to work. Its branches spread across the entire road, providing cool shade to honking, cantankerous drivers mauling away under it, thanklessly. There are street vendors who have put up shop under the shade, prime real estate. I go there sometimes for a smoke. Even though crossing the street is a dangerous and foolhardy exercise, I always return refreshed.

I remember Singapore being full of these trees. As a tree lover from India, I found the city-state surprisingly uplifting—not for any rainforests, but for the respect it extends to every tree it has. That careful stewardship feels especially moving when set against the widespread indifference, even hostility, that Indian authorities and citizens too often show toward our own trees.

I see many such trees when I am driving on the Bangalore-Mysore highways. Grand and imposing specimens, as a copse or standing alone, surrounded by green paddy fields. I am jealous of those who make a detour to reach the trees and spend time near them. It shows that they have constructed a life and family that accommodates these pit stops.

They have travel mates who appreciate the wide umbrella canopy of the rain tree more than whatever destination and purpose they are speeding to. Isn’t that envious?

I don’t work in that office anymore, but the raintree still stands. Whenever I drive past that part of town in my scooter, I stop under the tree, buy a tender coconut, and steal a few welcome moments under its shade. Depending on who is riding pillion.