Most of my childhood is blurry except for some vivid memories here and there. One of them is of walking down the street to reach the bus stop with my Dad every morning. It must have been summertime as the Gulmohar trees were in full bloom. The crimson red and yellow flowers in their unique bunch formation were mesmerising, to father-daughter alike.
My father offered to pluck a tiny branch for me so that I got a nice bunch. It made me so happy. I took it proudly to school and gave it to my favourite teacher. Some students would get packaged roses and fancy flowers to woo their favourite teachers. I thought my bunch of Gulmohar was more precious that any of them. I don’t know if the teacher thought the same way.
25 years down the line, I walk my 3 year old son to school in the morning. Enroute he spots a flower lying upside down on the street. It is a gorgeous shade of frangipani (Indian name champa). He picks it up and the flower is in perfect condition. I suggest maybe he would like to give it Ms. Tina, his favourite teacher. He lights up at the suggestion and carries it very carefully all the way to school. He spots her from far away as he enters the school gate and shouts out “ Ms. Tiiiinaaaa!!”. His arm is outstretched and he is holding out the flower for her to see. He runs up to her and gives her the flower. Ms. Tina accepts it graciously and as she looks at me, there’s this wide grin of pure joy on her face.
And just like that, a cycle is completed. From father-daughter to mother-son. Or maybe it isn’t and my son will carry it forward.
