The Red Garden

Chapter - 1 : Into The Blue

A blue flower was a central symbol of inspiration for the Romanticism movement, and remains an enduring motif in Western art today. It stands for desire, love, and the metaphysical striving for the infinite and unreachable. It symbolizes hope and the beauty of things.

I awoke at 5:15 am, with my eyes to the sky outside my window. I sat up and tried to recollect my fading dream; losing a little more detail with every effort. All I remembered was traveling across the mountains on an azure ocean.

I rubbed my eyes; there was no ocean here, just my cycle. And that was with Malpani.

I went to Shankar's room. 'Shankar?' I knocked softly. 'Uunggh,' he grunted.

'I'm going to get my cycle from Surendra's house. Be back in ten.'

'Uunggh.'

I wore my shoes and jogged off. His house was right across, but you had to enter a shady lane, with a long road that looked like an unhealthy teenager's face, to get there. His plush society looked really out of place in its drug cartel surroundings. 

The door was open when I reached. Malpani was packing for his cycling trip to Devanahalli. I would have joined him, but me and Shankar had already decided to attend the National Horticultural Show in Lalbagh Botanical Garden.

'Thanks man,' he'd serviced it and kept it for me while I had been in Chennai and Hyderabad. We still had a cycling trip to plan.

'Kabini Forest, next time?' I asked him as we stood in the lift, clutching our cycles. He nodded, smiling slightly.

I sped back home. Shankar was already up, putting on his shoes. We locked the door, picked up our cycles and set off into the blue.

Chapter - 2 : Orange Is The New Soundtrack

Orange is the closest match to the shade of the sun, so it is symbolic of expansion, growth, and warmth. It is also a color of friendship and community. It beckons us to go out and play with friends, remember good times, enjoy the company of like-minds, and share big smiles all around.

We reached Marathahalli Bridge by the first light of dawn. Splashes of orange ventured into the sky, like waves at the seashore during high tide. The land was coming to life. 

I rocketed down HAL road, with Shankar in tow. The cool breeze was tinged with warmth, and my teeth chattered with both the excitement and the chill. It would take a minute to get used to the cold. Hopefully the thrill would last longer. 

My fingertips grew numb, and my legs started warming up. I looked at the trees flanking me, the neat and spacious sidewalks, the clean, smooth paths and the carefully painted and garnished divider. This was one of the few stretches of road here that looked nothing like India. 

It's sad how so often, we use that phrase as a compliment. 

As on countless cycle rides, I got to thinking again about how allowing only cycles inside the city would solve so many problems. No personal four-wheelers; only public buses for far-away places. The health benefits, environmental impact, parking space gain, reduction in noise and light pollution...and fatal accidents would be a thing of the past - unless you get a scratch on an uncle's vintage Ladybird and he mauls you for it. 

As we were 1 km from Lalbagh, me and Shankar saw some runners on the road. Early morning was the only time they could jog without inhaling the Industrial Revolution.

We hit Richmond Circle and took a left; in a minute, the front gate of Lalbagh loomed over us, with a banner proclaiming 'National Horticultural Show 2018'. I put my soundtrack of thought on pause and dismounted.

Chapter - 3 : White Noise

During the Roman era, white roses were associated with Goddess Aphrodite, who is believed to be the goddess of love and beauty. It is also believed that every rose was white until she pricked herself with a thorn and all the roses turned red.

We took our cycles inside, surprised at the hordes of people interspersed among the hordes of trees. 

'It's a very famous show,' Abhishek told me. 'Happens around every Republic and Independence Day.' I wondered how I'd missed it during my internship.

We rode to the entrance, and saw curtains covering the front. We decided to cycle around the place and find some nice trees to climb.








'You want to go around the lake? We might see some birds.'

'All these jogging uncles will have scared them off.' Abhishek said loudly, and the said uncles turned around to glare at him, running even faster to prove they were still young.

We took our cycles onto the jogging track amidst more dark looks and a lot of uncle-like grumbling.

'Dude look!'

We saw storks, pelicans and egrets flying over the lake, shimmering in the nascent morning light. The rippling of the water and calls of the birds created a chamber of white noise, and we rode towards it.

'Photo, 1+, photo!'

I fumbled for my phone, fighting off Shankar's attacking pokes. They were gone by the time I had pointed the camera towards them.

'Slow af.'

I made a face at him and we continued. There were a lot more sitting on the other side.

'Hey, are those bald eagles?'

'Brahminy kites.' I said after a glance. My bird identification skills had improved since the Orissa trip.

'Look!' I pointed towards a tiny islet just in front of the sun's shimmering reflection. 'A darter bird, cormorant, egret and pelican in one line.' This time I retrieved my phone like a ninja and clicked away. The light wasn't yet very conducive to photography, but it looked more beautiful this way.











I raised my hand above the netted fence and took a picture of the gentle sun through the leaves. We saw various breaks and tears in the boundary, probably made by visitors trying to get a better photo or wanting to get closer to the lake.





All romantics are plagued by an eternal struggle; how to appreciate beauty without smothering it with our senses.

A flock of birds flew by, disrupting my thoughts. I sheathed my mobile in my pocket and we cycled away from the lake.

Chapter - 4 : The Grass Is Greener On Every Side

Green is life, abundant growth, and constant rejuvenation of the spirit. It signifies cheerfulness and new beginnings. It also symbolizes self-respect and well being.

'Is this a baobab tree?' Shankar stared up at a monstrous trunk which had more room than Harry's Cupboard Under The Stairs. 'Aren't they only found in Madagascar?'

'And how do they survive in such temperate climate?' I mused aloud. Bangalore wasn't exactly a meteorological sister to Africa.

'Trees, dude. They can grow anywhere.'

'You remember the giant sequoias from Planet Earth? People live inside them.'

'I wouldn't mind a tree house, man. Anyday. But I move around too much while sleeping - I'll probably fall and break something.'

'You'll probably float down.' I chuckled.

'The Last Leaf,' he grinned and we cycled on, exiting the jogging track and heading for the tiny grove next to it. 

'Let's climb this one.' Shankar spotted a giant Ficus and jumped his cycle to the garden. I followed him. We shimmied up the tree, and rested on a thick branch extending towards the ground. A tiny spread of foliage shielded us from the sun, and we took a brief respite.

'Do you think we can ever screw things up so bad that even trees start going extinct?' Shankar asked as he lay on the trunk.

'Well, we are more than capable of it, but deep down I believe that all of this has happened before, you know? That there was another civilization, another period of history in which humans progressed, evolved and finally reached a breaking point. At that point, some natural catastrophes or just our own unsustainable lifestyles cut down our population gradually, and nature simply waited to come back and sweep the floor.' 

'And the few of us that survived started from scratch?'

I shrugged. 'Humans are brilliantly adaptive, we know that. But nothing is tougher than nature.'

'Speaking of tough, look at those roots,' Shankar pointed to a banyan tree with vines hanging down to within our reach. Well, at least his. 

We jumped off our perches and made for the tantalizing roots. Both of us could jump up and grab them, and we climbed up until the upper roots were in our faces and our palms were burning. 

'What the hell,' we slipped back down and stared at our hands. They were shaking with the effort and the pain of the unforgiving scratches. 'How do monkeys do it?'

'Upper body strength to body weight ratio,' I replied automatically. 'If we learn parkour we can actually develop this.'

'Yeah, but where in India will you do it?'

'Are you kidding? You ever seen the pedestrians during a Kundalahalli Signal traffic jam? The French ain't got nothing on Bangaloreans.'

Shankar chuckled, and we climbed up the tree the conventional way. I spotted a Shikra moments before it flew off, chasing some swifts. 

We went pretty far up, until people started staring at us bemusedly. Some even took pictures. I felt like making bird noises.

'Let's go,' Shankar started dismounting. 'The flower show probably started.'

We cycled around the park to reach our starting point. I saw a squirrel and a flock of pigeons fighting for puffed rice thrown by the onlookers. There was a small enclosure with shrubs cut to form figurines. A few cherry blossoms later, I heard a flute playing in the central arena.

'Mohanakalyani!' I exclaimed as we put our cycles down. What better raga to describe a flower show.

We went towards the entrance, and the white noise parted to reveal the infinite shades it was hiding. 

I walked into the painted world. 

Chapter - 5 : Yellow Brick Road

Yellow represents vibrancy, energy and sometimes, spirituality. The Yellow Lotus Flower is most commonly used to symbolize the Buddha himself. As the flower rises out of the mud and above the murky water’s surface, Buddhists believe that this represents followers that rise above obstacles in order to reach enlightenment.

'Look at all those colours! And they've arranged them into patterns too!'

We were like Dorothy and Toto walking in a strange land, exclaiming at everything. 

'Look at that peacock's tail. Photo, 1+, photo!'

I didn't even fight him off this time, dumbly reaching for my mobile in slow motion. My eyes stayed transfixed at the scene, while my camera took a close-up of my thumb. 

Shankar groaned and took the camera from me. I looked around, trying to find a patch of bloom where I could rest my eyes. 

'They've put a series of gates made entirely of flowers.' Shankar piped up excitedly from beside me.

I took the camera from him and captured a bed of flowers just outside the main attraction.

'Hey, why is this still blocked...' Shankar came up to me and wondered, looking at the white cloth tied over the access. 

We circumnavigated the greenhouse, and finally saw a long line (I say line, although it looked more haphazard than that flock of pigeons eating the puffed rice) towards the west end. Merrily, we entered it, and shelled out the sixty rupees per person they were charging. 

We stepped into an alternate universe; a child's colouring book. There were flowers that sprouted like plants, and plants that bloomed like flowers. From the wall hangings and decorations to even the chandeliers; everything was a floral creation. The main attractions were the monolithic miniatures of Buddha and Shravanabelagola, adorned with a rainbow garden and ornaments. People kept walking into each other and apologizing to thin air, not being able to take their eyes off the panorama.

A young girl asked me to take a photograph of her with a particularly thick veil of alien-looking flowers. I obliged, and couldn't help but notice the similarity between them and Venus fly-traps.

We zoomed in on a velvety sheet of variegated blue flowers, and a line of red lotus-like leaves.

A father held his baby up over the heads of the onlookers, and I could hear him cooing with wonder at the sight. I silently hoped that, decades later, he would retain that sense of amazement. 

'Everything here has won first prize,' Shankar chuckled beside me, breaking my reverie. I smiled. Maybe every flower deserved it.

'Most of these aren't natural, though. Right?' Shankar asked - more of a rhetorical question. 'They wouldn't survive outside controlled environments; or even competition from the natural versions.'

I nodded. This was one of the quintessential dilemmas of the 21st century - was 'artificial beauty' an oxymoron? Had we unwittingly epitomized right angles, uniform and symmetric structures, smooth surfaces and delicate creations as paragons of allure? Perhaps our indefinite absence from nature had resulted in us creating a tainted, mutated version of it.

Or perhaps beauty was just a perennially swinging pendulum, dictated by our innate nature to yearn for what we do not have, while dismissing what we do.

'We'll have this discussion during the Jog falls trip,' Shankar beamed at me, as we rounded back to the entry. 'Right now let's get going, before the traffic wakes up.'

'Actually. Otherwise cycling will be a pain in the ass.'

'It already is.' Shankar muttered, sheepishly adjusting his tracks.

I guffawed. 'When you're back from masters, get a geared cycle and a comfortable seat. Worth it.'

'Definitely. Imagine the freedom - you could go to any beautiful place and make your own trail.'

Metaphor for life, that.

And we left Oz through the same yellow brick road.

Chapter - 6 : In The Pink

Pink flowers hold special meanings in Eastern cultures. The cherry blossom represents the country of Japan and ties into purity, freshness, and the eternal cycle of life. Warm toned azalea blossoms are a symbol of femininity. Pink chrysanthemums are linked to funerals and the afterlife.

'God, I'm hungry...' I breathed heavily, unlocking my cycle.

'When are you not? Here, there's some adirasam left.' Shankar handed me a half-full (or half-empty, depending on what side of the glass-of-water metaphor you're on) packet, and we both chewed noisily under a peepal tree, looking at a kid blowing bubbles, for one second lesser than would have been creepy. 

'I have dry fruits,' and another packet of walnuts appeared. The food, the warm light and the respite unshackled us from sleep deprivation and exhaustion, until we were in the pink again.

'Let's go.'

We climbed onto our cycles. I heard Shankar wincing at the familiar pain, and wondered how he'd managed to come to Turahalli Forest and back on such an average cycle, without getting Baboon Butt Syndrome.

'How are there so many cherry blossoms here?' I wondered aloud as a fleet of pink trees greeted me. We paused at every tree, observing the delicate intricacies in their designs, and the different ways in which each sparse foliage tessellated the sky.

It was difficult to focus on the road, as we took a different route back, finding new nuggets of brilliance we'd missed the first time. The strong sunlight was breaking through the trees now, sending slivers of silver linings our way.

'Wait till the water from the sprinkler catches the light,' Shankar hushed. I didn't know why we were whispering.

After getting some lens flares that would have made J. J Abrams proud, we tore ourselves away from Mother Nature and exited the Red Garden.

All romantics are plagued by an eternal struggle; how to appreciate beauty without getting tired of it.

I had taken a small yellow flower that had fallen from one of the palash trees. When I reached home, it had wilted.

Chapter - 7 : Purple Prose

Purple was the color worn by Roman magistrates; it became the imperial color worn by the rulers of the Byzantine Empire and the Holy Roman Empire, and later by Roman Catholic bishops. Similarly in Japan, the color is traditionally associated with the Emperor and aristocracy. Hence, purple flowers symbolize royalty. 

They say, a red garden of flowers and words, 
At the end of a journey of pedals and whirls, 
As I've seen the journey of colours and birds, 
I'm an unsaid guardian of petals and whorls... 

There's a blue little story of an orange dawn, 
How it tuned white noise to a greener song, 
On the yellow brick road, a minstrel speaks on, 
In a Pink Floyd tune, in a purple sarong. 

But the words dry up and the flowers fall, 
And the birds fly off to a warmer land. 
And the crying minstrel, an unloved rag doll, 
Dies, melts away through the spaces in my hand. 

"My love," I cry softly. "My love, not today!" 
"Wilt for me another day, another day..."

Anjana's Blog : https://anjlifeexperiences.wordpress.com
Vedant's YouTube Channel : https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_-wTP-OKAF6HskDOqSeREw
Vedant's Instagram Page : https://www.instagram.com/vedantsapra/

TL;DR

Costs:

1) Entry To Lalbagh: Between 6-9 am, free, and 10 Rs. per person later.
2) Ticket For Flower Show: Rs. 60 per head


Details:

The show takes place for an entire week leading up to the Republic Day (26th January) and another week till Independence Day (15th August). 

Epilogue : Red Rum

Vibrant, passionate and demanding to be noticed, red is the color of love and romance. Red flowers symbolize courage, respect, constancy, admiration and, of course, desire.

Red can also mean danger.

'Ramu called again. He says he can't reduce much for the accommodation, and there's no place to pitch tents except that Forest Department cottage.'

I cut the beans for the poriyal silently.

'Also, he says the two people who backed out might have to pay money because the permissions can't be replaced.'

I stared at Shankar silently.

'Also, there's a Karnataka bandh on Thursday. KSRTC buses may not run. And we won't know until Thursday morning.'

'Kizhunjhidu,' I muttered silently. 'Dude, this Jog falls trip is cursed. Two days left, and still the logistics seems like an obstacle course.'

'Forget all this. Let's watch a Tom & Jerry episode and relax.'

We put on Salt-water Tabby and ate our dinner. I heard the ping of a WhatsApp message.

'Shankar,' I groaned. 'Vedant isn't feeling well.'

I looked at him to find his head inside his rasam saadam.