There is something special about the trees of Delhi. What is it about them that makes them so different from the trees of New York, that makes me miss them? Is it the trees I miss or the way their leaves adorn the ground with their shadows? Am I attached to the colour of the sunlight that seeps through the trees? My imagination is filled with that evening yellow that soothes you. Or is it about the colour of the ground? It complements the shadows, after all. The colour of cement, or the feeling that the ground is made of cement. A stubbly grey is what I’m thinking of. Maybe there’s something about how the colours of the trees go with the various other colours of Delhi. Or how the colours of the trees go with the various sounds and smells of Delhi. All I can think of is some kind of music in the air—music composed by the variety of people around you. What I’m thinking of might not just be the pleasure I get from sight. The synesthesia involved is beautiful. Or is everything just about nostalgia? Nostalgia that grips all your senses.
