The gulmohars are in bloom.
A red lush richness, watching over the traffic snarl grime and construction rubble.
Red. Like alta on a shy girl’s feet.
Like hinting blatant in a flamenco dancer’s hibiscus on sleek black.
Also shining red like, well, shining double-decker red.
At times a tree at ease, with space and more, festive rich.
Sometimes nudged in squeezed between two blocks of flats, window-green-window but singing red.
Startle red. Because it wasn’t supposed to be there.
Like a sudden shared thought or a swift turn in a stranger’s conversation, which wasn’t supposed to be there.
A hugged-tight secret not supposed to be known, and so it startles, and sends you ascatter, flee-mode, alert.