 "Cherry blossom memories")
I don't know about other people, but, for the longest time, cherry blossoms invariably evoked in me memories of shoe polish. Growing up, I polished my regulation black school shoes every night, staring at the cherries on the logo of the battered black polish tin (which, by the way, has one of the least ergonomically designed lids of modern time). Every night, I wished I could be someplace else, some place with cherry trees, of course. Quite serendipitously, over the years, I have found myself a springtime wanderer in many lands coloured by the pink and white blooms.
Nothing, however, has been as magical as the first time, when I went to Beijing in April a few years ago. Like any good Indian traveller, my first stop was at the Great Wall. The Wall was pretty much as I had imagined it, but as I looked down from it, I was transfixed. The hills beneath were a mass of pink and white blossoms. In sharp contrast to the rugged stone of the Wall, the cherry trees in the dusty distance looked like delicate etchings on an old woodcut. The sheer profuseness of blossoms on each small tree was a joy to behold. That day, as we whizzed down a mountainside of cherry trees on toboggans from the Wall to the base, I lost a piece of my heart to them, even though I couldn't really get close to them.
Harbingers of spring, cherry blossoms bring magic into mundane landscapes. It is no wonder, then, that the traditional Japanese practice of Hanami, or holding parties for the purpose of admiring the transient beauty of cherry blossoms, is still followed there. However, the closest I have come to Japanese cherry trees has been in Washington, DC. The cherry trees there, like much of the United States' population, are immigrants. Three thousand of them were gifted to the city of Washington by the mayor of Tokyo in 1912. They took to their new home like natives, and when I went to Washington, DC, last spring, their descendants were resplendently in bloom.
Later that week, I finally had my very own cherry blossom moment in New York. While Central Park had a couple of cherry trees, I had seen enough of trees in beautiful parks. Then I went for an early morning walk on the High Line. This is an unused overhead freight line on Manhattan's West Side, converted into a secret garden of herbs, grasses, bushes and butterflies in the sky. I walked its length, admiring the flowers growing amid old railroad tracks - crocuses, pussy willows and more - against the backdrop of its iconic buildings.
A flower floated down from its boughs, and I caught it, wondering if it would last the journey to New Delhi so that I could show it to my daughter. However, it seemed to lose its vibrant colour in front of my eyes and I let it fall to the ground. The Japanese believe that cherry blossoms, with their transient beauty, are symbolic of the idea that all things, even the most beautiful ones, must pass. To me, however, they connote, just like Easter does, the possibility of resurrection. Each time a delicate lacy bloom falls to the ground, it fills me with the hope that it will rise once more next year, as beautiful, as temporary as ever.
Nothing, however, has been as magical as the first time, when I went to Beijing in April a few years ago. Like any good Indian traveller, my first stop was at the Great Wall. The Wall was pretty much as I had imagined it, but as I looked down from it, I was transfixed. The hills beneath were a mass of pink and white blossoms. In sharp contrast to the rugged stone of the Wall, the cherry trees in the dusty distance looked like delicate etchings on an old woodcut. The sheer profuseness of blossoms on each small tree was a joy to behold. That day, as we whizzed down a mountainside of cherry trees on toboggans from the Wall to the base, I lost a piece of my heart to them, even though I couldn't really get close to them.
Harbingers of spring, cherry blossoms bring magic into mundane landscapes. It is no wonder, then, that the traditional Japanese practice of Hanami, or holding parties for the purpose of admiring the transient beauty of cherry blossoms, is still followed there. However, the closest I have come to Japanese cherry trees has been in Washington, DC. The cherry trees there, like much of the United States' population, are immigrants. Three thousand of them were gifted to the city of Washington by the mayor of Tokyo in 1912. They took to their new home like natives, and when I went to Washington, DC, last spring, their descendants were resplendently in bloom.
Tourists in Washington, DC, in the spring
What made cherry blossoms so special, I wondered, looking at the multitudes who had landed up to enjoy them in an American version of Hanami. "They bring such a pretty burst of colour to a landscape that has until recently been covered with snow…" said an old lady. A young father who was trying to find a picnic spot in the crowd said, "My three-year-old thinks this is Disneyland!" The blossoms did impart a Disneyesque feel to the manicured park, especially with the overwhelming crowds of sightseers there. Many were families and students enjoying their spring break, which left them free to enjoy the packed Cherry Blossom Festival calendar, which included concerts and kite-flying events to commemorate Japan's gift to America. Dodging out of a stranger's camera frame, I mused that Peak Bloom time (when more than 70 per cent of the trees are covered in blossoms) in Washington, DC, wasn't the optimal time to view cherry blossoms in peace.Later that week, I finally had my very own cherry blossom moment in New York. While Central Park had a couple of cherry trees, I had seen enough of trees in beautiful parks. Then I went for an early morning walk on the High Line. This is an unused overhead freight line on Manhattan's West Side, converted into a secret garden of herbs, grasses, bushes and butterflies in the sky. I walked its length, admiring the flowers growing amid old railroad tracks - crocuses, pussy willows and more - against the backdrop of its iconic buildings.
Cherry trees at the Great Wall of China
Just then, I saw something that made me stop short. There it was, an upstart of a cherry tree, a young runt compared to the hoary old trees I had seen in Washington, DC. But it stood bravely against the wind, staring at Manhattan's once-gritty, now-gentrified urban sprawl. I touched its flowers gently, feeling like I was seeing a cherry tree that had truly made America its home - a far cry from the misty mountains of Japan or the cherry forest under the Great Wall, but a viable home nevertheless.A flower floated down from its boughs, and I caught it, wondering if it would last the journey to New Delhi so that I could show it to my daughter. However, it seemed to lose its vibrant colour in front of my eyes and I let it fall to the ground. The Japanese believe that cherry blossoms, with their transient beauty, are symbolic of the idea that all things, even the most beautiful ones, must pass. To me, however, they connote, just like Easter does, the possibility of resurrection. Each time a delicate lacy bloom falls to the ground, it fills me with the hope that it will rise once more next year, as beautiful, as temporary as ever.