An ode to Amaltas

BEING married to a person whose profession takes not only him, but the entire family to various places, I have had the chance to stay in different cities, accumulating varied experiences. So far, Chandigarh has been exceptional, and this I realise after leaving the city. Transition is never easy and moving to another city from Chandigarh was tough. Now, settled for a while in the arid region of Rajasthan, where each day we brace ourselves to combat the heat courageously, I miss the blooming Amaltas of the city the most. Trees bedecked with striking yellow flowers provide relief in the scorching summer. To me, the tiny flowers that bloom in abundance seem to possess magical powers that make one forget the worries of mundane life. All along the major veins of the city, the burst of colour pleases the eye and touches the heart: a vivacious contrast against the spotless blue sky. 

There are certain pockets in the city where Amaltas have grown to form a delightful canopy on either side of the road, making it seem like a tunnel of welcoming yellow flowers as one passes through. In the cool breeze that blows in the evening, the flowers seem to dance to a melodious tune in gay abandon, transcending the ordinary. 

These memories were brought back to me by a lone tree that bloomed briefly in the vicinity of my present home. Each morning, I would go to the balcony to just look at the tree. However, as the temperature rose, the tree gave up. Now, I do not get to see the lustrous flowers and hence the romantic longing for them has increased manifold. I smile, at times, at the sheer irony of my situation. In Chandigarh I never searched for Amaltas, and here, often, the purpose of moving around the city is to search for just one such tree in bloom. It makes me wonder if quest is the essence of our very lives — an endless pursuit. If Amaltas is a metaphor for what we seek in life as a goal, the search for it is predicated upon the efforts that we put in to realise it; to make it our own.

Often the goal is before us, but we choose to ignore it. At times, we are far from it and the search seems endless, almost futile, and there are times when we feel that the purpose itself is a mirage. But the search for the goal, the Amaltas, never ceases. I may find Amaltas in my current city in another form, and when I move from here, I may carry it in my heart as yet another pleasant memory to look back at and muse over. But for now, the recognition of Chandigarh with Amaltas remains with me, strong and vivid.