TabebuiaOnce a yearIt is in the moodto sing with Sinatra—Half a lovenever appealed to me.The rest of the yearit sits in the back rowand hears others sing.Then springwhispers somethingindecent into its ears.And look—not a leaf.As if Van Gogh,in one of his mad afternoons,forgot the canvasand attacked the sky.Flowers.Flowers.Only flowers.For the sake of artit has ditched … Continue reading Bengaluru Spring’s Blue Eyed Boy →