How I learnt to love the baobab...

And other favourite trees in a city too close to losing its loveliest green cover

Slivers of hope brighten bleak times. The same fortnight announcing 60 trees of Tata Garden sacrificed to the marauding coastal road along Breach Candy, has gifted us a pretty park in Bandra, honouring its remarkable son, Darryl D’Monte. As architect PK Das said, of the crusading ecologist who mentored two journalist generations, this space will blossom in physical tribute to an extraordinary life. 

In a city of fast vanishing verdure, the spirit vaults high with the pleasure of sighting certain green expanses. With a bunch of personally significant Bombay trees, I hug close why they mean what they do.

Eight winters old when city lights dimmed, I remember windows mandatorily made opaque, shrouded in brown paper sheets during the 1971 Indo-Pak war. Silhouetted in my mind’s eye despite the blackout hours, a pair of pendulous-branched ashokas reassuringly whispered, “Hush shush-whoosh woo” in December winds lashing our Hill Road home. “Batti bandh karo” cops shouted at the barest bulb flicker. A couple of nights were spent tossing nervously, thinking what might happen. But I soon drifted to sleep, lulled by the soft swish of delicately long leaves these trees bear. The adults stayed huddled around our giant Bush radio for AIR’s news-on-the-hour extensions.  

Darryl D’Monte’s family with architect PK Das (second from right), plant a lagerstroemia in the BMC garden in Bandra, honouring the veteran journalist and ecologist. Pic courtesy/D’Monte Family

My brother and I were grateful to the tall ashokas for an added reason. When sparrows chose to nest in the scoop-bowl tops of cranking old ceiling fans, our parents obviously forbade clearing those arranged twigs till twittering babies hatched. Switching on fans was impossible. We wilted through summers, feebly cooled by ineffective puffs from pedestal models, till it struck mother bird that, barring the monsoon, she could lay eggs in an ashoka. 

I had a regular weekend tryst with an aromatic kadi patta bush at West View, the neighbouring sandstone villa veiled by palms and paan vines. My dad’s sister lived there and above her the Hormuzdi family. They kept a bizarre brood of feathered and furry pets: the parrot cussing “M*****, darvajo khol”, the two monkeys, Tarabai and Sitaram, and a leopard confusingly called Tiger. Tagged to that merry menagerie, my aunt Dolly’s dog downstairs was christened Tiger. Before that copycat leopard, she always hastened to clarify. 

The West View villa garden in 1960s Bandra

Saturdays signalled prawn curry lunch. Dropping in on Dolly, I picked fresh leaves from the plant—our standard menu plenty more fragrant infused with my plucking. I prayed Tiger wasn’t at his balcony. If so, he purr-roared, vaguely alarming. When Shirinbai Hormuzdi yelled “Tiger!”, both big cat and small canine growled in united response. Panic hit when the former delayed his morning saunter on the estate. Suppose the gate suddenly unbolted? I decided to step out only after dialling Dolly for an all-clear, with the lazy leopard done perambulating.     

Thanks to the Swiss Sister Mary Lawrence, from the Congregation of the Daughters of the Cross, a lesson was learnt on the St Joseph’s Convent grounds. Chatting with classmates in our short break, I idly fidgeted with the fronds of a squat palm brushing my shoulder. Noticing my hands parting strips in the already narrow foliage tips, she pointed to my neat plait ends, saying, “You wouldn’t like it if someone tore strands of your hair, I assume.” Too stern, we muttered, misjudging then. Now, any low-hanging palm brings a flashback of that episode, her compassionate words unforgettable.  

 Naturalist Katie Bagli points to a star apple tree fronting the JB Vachha School in Dadar Parsi Colony

You can find something endearing simply because of its underdog status in literature and common belief. That’s how I came to love the baobab. A sturdy deciduous specimen has stood on the Bandra post office-Bhabha Hospital stretch for over an estimated five centuries—sparse-leafed baobabs survive several hundreds of years. Though one of my favourite books, The Little Prince, brought this tree to my notice in a slightly unfortunate way, with Antoine de Saint-Exupéry metaphorically declaring “bad” baobab seeds symbolise obstacles on the planet. 

In complete contrast, the dependable baobab on Waterfield Road extends humble traders the kindest nurturing. Amid a grotty chaotic tangle of cable lines and perennial civic repairs, street vendors hawk their wares in makeshift food and tea stalls, trying hard to hold body and soul together. 

Peepal boughs within touching distance of the writer’s window

Aware the baobab’s swollen trunk stores massive quantities of water, desert nomads in Africa, the tree’s native continent (from where the Portuguese brought it to Bombay), sliced its spongy bark for sustenance. Viewing the mass of humanity milling around its rotund base, I admire how the tree stoically continues to “serve”. Dubbed the Fat Lady of Bandra and locally called gorakh chinch, this landmark has witnessed the vicinity’s sad extinctions, including Irani eateries and New Talkies Cinema turned Globus Mall.  

Every tree stands silent sentinel to tenderness. The confidences between friends, the murmured nothings of lovers. Each is a robust repository of shared emotion—even in a one-off encounter. Many moons ago, our giggles matched, my toddler daughter’s and mine, under the canopy of a mango tree on the Sir JJ School of Art campus. I was reading her this quirkily rhymed passage—“In the sea, O my Best Beloved, there was a Whale. He ate the starfish and the garfish, the crab and the dab, the plaice and the dace, the skate and his mate, the mackerel and the pickerel, and the really truly twirly-whirly eel.”

Shopping at Crawford Market, we had found ourselves facing the campus. She clutched underarm an author-illustrated pocket edition of Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling. I knew an 1860s childhood bungalow graced his birthplace, the JJ School where his sculptor father John Lockwood Kipling taught and was appointed the first principal. Savouring apt moment and mood, surrendering to serendipity, we settled to the fun of sitting sheltered by this evergreen on those very grounds, to enjoy nonsense-nuanced Kipling. 

Not far, on Kala Ghoda’s tree-lined Rampart Row, once the site of the historic Bombay Fort ramparts, is probably the city’s oldest mahogany. Fronting Ador House, it is one of a majestic pair planted by none other than the missionary explorer Dr David Livingstone. Sailing into town on the Lady Nyassa in 1865, he seeded the pinnate-leafed sapling here, with its twin bordering Hornbill House, the Bombay Natural History Society headquarters. 

The mahoganies sprouted at Governor Bartle Frere’s behest. From Chou En Lai to Tito and Khrushchev, visiting dignitaries were encouraged to sow trees. An ennobling idea, a lasting gift to a city whose planners today consider uprooting the norm. Scented cream-coloured blooms, resembling tiny ear studs, sweep off this mahogany to picturesquely sheathe the broad pavements flanking K Dubash Marg.   

With parents from Mancherji Joshi Colony in Dadar, the Rustom Faramna Agiary has also proved part of my growing up. Manicured gardens around its structural sprawl render it imposing. The fire temple is named after the philanthropic Agra hotelier who was surprised the largest colony housing his community lacked a place of worship. 

Outside the agiary, an erect Trincomali with heart-contoured leaves distracted me in younger years. Quickly finishing prayers, I would gaze dreamily in its direction. With a nomenclature matching its charming appearance—cloaked in pale pinkish buds and copper red fruits—the species is Cordifolia (from “cordis” or “heart” and “folia”, leaves). In her book, Trees of Dadar Parsi Colony, naturalist Katie Bagli explains that its wood is tough, yet flexible. Popular with carpenters, this durable wood is “Thiruknamali” in Tamil, anglicised to “Trincomali”.  
   
Like all good colony girls, my mother attended JB Vachha High School, built in the 1920s when she was born. Forty years later, she took me to where she had formed lifelong friendships and been tutored by brilliant teachers. An ever-engaging raconteur, she could regale listeners with an on-demand string of school escapades, excitingly naughty to boringly nice.  

We looked forward to the treat afternoons of reliving her evocative narrations at the Neo-classical designed institution itself. Beneath an upright Star Apple tree was our preferred spot. The happy horticulturist in her described how the tree earned its moniker. A star-shaped core awaits discovery on halving the round purply-white fruit. The goldish underside of dark green leaves throws light on its generic name, Chrysophyllum, derived from the Greek “chrysos” or gold and “phylum”, leaf.              
Finally, to the comfort of a modest-sized Peepal that shimmers and sways almost within touch of my children’s room window. We love window seats enough to have three of them. Curling up to read, reflect, snooze, snuggle on this cushioned ledge, especially unfurls a swirl of milestones 
and memories. 

Arching, stooping, bending as if about to break but straightening strong again in the stormiest gale, this tree exudes marvellous malleability. It has sympathised with me droop by mid-evening, exhausted as a new mum. It has supreme pepping power with the chirruping mini orchestra of koels, mynahs, parrots, bulbuls and barbets the boughs attract. 

This tree is a faithful family retainer. Watching over the kids at their vulnerable worst, it must have guessed teen secrets, echoed their sighs, danced to their songs. Soothing by just being present and constant. 

Buddha attained enlightenment below a peepal. The poetry and peace of this one might well nudge me extra inches towards nirvana. 

Author-publisher Meher Marfatia writes fortnightly on everything that makes her love Mumbai and adore Bombay. You can reach her at meher.marfatia@mid-day.com/www.meher marfatia.com

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