The Trees That Taught Me to Look Up

I grew up in Bangalore, a city that has changed as much as I have. But for 21 years, there was one constant in my life: a playground shaded by trees that knew how to put on a show.

Every summer, something magical happened.

The Tabebuia rosea trees lining our neighborhood would begin their quiet transformation. Slowly, their green faded. Leaves curled and dropped one by one, until only the bare branches remained. And then—almost overnight—those same branches would erupt in soft pink blossoms, as if the trees had been holding their breath all year just for this.

To a child, it felt like nature’s secret celebration, staged just for us. We’d spend hours playing under the pink canopy, watching the petals drift down like confetti. The air smelled different. The light felt warmer. Sometimes we’d lie on the ground and look up, feeling like we were inside a painting.

But as I grew older, I noticed something else too.

Most people just walked past.

They rushed under those trees with bags in their hands and phones in their ears, never once looking up. The magic that once stopped me in my tracks was invisible to them. And maybe that’s what stayed with me—the quiet heartbreak of beauty going unnoticed.

Bangalore still carries that softness, if you know where to look. Beneath the chaos of traffic and concrete, it quietly blooms each year in shades of pink. Every March and April, those trees return to remind the city that something delicate can still thrive. They fill the air with a quiet kind of joy, one that doesn’t shout to be seen.

But it’s easy to miss it now.

The city is louder. Faster. The skyline is taller, and the roads are tighter. The city which was once known as the 'Garden city 'is now a concrete jungle. I’ve watched some of those old Tabebuia trees disappear—cut down to make room for cables or parking lots. And still, every year, a few remain. Stubborn. Blooming. As if to say, “Look. I’m still here.”

I think we forget that wonder doesn’t always need a forest trail or a mountain peak. Sometimes, it’s a pink tree in a dusty playground. A fallen petal on your scooter seat. A burst of color peeking out from a busy street. A moment where you’re reminded, even briefly, that the world is still capable of softness.

That playground—and those trees—taught me to look closely. To pay attention. To be moved by things that don’t demand to be seen.

I try to carry that with me now. Even when I’m far from Bangalore, even in the middle of another city, I find myself scanning sidewalks for signs of wildness—an overgrown bush, a sun-warmed dog asleep on the pavement, a vine that refuses to stay trimmed. These small, living things ground me. They remind me I belong somewhere, not just to a place, but to the rhythm of the earth.

And maybe, if more of us remembered how to see like that, we’d start falling in love with the wild world again—even in the middle of a city.

Because nature hasn’t left us. We’ve just stopped noticing.