Beneath the Tamarind Tree
Maybe it’s that tamarind tree. Bangalore in the early 2000s had a charm all its own. The city seemed to breathe through its towering banyan trees, their roots dangling down like curtains. Scattered among them were tamarind trees, their slender branches swaying with tamarind pods. Every morning on my way to the school bus stop, I’d stop beneath its canopy, searching the ground for tamarinds. I’d peel them carefully, savoring their sour-sweetness on those walks. But it wasn’t the tamarind itself, it was the seeds that I treasured. I could never throw them away. They’d rattle in the folds of my skirt pocket until my grandmother found them, her smile half amused. She would collect them in a tiny red box. I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the beginning of a love affair with painting on unconventional surfaces. With doll dresses spread out like blank canvases, I glued the seeds onto the frills, creating tiny, intricate patterns. Then came the paint; splashes of red, gold, and gre...
