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 green.

Looking back, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t paint on things. It’s as if I’ve always been drawn to turning the ordinary into something extraordinary.

Perhaps, for someone who loves hoarding little mementos, making functional art is deeply satisfying. Maybe it’s the novelty of it, each surface a new challenge, each texture a fresh adventure. There’s nothing quite like it.

I guess it’s not just about the art or what I create; it’s about the endless possibilities.

And maybe, just maybe, it all began with that tamarind tree.