Rain tree reflections

An old journal entry reflecting on rain trees, numbers and other things. Posted to the blog on 14 July 2025, with only minor proofing done to the original text.

18:15, Christ University Main Campus

Today I have been pushed to think, rather ponder, on numbers. What exactly was the trigger? Not the astonishing number of students trudging along everyday in the campus. Not the number of books resting in the underexploited library. Not the acreage of land that has been choked to death by tar and concrete, on account of infrastructure and development. Not the number of times the denizens of this institution have to suffer fumigation by mosquito poison. Not the number of leaves being swept away into exile, convicted for vandalising the infrastructure. Not any number of persons’ number of achievements or involvements.

As I passed by the football ground this evening, after a particularly frustrating day of college albeit one of the remaining ones, I couldn’t help but notice the brilliant display of the rain trees on the other end of the ground. One of the rare instances when showing off is fruitful—I just had to return to the red benches after collecting my food, and settle down for some mild reflection.

The rain trees, seven in number, seemed to be scoffing, and taunting me with their spectacular bloom. Anyone who has seen an Albizia flower would love the delicacy and intricacy which it embodies. Although initially missing a breath only due to the perfect colour menagerie that the trees were so haughtily showcasing, I later wondered how many flowers each tree held. Each tree was in bloom, but to varying degrees. How many branches does each tree have? How many twigs in a branch? How many flowers on a twig? How many leaves? How many pink strands in a flower? How many veins in a leaf?

I soon realised that the rain tree had almost become a spokesperson in my mind, for all that belongs to nature. For the numerous species and individuals of birds that used the tree; for the lizards, spiders, caterpillars, ants and termites that called it home; for the population of the metropolis that bustled under it, out of sight of most eyes.

Does anyone ever notice the number of birds that traverse the length or breadth of this ground on any given day? How many unique and beautiful calls go unheard, while we are busy heeding to other calls? How many wing flaps of a butterfly go unnoticed? How oblivious are we to the staggering figures of growth evident in each unit of nature?

I now proceed to think deeply about the nature of humans. We can never stop at anything—we have to conquer all there is to conquer; we have to colonise the entirety of the planet and crawl into every crack and crevice, every nook and cranny. The number 8 billion enters my mind. This is, however, soon replaced by the dismissive laughter of the ant colonies teeming right beneath my feet.

It is sad that we humans innately have this intense greed for domination and superiority. Like with any dealing with a giant ego, all it takes is showing it the pure insignificance of whatever it holds dearly. And this happens every day, every second, everywhere. Salvation is just a step away, if only we were patient enough to observe.

I would like to believe that I have come to terms with the futility of certain worldviews and lifestyles. I, at the very least, accept the many tiny congratulations I receive from various points on my legs—I return the appreciation by marvelling at how resilient and perseverant the mosquitoes are. “We are just playing the waiting game,” they seem to say. “It is one of the core beliefs of our culture that you all will end yourself soon enough. All in due time.”

As I observed the sun settling down for the day in the middle of my meditative thoughts, I was shown the irrelevance of human constructs like time and numbers. Life waits for none. The giant ashen cloud that passed diagonally reminded me of nature’s mastery of instant change. The few sparse drops that fell brought back in my body the warm and familiar comfort one gets only from nature. And finally, even as I sit here about to conclude my stretch of reflective thought, the yellowish fingernail moon, adjacent to the freshly awakened corporate office building straight in front of me, tells me that every span of darkness is inevitably followed by a growing speck of light.