By the time I left Delhi, the Peepal tree adjacent to my apartment building had replenished itself almost wholly, an act of shedding and rejuvenating customarily performed by it every April. For the seven years I have lived in the periphery of its aura, I have witnessed this ceremonious unfurling, when the ground below appears like a carpet composed of dried, crunchy remnants of last year's newness, and for a brief period, between a few days to a week, the sacred tree stands bereft, its naked bark and branches totally exposed to early summer winds.

Before long, there is a riveting freshness; tender chlorophyll-green leaves that speckle preciously in the still shifting sunlight like jewels on display. I observed the newness spread across the ageing, sentinel tree as I performed several trials to arrive at a relatively minimalist suitcase. As I unpacked, having finally arrived at my intended destination, I found myself catching glimpses of the vermillion leaves of whatI was later told is the blood beech tree.