The Vanishing Act II - The Architecture of Bloom

A few days ago, a remark made by a friend set me off on a voyage of ruminations; the ubiquity of Bangalore’s ‘cherry blossoms’, albeit on social media, had me wondering if this efflorescent effulgence that the city found itself awash in was a first-time occurrence, or a phenomenon we had simply failed to take note of heretofore, the cloak of flowers entering the sphere of our consciousness only now, swiping through a veritable avalanche of photographs, amateurish attempts to capture Bengaluru’s shifting sands and altered character.

The conversation, and the images on social media, took my mind back to a simpler time, in life and in the city – to my college, to locate the memory in geography. A sprawling campus in a suburb that was over a century old, there was a charm to the landscape, to an architect’s eye, from the choice of trees to the utilisation of space, that was at once endearing and comforting. The dread of returning to college after a restful vacation for the spring semester disappeared the minute I found myself under the canopy of the Purple Jacaranda and copper pod flowers. The petals at my feet muffled not just my step but the voice of angst that is the hallmark of youthful folly.

The colourful canopy above, the petal-quilted carpet underneath my feet – these were sights and sensations the experience of which was not confined to those strolling through an old college campus in Bangalore city. Bangalore, its streets, gardens, and its year-long romance with bloom ensured avenues burst with different colour every month. If Bengaluru’s loss of character is more evident today than it was until a few years ago, it is because of the shrinking of its palette, and the dwindling rain of petals from the sky of flowers above...

BMS College of Engineering, Bangalore

Cities are often defined by their man-made marvels - the towering skyscrapers that pierce the clouds, the intricate spiderwebs of fly-overs, and the grand monuments. But beneath the concrete, steel and glass lies another, often overlooked, layer that contributes significantly to a city's character: its bio-diversity and landscape.

Unlike many places, Bangalore does not have distinct seasons fading into one another. Yet Bangalore seems to have an eternal spring where the flowers bloom throughout the year. This was an integral part of the town planning introduced in the early 20th century. 

Gustav Hermann Krumbiegel, the "Maharaja's German Gardener"  left an undeniable mark on Bangalore. Hired by the Maharaja of Mysore to curate Lalbagh Botanical Garden, he left a lasting impact on the city's landscape, eventually earning Bangalore the moniker "The City Beautiful". He pioneered a concept called "bio-aesthetic planning," essentially transforming the city into a living laboratory for crafting urban beauty through nature. Bangalore's roads, regardless of the season, boasted a vibrant display of blooms. Carefully chosen saplings from across the globe were strategically planted, becoming the building blocks of the city's unique aesthetic heritage.

A Calendar of colours

Much like Kalidasa’s Ritusamhara (Medley of seasons), a celebration of the cyclic beauty of the nature, G.H. Krumbiegel’s vision for Bangalore - “serial blooming” echoes the celebration of seasonal changes. Here, trees don't erupt in a cacophony of colour, but rather take turns painting the city in a breathtaking sequence.

Just as Ritusamhara chronicles the change that unfolds in nature with the onset of each new season, from the delicate blush of spring to the fiery hues of summer, the year unfolds with the delicate trumpet calls of the Pink Tabebuia in March, echoing the poem's descriptions of blossoming love. This symphony of colour continues throughout the year, with each tree species adding its unique verse – the flamboyant brilliance of the Gulmohar in May mirroring the poem's passionate verses, and the delicate white showers of the Millingtonia in December whispering a winter's lullaby.

Krumbiegel's planned blooming isn't just visually stunning; it serves as a constant reminder of nature's artistry.  It's a testament to beauty that transcends time, echoing the poet's sense of wonder at the ever-changing seasons.  Bangalore's streets, a living canvas, a testament to the vision of a man who brought together poetry, horticulture, and urban planning to create a city unlike any other.

But when Krumbiegel's name surfaces, it is solely in connection with a forgettable road wedged between Lalbagh and Mavalli. Even the BMTC conductors shy away from announcing the stop by its name as it is a strange, alien name as far as the collective memory goes.

Apathy Amidst Abundance: A Tale of Two Cities

In Japan, a simple act of appreciating cherry blossoms has blossomed into a national treasure – the Hanami festival. Steeped in over a millennium of tradition, it began with aristocrats revelling in the fleeting beauty of the Sakura. These impermanent flowers, lasting just two weeks, became a powerful symbol of life's transience, inspiring poems and a deep cultural connection. Today, Hanami is a joyous celebration of renewal and hope, a much-needed respite in Japan's fast-paced society. People gather under the delicate blossoms, a reminder to slow down and appreciate the ephemeral beauty that surrounds us.

Bangalore, however, presents a stark contrast. There seems to be a strange apathy towards the loss of a natural treasure – the city's ever-blooming spring. Has the constant floral display bred complacency among residents and city planners alike? The occasional flurry of Tabebuia rosea photos on Instagram seems like a mere token gesture compared to the larger issue.

In this context, a shift in perspective is crucial. Perhaps it's time to take a step back and learn from traditions like Hanami.  Reconnecting with the transient beauty of nature, even in a city blessed with perpetual spring, can be a powerful reminder of life's impermanence and the importance of preserving our precious green spaces.