Gulmohar Hi Tumhara Naam Hota!

The poet sat by the window, where the golden hour painted the sky with streaks of fiery orange. A breeze, gentle yet insistent, carried the fragrance of blooms from a tree that leaned lovingly against the house. Its blossoms were aflame—red, tender, and alive. They swayed like whispered secrets, as if each petal had its own tale to tell.

He picked up his pen, hesitating for a moment before letting it glide over the paper. "If your name had been something else," he wrote, "perhaps like this tree—bright, unabashed, impossible to ignore—would I have still whispered it the same way? Would it still echo in the empty corners of my heart?"

The tree outside seemed to respond, its blossoms cascading gently, like a deliberate punctuation to his thoughts. He smiled—a fleeting thing, more like a memory than an emotion. His words unfolded as though guided by some unseen muse.

"Would your name, had it been different, still taste as sweet on my tongue? Would it carry the same weight in my silences, the same rhythm in my dreams? Or is it not the name at all, but what it holds—the stories of us, the poetry of our fleeting yesterdays?"

The sun dipped lower, and the tree stood bathed in the soft amber light. The poet paused and leaned back. "Perhaps it doesn’t matter," he murmured to the wind. "Whatever your name might be, it would still bloom in my verses, as vibrant as the gulmohar outside."

And so, he wrote, not for the name, but for the feeling—the one that wrapped itself around his soul like the petals of that fiery tree, refusing to let go.