"Do you know what wise old people become when they die?" — Once my huckleberry-friend asked me.

We were sitting idly on the ledge of a secluded ghat on the Ganga while watching sail boats moving away at a leisurely pace. Our dangling feet getting washed by river water would make tiny splashes now and then.

"No idea!"— I shook my head from side to side.

"They become trees, big trees"— with that he kicked up a few splashes which fizzled out with a faint gurgling sound.

I believed him.

Then slowly I turned my head and from the corner of my eye I looked at the age old banyan tree behind us. The entangled roots made the place dark and moist. Did I see an old man? Our school bags were hanging from its gnarly bole. Our shoes were lying scattered around. The thick foliage above us had the assurance of protecting the secrets of two school bunking innocent kids. Had my friend not said what he said that day, I would not see the plant world the way I see it today. Each tree, more than its physical characteristics, appears to have distinct personality traits. They murmur in the breeze, get soaked in rain, turn bald in the days of patjhad. Walking down a shaded street full of trees has always been a happy pastime for me. At times I hug them. They appear wise and make me feel like a child.

The road to artistic trajectory too gets influenced by external conditions. It started happening in 2007 unexpectedly. A sense of directness emerged by rejecting the mawkish formulation of picture making and turning towards the elements that are within the realm of seeing — often strange and intriguing. Looking at a lone sparrow perching under a cluster of chrysanthemums, or a drongo holding its prey clutched between the beaks, by itself are rare and poignantly poetic occurrences. The Art Botanical is more about aesthetics, emotion and ambience, rather than detailed records of scientific studies. All these demand changes in rendering techniques. A finer and much controlled brush work is in place. Drawing strength from the Company School too is a departure from the washy Bengal watercolours.

Nothing is livelier than an upturned bud.
Nothing is more humble than a drooping branch.
Nothing is more lyrical than falling leaves.
Nothing is more graceful than the unfolding petals.

Through the seasons our gardens change hue. Well groomed flowering plants are everyone’s delight. There is another world outside this, unsung and unnoticed. I need not go far to find them. It is a matter of great joy to see them growing in the most inhospitable places, —through the cracks on the walls, by the side of the walkways, or on a dump of discarded building materials. They are unstoppable. My subjects come from plant life growing in and around human habitats. How I wish they grew untamed and in abundance. Give them a chance; they will unfailingly deliver their bouquet of flowers.