Beneath the grey sky, the red tree sings

The royal Poinciana may be native to Madagascar, but it feels like it has belonged to us for years. We call it by our own beautiful name -- Krishnachura -- as if it knows Dhaka's summers by heart and waits all year just to remind us that Dhaka is still beautiful. Even in the middle of chaos and concrete, it gives us a quiet moment that makes the heart feel a little lighter.

So vibrant, so sudden, so poetic -- that's Krishnachura. One morning, I look up and suddenly the sky seems to be on fire. The trees I passed every day without noticing have exploded into the shades of red. They wait quietly through the seasons, but when summer arrives, the branches burst into flames of red and orange. It's as if the Krishnachura tree has remembered a forgotten poem and started to recite it out loud.

In a city that's always moving, always rushing, I spot it -- sometimes from a rickshaw, sometimes through the window of a crowded bus, or while walking down the street. The tree stands still, and I pause for a second, maybe a few minutes. I reach into my pocket for my phone, trying to capture the moment, because I know it won't last. Soon, the petals will fall, and I won't even realise how much I'll miss them.

It had just rained, light and sudden. The wet petals on the ground remind me it's all temporary. I look around and see lovers taking photos, framing the flowers in the background. I notice tired passersby looking up at the tree, quietly admiring it under its shade.

The flowers may not last long, but they stay in your memory forever. You remember that one tree near the tea stall, or the big one that scatters red petals like confetti onto a quiet footpath when a soft wind passes through. You remember how, even in the extreme heat of summer, something as simple as a flower surprises you.

There's something special about its timing, too. It shows up when the heat has made everything heavy, when people are most tired. It may not offer shade, but it offers hope -- it offers wonder!

Every year, when the Krishnachura comes back, it whispers: Some things exist just to be seen, just to be loved for a moment.

And in a city full of grey days, it gives me a reason to colour the page differently.