Crepe Myrtle, Sector 10

She once told me she loved flowers. Not the usual kind—not roses or lilies or anything wrapped in plastic sleeves. “Crepe Myrtle,” she had said, eyes narrowing slightly, as if retrieving the word from somewhere long forgotten. “They look like cotton candy... but gentler.”

I had nodded like I knew what she meant. I didn’t. But I remembered the name.

Then one evening, riding back from the office, somewhere near Sector 10—the road curved slightly, and just beyond a rusted gate, I saw it. A tree in full bloom, spilling over the wall, the flowers pale pink and weightless. Crepe Myrtle. I slowed down. Parked by the side. Just stood there for a moment. The traffic behind me kept moving, and the world kept rushing. But I didn’t.

There wasn’t any poetry at that moment; it was just an instinct. She should see this.

I clicked a picture and sent it to her.

“Found your cotton candy tree.”

Her reply came fast—a dancing bear, a heart, and nothing else. But I could almost hear her laugh while typing it.

That weekend, we’d planned to have coffee. I picked a spot near that same sector—a small place, iron chairs, some forgotten Hindi songs playing softly. She arrived late, brushing strands of hair off her face, already mid-laugh about something she never finished explaining.

Before we could order, she said, “Let’s go see that tree?”

We left our seats, walked down that narrow lane—walls with peeling paint, a koel singing somewhere far, the kind of silence that makes you lower your voice without meaning to. The tree looked even better up close, taller than I remembered, with petals floating down like they were in no hurry to touch the ground.

An old woman was tending to the plants by the gate. She saw us and smiled like she already knew what we were here for. I asked if we could take some pictures under the tree.

“Le lo beta,” she said, wiping her hands on her sari. “Bachpan yaad aa gaya tum dono ko dekhke.”

She posed, of course, she did. Arms behind her, looking up, lips parting in that half-smile she always gave before laughing. I shook the tree a little, and the petals came down like slow rain. One got stuck in her hair. She tried to brush it off, but I was already there, fingers gently untangling it from a strand behind her ear.

“Ho gaya?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer. I leaned in instead.

The kiss was quiet. Not rushed. Her hand resting lightly on my shirt, the distance between us vanishing like it never existed. It was the kind of kiss that makes everything else dull in comparison. Her breath caught slightly, and when we pulled away, her eyes lingered on mine—not asking, not saying, just... staying.

The old lady clapped once and laughed, “Bas bas, ab coffee pi lo. Garam hai abhi.”

She invited us in. We followed.

Inside the courtyard, two stools waited under the shade. A half-knit sweater lay on the swing. She brought out two steel glasses of filter coffee, filled till the brim, the kind that leaves a ring on your fingers when you hold it.

“Zyada meetha toh nahi?” she asked.

“It's good, aunty,” she replied before I could speak.

We sat there, sipping slowly. The taste was sharp, earthy, the kind that lingers on your tongue even after you’re done. And for some reason, it felt like we belonged there. As if the moment had been waiting for us.

The tree behind us, still losing petals.

The kiss between us, still held in the air.

And her smile...

Contagious.