1

It was a day in October, the month when the bougainvillea trees started parading their flowers. I claimed it a private privilege. Bougainvillea, I was told and so I had always believed, bloomed only in October, and being born in October, it was me they celebrated.
The park where I sat and ate my lunch was pleasantly windy and in October the wind flirted with the flowers. It rocked them to and fro, landed them on the bench, on the paved pathway, on men's shining shoes and women's silky duppattas or hair, then lifted them again, carried them upwards and upwards and let them plummet from a height, like child's play. Sometimes it let them linger a little too long and the soft petals were crushed under young girls' crushing heels, or brushed off shoulders like a persistent nuisance.
Jen was someone who picked up the petals. Perhaps she was born in October and knew about the bougainvillea too.
That morning, deprived of jam, I had a thin slice of fried egg as a surrogate for my sandwich filling. I spread the newspaper open on my lap, and unwrapped the aluminum foil, pushing on the bottom of my package, anxious for my lunch to emerge. And out came a sodden, wrinkled thing that made me pull my fingers away. Lunch I gave up then, opting for walking as mollification. The sandwich satisfied a bin and I trampled along, hands in pockets. And there was the lady who picked up the petal.The purple papery petal had been blown off the tree by the wicked wind, or perhaps, like all things young and pretty, the petal had lessened its grip on the branch and answered to the calling of an escapade. It had landed on someone's lunch and brushed off, falling in front of a man as he walked, intercepting his path like an invitation and rebuffed, now positioning itself on a lady's foot. I had amused myself halfway with the prospect of imminent malice, as most people excelled in, and was almost disappointed when the lady picked it up. I liked to have my surmises confirmed.