Perhaps because of the rain, the park was empty. But Krishen said that not many people turned up at this time of the day as he was pulled off the path by Josie, the nine-month old Beagle. Josie was after some birds that had settled under a Champa tree. Krishen let the leash pull out and then reeled the dog in. “It’s like flying a kite!” I said. He chuckled in agreement and held the leash high above his head so I could wheel through. The cemented path was just wide enough to accommodate my wheelchair and well, a dog, the size of a Beagle. Josie walked along me and Krishen walked behind us. I concentrated on the path while Josie looked out for birds and other dogs and Krishen kept one eye on Josie and the other on trees, that being his specialty.

It could have been my current interest in Indian taals, or perhaps it was the surreal rain-drenched light that made me see the connection, but as Josie ambled alongside I could identify the rhythms that her feet were beating out on the pathway. Right now she was walking a medium Kaharwa (dhaa ge na ti na ka dhi na; dhaa ge na ti na ka dhi na).

“Oh look, that’s a Krishna-kadamb,” Krishen pointed to a tree that had small ball-shaped flowers. “The stamens are sticky and the ball is actually made up of hundreds of flowers, if you look carefully,” he said, handing me a field magnifying glass that he fished out from his pocket. Josie suddenly went off to the right after a large Labrador in a rapid Khemata (dhage dhin gin, taage tin kin...dhage dhin gin, taage tin kin). I examined the kadamba flower under the magnifying glass and felt the stickiness of the stamens. “Why the Krishna-kadamb?” I asked when Krishen returned with Josie. “Because this is the one associated with Krishna in Brindavan. But it’s actually the Kaim – Mitragyna parviflora.” “So what about the other one?” I asked. “Well, that has a larger ball of flowers and different leaves too, but it’s native to the forests of the North-east. It gets mistaken for the kadamb of Krishna.” I was glad I was walking with him. Ten minutes into the walk and one mystery had been solved. Just the previous week my mother-in-law had been complaining that everything had changed since she was a child. The vegetables didn’t taste the same anymore and even the kadamb’s flowers didn’t grow to the size she remembered. Obviously, what she remembered from her childhood was a different kadamb.

We walked along in silence. Josie was straining at the leash, pulling it with a wheezing Dadra (dhaa dhi na, dhaa ti na; dhaa dhi na, dhaa ti na), her loud huffs coinciding with the dhaa’s.
“And here is a Krishna-siris. Doesn’t it look beautiful?” Krishen was pointing to a tree that had a feathery canopy. Its round, yellow flowers glittered like jewels in the rain-washed sunlight. He picked up a few flowers and gave them to me. “Do they smell as good as the Siris?” I asked, bringing the flowers close to my nose. The flowers were much smaller than the Siris and their smell also had a diminutive quality. Josie had meanwhile found something of interest and had led Krishen towards a clump of trees with a bouncy Rupak (tee tee na, dhi na, dhi na).

After about an hour of walking, as I was getting into my car, I mumbled my thanks, “That was a great walk, especially...” but before I could finish Krishen squinted his eyes and walked into some bushes in the car parking area, “Hey, there's a Crysptostegia Grandiflora! It’s an African vine that was brought to India for rubber, but it turned out to be no good. It’s called rabad ki bel, and grows wild in the Delhi ridge now.” He emerged from the bushes and handed me a light blue flower. The trumpet-shaped flower had a remarkable springy quality and I pressed it all the way on my drive back home. The flower didn't last a day, but the walk will remain fresh in the garden of my memories, as will Josie’s rhythms.