The flowers who mourned
She loved flowers. It was beyond love, to be factual. A more appropriate accusation would be that she loved gardens. There was no one…
She loved flowers. It was beyond love, to be factual. A more appropriate accusation would be that she loved gardens. There was no one around who could gauge, let alone match, the extent of this love affair. It began at an early age when little girls are expected to let dolls occupy them. Instead, she liked being outdoor, in the greenery, alone. Her parents noted how consumed she appeared by the different shades of flowers and how they smelt in the lawn. What they also noted was how their little princess wouldn’t pluck the flowers.
Nope.
That was out of question. Unlike kids her height who would tug everything that falls in their radii. But then, you don’t harm something you love, do you? She would touch them gently and sniff with her eyes closed. It seemed like she was learning their languages through their fragrance; each fragrance being a unique language. The little girl was growing up slowly, witnessing how her favourite creatures in the world are blessed with short lifespan. If a flower breaks off free from its branch and kisses the ground, she’d pick it up and place it on the proscenium of the devasthana on the wall. An offering to the gods but on strict conditions of non-violence. After the flowers have lost their moisture, she’d place them between the pages of her fat books. Hidden and safe from mortality. Over weeks, they will grow into a gorgeous brown piece of souvenir.
For a girl as distracted as she was, she somehow completed her schooling followed by university. As expected, she graduated with a degree in botany. Few years later, marriage happened. A few more years later, three lovely kids were calling her amma. One aspect of her life didn’t change at all: her fondness for a living being that said so much without saying anything. There wasn’t a genus she wasn’t familiar with. There wasn’t a species she couldn’t guess with her eyes shut. One of the nicest changes was, after settling with her family, she could wholesomely focus on her own garden. Blooms throughout the year.
None of them plucked. None of them harmed.
Years went by and there she was, on the bed, speechless and frailer than the petals she cherished. With death imminent, her kids and grandkids surrounded her trying to cheer her up. She smiled sometimes with her gaze hypnotically captured by the window. Outside the window lied her concerns. Who’s going to take care of her little ones after she’s gone? Will they be treated nicely? Thoughts like these ran through inside wrinkled forehead every time she blinked slowly.
Before anybody could know, she slipped into an unreturnable sleep. Her worries remained unanswered but not for long. When her mourning kith and kin stepped out of the house with her delicate body shrouded in white, the strangest of strange sight greeted them. All the flowers in all the tiny pots and on all the thin trees had withered together. Just like that.