Acquaintance, like a flower, germinates in the most inexplicable ways. Who could ever imagine that the “meanest flower that blows” in my garden—tagar buds (crape jasmine)—would make such a sweet relationship bloom? My early morning task is to pick a few flowers from the tagar plants and saunter 2km to give them to my mother-in-law for her puja. Rather than trying to wriggle out of this chore and annoying MIL and in turn her daughter in the process, I have adopted discretion as the better part of valour for my survival. Of course my wife never tires of brainwashing me that with one round of walking I’m killing two birds. First, her mother gets flowers for her gods and goddesses and second, I corner the healthy benefits of a morning walk. An added bonus is god’s blessings spilling over into my lap!
Only a few people are out that early when I start my stroll passing through lanes and by-lanes. The milkman passes me on his bicycle; I make room for the sweeper, skirting the area he is sweeping. There’s a lady picking flowers from the jasmine tree inside her compound. I look away when her eyes turn in my direction; it’s impolite to be seen staring at a strange woman. But how long can I avoid her gaze day after day? One day her eyes catch mine—and I smile! It’s instinctive, without premeditation. Instinctively too I lower my eyes and walk on. But it’s a matter of time before curiosity emboldens me to latch my eyes onto hers! The smile on our lips lingers till another surge of boldness moves me to blurt out, “Good morning!” She nods and returns to her task.
For quite a few days our conversation doesn’t progress beyond those two words of greetings. Then, one morning, she enquires where do I go to. I tell her and we make small talk on morning walks, the weather and of course flowers. She laments that her jasmine tree doesn’t yield as many flowers as she needs and soon I’m sharing, along with words, my tagar flowers with her. There’s plenty where I get them from, I assure her, though I know tagar is no match for jasmine in fragrance. Her smile as she takes the flowers may be simple, but it’s sincere. Her dependence on me makes her look forward to my appearance each morning, making me feel wanted in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. She never fails to offer me a cup of tea. I’m tempted, but refuse saying my mother-in-law would be waiting. Then, one day in one weak moment, I accept her invitation, “Okay, tomorrow then!”
Next morning I make an early start to squeeze the tea session into my timetable. She isn’t there by the jasmine tree. Instead I see her on the veranda, sipping tea. She’s with a man, laughing and joking. She doesn’t look in my direction. I find it odd to linger at her gate and reluctantly move on after placing my tagar flowers on a branch of her jasmine tree. Only then do I realise what a poor parody the humble tagar makes of the noble jasmine.
