Flowers of the sky

He brings home flowers. It’s the early part of the morning and I am in the kitchen making breakfast when I hear the latch of the gate open. A peep through the large window tells me what I already know. It’s my husband, back from his jog. I used to feel guilty that I am not an early bird. Blame it on my love for proverbs.

This has no bearing on what’s coming ahead; simply an aside to the main course. Somewhat like a dash of salt in a sweet dish--an enhancer. May be it tells you a little about me and why I don’t accompany him on his morning jaunts.

There has been a shift in the order. Very subtle and almost easy to miss. Then I realize that the years have passed. Or is it just that he is a true Mysorean now?

This is still a retired people’s city when compared to its more famous neighbour. People have time, rather they make time to stop, look at the sky as the sun gives ‘darshan’. It won’t be an odd sight to see them slide their footwear down their heels, offer a quick namaskara to the sun and continue their morning walk.

Where else will you see men stop to pluck flowers from roadside shrubs or even tug at an overhanging branch of someone else’s home? Don’t miss the ones who bend down to collect the delicate blooms of Parijatha that fall as a drizzle. There’s another tree that rains down its blossoms. Akasha Mallige.

I am not fussy about flowers, but there is one I am partial to--the tuberose or Rajnigandha. The grey tarred surface is peppered with white, a tall majestic tree on the side is the culprit. As I walked closer to my destination, my hands held a few stalks, its heady fragrance filling my senses. Little did I realize that this was observed by him.

As I said earlier, time has a wonderful way of making things happen. On this day, it so happened that he came in, flushed from having burnt calories, set the milk vessel on the stove,
took his cup of green tea and walked on to pick up threads of a working day. But, wait, there was one tucked around the corner though; well past our breakfast together and my other sundry chores.

I walk to the alcove where my inner being gets its recharge, and am instantly transported to a space that can only be called Ananda. I breathe in deep taking in the scent, smiling as I light the deepa. It’s the small gestures that speak what is many a time unspoken.