The overwhelming fragrance of flowers hits you as you approach the Koil Street. Rows upon rows of garlands strung from poles, small ones and large ones, colours bright as on a canvas, garlands made of roses and lilies, jasmines and chrysanthemums, woven together tightly decorated with strands of golden and silver threads, entwined with fragrant leaves that added their heady aroma to the already divine smell of the flowers. Drawing closer, one could see the sellers huddled in their make shift shops, their wares laid out on platforms covered with wet jute bags. Constant spraying of water on the flowers and garlands made the area a tad cooler than the street beyond. The row of shoes lining the shop entrances, left behind by the devotees visiting the temple.
Most of these garlands would adorn the goddess ‘Meenakshi’ albeit for a short while, a wondrous achievement for a life so short. Few days as a bud, a day as a flower, yet in that short while, spreading so much colour and fragrance on to the world so stark, finally finding their way to the goddess’s shoulders, bedecking her hairdo, or if lucky finally resting at her lotus feet. If only men could make such a comprehensive journey, in a time so short, spreading hope and gaiety knowing well that they would not live to see another day.
Alongside the large garlands would rest the smaller strands of flowers tightly woven for the common man, to take home for his worship, at times to adorn the pictures of his long departed ones, sometimes to deck up the braids of his wonderful bride, or to be offered as gifts at ceremonial occasions like marriages and betrothals.
The street was now buzzing with early morning activity, the waft of air bringing in a heady mixture of morning smells, the smell of the charcoal stove being lit, the smell of the ground being watered in preparation for the day, the smell of freshly ground coffee, being brought to a boil to prepare the first dose of the typical ‘Filter Coffee’, the smell of the garden fresh vegetables being laid out for the daily bazaar. All these activities happening in that one narrow Koil Street, now milling with an increasing influx of people, coming out to have their first audience with the Goddess.
Among all this activity the garland weavers were busy getting ready for the day, some of them had got up as early as three in the morning to prepare the garland for the ‘Amman’(the goddess). Gopi was amongst the lucky few who were responsible for this chore. The son of a florist, his father’s shop had been playing the role of the official florist of the ‘Temple’ since the last four generations. Their shop occupied the pride of the place amongst the shops on the street, as it stood flanking the temple. The official florist’s title meant that the high and mighty in the town would flock to order for garlands for all occasions, the order book would overflow during times of ‘Temple Festivals’ and during election times.
Supporters would vie with one another in gifting the most grandiose of garlands to their ‘Talaivar’ (leader) all of which would come from Gopi’s shop.
Gopi of course had to take charge of the affairs of his shop at a tender age of 15 years, ever since his father was laid down by a stroke. His nimble fingers would play around with the flowers to create some of the most grandiose of the Garlands he had ever created for the temple. On his part he would ensure that the best creation of the day was reserved for the ‘Amman’, and never had he ever departed from this practice in his now fifteen year of weaving garlands. On some days he would bead together six to eight garlands before he was able to select the perfect garland for the ‘Amman’. The ones reserved for the goddess would then be carefully packed away, in baskets made of cane, and covered with wet jute clothes to keep it fresh.
Gopi was so obsessed with preserving the sanctity of the garland. He would weave the garlands before sunrise, while people were still in slumber. He would take his bath in the holy river Cauvery, bare chest in a wet dhoti (cloth worn as a lower garment in India) he would rush to his shop to begin the process of weaving. Such was his devotion that he would try to shut out even the fragrance from drifting to lesser mortals, before the garland graced the goddess. On many occasions Gopi would find himself holding his breath while beading together the garlands, lest he pollute the garlands with his breath. Such was the respect with which he treated his job. No wonder then that the temple management did not think twice before extending the shop’s contract, upon his father’s illness.
The boy’s devotion and skill was common knowledge. Gopi kept the faith of all those who believed in him, the ‘President’ of the Temple society, the patrons of his family shop all flocked to buy his garlands as ever.Then there was his special customer, Kalpana,
Kalpana the school teacher’s daughter, the family had been buying flowers for worship ever since he had been in this shop. “Tulsi (basil) Garland please”. The sing song whisper would make him shyly look up from what he was doing. The familiar figure would be standing there demanding a garland for her ‘Narayana’. The radiant face of a girl in her early twenties would outshine the beauty of the best of the garlands strung on the ropes for sale. Her freshly washed hair tied around a linen, the bright vermilion dot anointed on her forehead, the graceful swaying of the ear rings to the nods of her head, her petite figure draped in a bright peacock coloured kaanjivaram sari, her reassuring presence on that Friday morning, all combined together would enchant him as he would mutter her name under his breath – Kalpana, his inspiration, his breath and soul, a dream that he will never live, and synonymous to her name, an imagination – Kalpana, yet a reality standing in front of him, droplets of water, dripping down the strands of hair astray but arranged in beautiful poetry.
As a kid she used to accompany her father daily on their way to the nearby Perumal(Lord Vishnu) temple, latter on as years went by she would come on her own, Never had they exchanged anything more than a glance, She would come with the exact change always, take a garland and flowers of her choice, pay without uttering a word, and quietly leave, swaying to the symphony of the trinkets around her legs. He on his part would ensure that after keeping aside the best of the garlands for the temple, he would the reserve the next best one for her. This had become a ritual, one Tulsi Garland, for the god, and the other rose garland for her grandfather’s photo frame. He made sure that the best garlands after meeting the temple’s needs were reserved for Kalpana.
It’s now been three months since she had come to his shop. He still remembered the fateful day like he had lived it a thousand times. Some days back, he had come across, her father speaking to his, about the approaching engagement in his house. They had identified a young bank manager to wed Kalpana, and her father was placing an order for the garlands needed for the ceremonies. The engagement was to happen in three days time. The news struck Gopi, like a bolt of lightning. He had been dreading this day for a long time, his dreams had a special place Kalpana, a dream which was never to be, and he could not imagine her belonging to someone else. The news signified the end of his fantasies. Yet he dreamt on, it never struck him it would end so soon and now that the day was upon him, he could not handle it in spite of his forebodings. As the day of the engagement drew near he developed a feverish anxiety of the unknown. It seemed to him that his world was going to end in the next few days. Ensconced in a daze the next few days floated by, as his mind refused to heed sanity, and went into a tailspin. The days haunted him, as the nights tortured him, the image of her walking away into the horizon floated again and again in front of his eyes brimming with tears, which sometimes unknown to him were found spilling into the strands of the pious garlands being woven for the Goddess. Unknown to him the droplets of tears hidden in the folds of the chrisom roses would go on to adorn the goddess.
As if in answer to his prayers, before the day of the engagement she came to his shop. “Appa(dad) would have told you the news” she whispered. “Yes Madam”, he replied with a smile he put on with great difficulty. “I have always loved the flowers that I have taken from your shop all these years, I will never find the same artistry or the quality of flowers in any other shop across Srirangam, where I am to go as a bride, I am sure” she added. He responded with a murmur she could not make anything of. “Gopi” I trust you to weave the best garland that you have ever woven for my marriage, she beamed awkwardly. “Sure Madam you never need to mention it, you have always been my special customer all these years” he replied. If only you could understand what is going through my heart Kalpana, he thought. But then her faith is his skill, so expressed conveyed in person was some consolation.
Completing her wedding garland was to become his sole obsession in the weeks to come. Every day he would shut down his shop during noon to scout for the best and exquisite material for the special occasion, the lace, the golden threads, the beads, the sandalwood shavings, the day before the wedding he personally went to the wholesale flower market to select the best of the flowers, roses as large as lotuses, fragrant enough to freshen up the whole street.
Sets of lotus for special bouquets for the groom and bride, jasmines to bead together on strings to deck the guests’ hairdo, a consignment of flowers, and a parting gift for his beloved. He packed his entire emotions into the garlands and strands of flowers that he weaved, each little bud going into the right place, each petal adjusted just so that it peeked out from the garland at the perfect angle. Such pains that he would take only when he had to bedeck the Goddess on special occasions. On the destined day for the first time in his life, the flowers going into the temple paled in comparison to the set he had prepared for his Kalpana, a set of flowers that would make all the silks on show in the wedding pale in comparison. Each hue of the rainbows stood captured in the garlands, in fact few colours more than that which could be found in the multiple shaded Kanchivaram Sarees that the ladies paraded. For all his efforts he had the sole satisfaction of being able to get a picture clicked with the bridal couple.
In the years gone by, his pain had eased a bit, acceptance of his fate had brought closure, but his Kalpana, his imagination was to be his forever, finding a place in every garland that he weaved, every colour that went into each of his pieces of art, the vibrancy in his decorations bringing in customers from far and wide. The size of his shop now rapidly enlarged, he had a dozen people working for him now, yet he would personally work on the two sets of garland every day, the garland for the Goddess, would be dispatched to the temple priest, and the second set dedicated to his love, he would personally carry on to the banks of Cauvery, and unseen by human eyes, would slip into the furious swirl of the river, with the faith that it would drift downstream to Srirangam, where his love resided. For him she was no more his love, but his inspiration, his creativity and zest for life she had gifted him.
Kalpana beat him to the ritual that day, she landed up at his shop first thing in the morning, with a retinue of hanger-on’s. Her new found prosperity reflected in the shining sedan from which she alighted, holding on to a ball of life, a little baby some months old, motherhood adding a new halo to her goddess like demeanour. With aplomb she demanded the set of flowers as if by right, as though no time had passed since the last time they had met, civilities in the traditional context did not demand that she introduce her child to him, but yet she did, Babu she crooned, “look at Gopi Uncle, he will give baby a nice set of flowers see”. As if on a cue the baby gurgled happily, his drool dropped down upon the flowers on display, Oh no, Sita, get me the towel please acclaimed Kalpana. Gopis eyes noticing Sita the baby sitter for the first time.
Sita Her thin frame draped in a simple cotton sari, reaching into a bag to retrieve a soft blue towel to gently wipe the baby’s face. Care and devotion reflecting in the way she handled the baby, as Kalpana chose to pass on the responsibility of holding the baby to Sita. Skin as radiant as Kalpana‘s, beauty enhanced by simplicity, a simple ear stud of half a gram of gold, the only adornment on her. Her beauty lending glamour to the faded ornament, she looked curiously at Gopi with great wonderment, as if asking Kalpana is he the famous garland weaver that I have heard so much about? As if in reply Kalpana introduced Sita to Gopi. Sita will come and collect the flowers from tomorrow Gopi, exclaimed Kalpana.
In acknowledgement, Sita nodded and smiled at Gopi, their eyes met, and suddenly they became aware of each other. Later Gopi would get to know that the admiration in Sita's eyes were built by stories that she had heard from Kalpana. Stories about how Kalpana had always been a fan of the Gopi and his weaving skills, about his piousness, his devotion and of course his handsome frame. Attractions which had to be stiffled keeping in mind the social norms, Gopi an ordinary flower vendor, and Kalpana from a deemed higher cast. Nothing would have worked anyway in favour of their attachment, even if kalpana had confessed her attraction to Gopi.
Had Sita known how her relationship with Gopi would progress, she would not have shared Kalpana's feeling towards him.
Over a period the contrast between the two ladies dawned upon Gopi. The same curly black hair, the doe eyes, the delicate complexion, lips as though set in a permanent smile, seemed common, but Kalpana radiant in her sophistication and Sita reflecting her beauty thought her simplicity were poles apart.
As Gopi got to know Sita over a period of time, their affinity grew, Garlands went into the Cauvery no more. There were no more class barriers which would require someone's love to be washed away in the currents of a river.
As Sita came to collect her flower, the radiant hue of the sky seems to garner a new dawn in their lives, the garlands seem to become fragrant once more, fragrant with a jest for life, as though bestowing a immortality to the garlands hanging upon the displays.
Garland Weaver - A short Story
Most of these garlands would adorn the goddess ‘Meenakshi’ albeit for a short while, a wondrous achievement for a life so short. Few days as a bud, a day as a flower, yet in that short while, spreading so much colour and fragrance on to the world so stark, finally finding their way to the goddess’s shoulders, bedecking her hairdo, or if lucky finally resting at her lotus feet. If only men could make such a comprehensive journey, in a time so short, spreading hope and gaiety knowing well that they would not live to see another day.
Alongside the large garlands would rest the smaller strands of flowers tightly woven for the common man, to take home for his worship, at times to adorn the pictures of his long departed ones, sometimes to deck up the braids of his wonderful bride, or to be offered as gifts at ceremonial occasions like marriages and betrothals.
The street was now buzzing with early morning activity, the waft of air bringing in a heady mixture of morning smells, the smell of the charcoal stove being lit, the smell of the ground being watered in preparation for the day, the smell of freshly ground coffee, being brought to a boil to prepare the first dose of the typical ‘Filter Coffee’, the smell of the garden fresh vegetables being laid out for the daily bazaar. All these activities happening in that one narrow Koil Street, now milling with an increasing influx of people, coming out to have their first audience with the Goddess.
Among all this activity the garland weavers were busy getting ready for the day, some of them had got up as early as three in the morning to prepare the garland for the ‘Amman’(the goddess). Gopi was amongst the lucky few who were responsible for this chore. The son of a florist, his father’s shop had been playing the role of the official florist of the ‘Temple’ since the last four generations. Their shop occupied the pride of the place amongst the shops on the street, as it stood flanking the temple. The official florist’s title meant that the high and mighty in the town would flock to order for garlands for all occasions, the order book would overflow during times of ‘Temple Festivals’ and during election times.
Supporters would vie with one another in gifting the most grandiose of garlands to their ‘Talaivar’ (leader) all of which would come from Gopi’s shop.
Gopi of course had to take charge of the affairs of his shop at a tender age of 15 years, ever since his father was laid down by a stroke. His nimble fingers would play around with the flowers to create some of the most grandiose of the Garlands he had ever created for the temple. On his part he would ensure that the best creation of the day was reserved for the ‘Amman’, and never had he ever departed from this practice in his now fifteen year of weaving garlands. On some days he would bead together six to eight garlands before he was able to select the perfect garland for the ‘Amman’. The ones reserved for the goddess would then be carefully packed away, in baskets made of cane, and covered with wet jute clothes to keep it fresh.
Gopi was so obsessed with preserving the sanctity of the garland. He would weave the garlands before sunrise, while people were still in slumber. He would take his bath in the holy river Cauvery, bare chest in a wet dhoti (cloth worn as a lower garment in India) he would rush to his shop to begin the process of weaving. Such was his devotion that he would try to shut out even the fragrance from drifting to lesser mortals, before the garland graced the goddess. On many occasions Gopi would find himself holding his breath while beading together the garlands, lest he pollute the garlands with his breath. Such was the respect with which he treated his job. No wonder then that the temple management did not think twice before extending the shop’s contract, upon his father’s illness.
The boy’s devotion and skill was common knowledge. Gopi kept the faith of all those who believed in him, the ‘President’ of the Temple society, the patrons of his family shop all flocked to buy his garlands as ever.Then there was his special customer, Kalpana,
Kalpana the school teacher’s daughter, the family had been buying flowers for worship ever since he had been in this shop. “Tulsi (basil) Garland please”. The sing song whisper would make him shyly look up from what he was doing. The familiar figure would be standing there demanding a garland for her ‘Narayana’. The radiant face of a girl in her early twenties would outshine the beauty of the best of the garlands strung on the ropes for sale. Her freshly washed hair tied around a linen, the bright vermilion dot anointed on her forehead, the graceful swaying of the ear rings to the nods of her head, her petite figure draped in a bright peacock coloured kaanjivaram sari, her reassuring presence on that Friday morning, all combined together would enchant him as he would mutter her name under his breath – Kalpana, his inspiration, his breath and soul, a dream that he will never live, and synonymous to her name, an imagination – Kalpana, yet a reality standing in front of him, droplets of water, dripping down the strands of hair astray but arranged in beautiful poetry.
As a kid she used to accompany her father daily on their way to the nearby Perumal(Lord Vishnu) temple, latter on as years went by she would come on her own, Never had they exchanged anything more than a glance, She would come with the exact change always, take a garland and flowers of her choice, pay without uttering a word, and quietly leave, swaying to the symphony of the trinkets around her legs. He on his part would ensure that after keeping aside the best of the garlands for the temple, he would the reserve the next best one for her. This had become a ritual, one Tulsi Garland, for the god, and the other rose garland for her grandfather’s photo frame. He made sure that the best garlands after meeting the temple’s needs were reserved for Kalpana.
It’s now been three months since she had come to his shop. He still remembered the fateful day like he had lived it a thousand times. Some days back, he had come across, her father speaking to his, about the approaching engagement in his house. They had identified a young bank manager to wed Kalpana, and her father was placing an order for the garlands needed for the ceremonies. The engagement was to happen in three days time. The news struck Gopi, like a bolt of lightning. He had been dreading this day for a long time, his dreams had a special place Kalpana, a dream which was never to be, and he could not imagine her belonging to someone else. The news signified the end of his fantasies. Yet he dreamt on, it never struck him it would end so soon and now that the day was upon him, he could not handle it in spite of his forebodings. As the day of the engagement drew near he developed a feverish anxiety of the unknown. It seemed to him that his world was going to end in the next few days. Ensconced in a daze the next few days floated by, as his mind refused to heed sanity, and went into a tailspin. The days haunted him, as the nights tortured him, the image of her walking away into the horizon floated again and again in front of his eyes brimming with tears, which sometimes unknown to him were found spilling into the strands of the pious garlands being woven for the Goddess. Unknown to him the droplets of tears hidden in the folds of the chrisom roses would go on to adorn the goddess.
As if in answer to his prayers, before the day of the engagement she came to his shop. “Appa(dad) would have told you the news” she whispered. “Yes Madam”, he replied with a smile he put on with great difficulty. “I have always loved the flowers that I have taken from your shop all these years, I will never find the same artistry or the quality of flowers in any other shop across Srirangam, where I am to go as a bride, I am sure” she added. He responded with a murmur she could not make anything of. “Gopi” I trust you to weave the best garland that you have ever woven for my marriage, she beamed awkwardly. “Sure Madam you never need to mention it, you have always been my special customer all these years” he replied. If only you could understand what is going through my heart Kalpana, he thought. But then her faith is his skill, so expressed conveyed in person was some consolation.
Completing her wedding garland was to become his sole obsession in the weeks to come. Every day he would shut down his shop during noon to scout for the best and exquisite material for the special occasion, the lace, the golden threads, the beads, the sandalwood shavings, the day before the wedding he personally went to the wholesale flower market to select the best of the flowers, roses as large as lotuses, fragrant enough to freshen up the whole street.
Sets of lotus for special bouquets for the groom and bride, jasmines to bead together on strings to deck the guests’ hairdo, a consignment of flowers, and a parting gift for his beloved. He packed his entire emotions into the garlands and strands of flowers that he weaved, each little bud going into the right place, each petal adjusted just so that it peeked out from the garland at the perfect angle. Such pains that he would take only when he had to bedeck the Goddess on special occasions. On the destined day for the first time in his life, the flowers going into the temple paled in comparison to the set he had prepared for his Kalpana, a set of flowers that would make all the silks on show in the wedding pale in comparison. Each hue of the rainbows stood captured in the garlands, in fact few colours more than that which could be found in the multiple shaded Kanchivaram Sarees that the ladies paraded. For all his efforts he had the sole satisfaction of being able to get a picture clicked with the bridal couple.
In the years gone by, his pain had eased a bit, acceptance of his fate had brought closure, but his Kalpana, his imagination was to be his forever, finding a place in every garland that he weaved, every colour that went into each of his pieces of art, the vibrancy in his decorations bringing in customers from far and wide. The size of his shop now rapidly enlarged, he had a dozen people working for him now, yet he would personally work on the two sets of garland every day, the garland for the Goddess, would be dispatched to the temple priest, and the second set dedicated to his love, he would personally carry on to the banks of Cauvery, and unseen by human eyes, would slip into the furious swirl of the river, with the faith that it would drift downstream to Srirangam, where his love resided. For him she was no more his love, but his inspiration, his creativity and zest for life she had gifted him.
Kalpana beat him to the ritual that day, she landed up at his shop first thing in the morning, with a retinue of hanger-on’s. Her new found prosperity reflected in the shining sedan from which she alighted, holding on to a ball of life, a little baby some months old, motherhood adding a new halo to her goddess like demeanour. With aplomb she demanded the set of flowers as if by right, as though no time had passed since the last time they had met, civilities in the traditional context did not demand that she introduce her child to him, but yet she did, Babu she crooned, “look at Gopi Uncle, he will give baby a nice set of flowers see”. As if on a cue the baby gurgled happily, his drool dropped down upon the flowers on display, Oh no, Sita, get me the towel please acclaimed Kalpana. Gopis eyes noticing Sita the baby sitter for the first time.
In acknowledgement, Sita nodded and smiled at Gopi, their eyes met, and suddenly they became aware of each other. Later Gopi would get to know that the admiration in Sita's eyes were built by stories that she had heard from Kalpana. Stories about how Kalpana had always been a fan of the Gopi and his weaving skills, about his piousness, his devotion and of course his handsome frame. Attractions which had to be stiffled keeping in mind the social norms, Gopi an ordinary flower vendor, and Kalpana from a deemed higher cast. Nothing would have worked anyway in favour of their attachment, even if kalpana had confessed her attraction to Gopi.
Had Sita known how her relationship with Gopi would progress, she would not have shared Kalpana's feeling towards him.
Over a period the contrast between the two ladies dawned upon Gopi. The same curly black hair, the doe eyes, the delicate complexion, lips as though set in a permanent smile, seemed common, but Kalpana radiant in her sophistication and Sita reflecting her beauty thought her simplicity were poles apart.
As Gopi got to know Sita over a period of time, their affinity grew, Garlands went into the Cauvery no more. There were no more class barriers which would require someone's love to be washed away in the currents of a river.
As Sita came to collect her flower, the radiant hue of the sky seems to garner a new dawn in their lives, the garlands seem to become fragrant once more, fragrant with a jest for life, as though bestowing a immortality to the garlands hanging upon the displays.
Garland Weaver - A short Story
will take care of it going forward....
