The Garland Weaver
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.
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.
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.
