All in the pursuit of flowers

My mother never let me buy flowers for myself. It’s not because she didn’t believe I wasn’t deserving of fresh flowers with their stems leaking - water seeping through the newspaper wraps, leaving telltales marks all the way up to my bedroom door. It’s because it cost a whole fifteen rupees to buy one stick of gerbera and that just didn’t fit into her economy of aesthetics. Maybe if it were a sunflower instead, she might have relented. 

My room in her house has an empty bottle of vodka on the corner shelf, holding up a bouquet of plastic flowers. The petals have paled, looking drier than usual; the sun exacting its fare - plastic or not, all flowers must give what they owe. My mother let me have these after I spent an entire morning, screaming in protest - so much like my teenaged and televised counterparts - I would absolutely die if my room wasn’t exactly how I’d seen it on Pinterest. 

The next day, I found them propped up against my pillow, as yellow as the real ones - a veiled apology from her, for not being enough. These flowers were my guilty admission - I had given her a reason to resent herself. 

Three years later, when I moved out for my Masters, I dreamt of having my own house. But I was naive and this was Bombay. The parties happened on one side of the room, while the other side echoed with grumbles. Smaller the size, fiercer the ache.

My hopes turned frugal. I trimmed the sides off and left myself with a half a room - I moved in with bags bigger than my home - there was floor just to step on, not to adorn. 

We were left with very little, after running through a day’s expense. The Strawberry milkshake outside Kyani was an extravagance we could only afford if lunch had been two vada pavs. Sometimes, not even then. On the nights we drank our weight in cheap alcohol, we decided to forego food altogether - sitting by the Arabian sea - filling ourselves up with young, and unrequited love; burping with the aftertaste of the sea’s salt. 

We walked as far as our legs let us - sometimes, going deeper than the maps let on - and sometimes, believing the lies it told us. We waded through the white carpet of flowers at the corner, around the Sterling theatre. I was about to pick some up and dust them into my bag, but I was ushered inside by an impatient friend - threatening me with abject misery if we missed even a bit of the film. We skirted around the High Court, marvelling at the wrought iron staircase - spiralling with delicate poise. At night, when the streets were emptier and the orange lights flickered with pace - when the art deco morphed into the gothic, the flowers lingered on, in the air - waiting for me; leaving behind, as much as possible. 

I drifted from postal code to postal code - from the dinghy lanes lined with egg sellers and hungover men to the quieter colonies of Sleater Road, where every shopping trip ended with spotting a lazing cat - unfurling with royal grace. 

I was swept up and nestled close to her bosom - I felt her heartbeats in the pulsating crowd that bulged out of the open train doors, and in the loud car screeches, streaking across Marine Drive - I was finally Bombay’s own - living the way, her people did. 

My fists uncurled a little and I moved up into a higher rise - overseeing the magnificent sealine - but with very little time to see it. I walked past the Parsi Dairy Farm every day, tasting the thick smell of boiling milk - counting down minutes to the arrival of my Churchgate slow - wondering what would happen if I let it go, instead?

Suddenly all I saw was the night - far from how I knew it. The harsh newsroom lights had overpowered the mellow street ones - catching me off guard. I was losing all semblance of time, juggling five time zones together. The seasons ran into one another, like watercolours mixing on a messy palette - running amock on the bleached easel of my mind. 

I could barely hear the phone ring anymore. 

Buds bloomed into flowers, weighing down treetops like soft pastel willows - swaying as my train rattled past them - disgruntled petals suspended into the air, following me in a ghostly gait. I could barely hear myself, anymore. 

I spent three birthdays in the city - each with a different degree of despair. I didn’t want to turn twenty-three with my heels still bleeding and frayed from the last year. I am a traditionalist by heart, but something told me that if I didn’t give up now - I wouldn’t have a heart much longer - just a beating tin box.

I laid down all my clothes inside my suitcase and headed north - the air was dustier and the language was sterner. I drove past twenty railway stations - spelling their names out - wondering if the people looked any different than they did, at the previous one. The sun dipped behind a montage of skyscrapers - each taller than the other. From deep violet, the sky plunged into darkness and the cooler winds, finally broke free. 

My new house is mine alone. It’s cloaked in the backyard of a National Park, and when I had finally assuaged all my fears of big, straying cats - I began to call it home. I spend my time selling my words for wares; writing enough to both feed and flourish. I’ve grown indulgent - sometimes stopping by the dairy and finishing an entire slice of pista Kulfi, before packing another 250 grams to go. There’s wine in the fridge and no one to hide it from. On Sundays, I take it along into the shower - alternating between soap and spirit. 

Nowhere amidst the glistening lights do I see Bombay here. The roads are wider and living is less exorbitant. No taxis slow down to ask me where I’m going - only robust street vendors calling at me - to sell me a bruised trio of mangos. 

My hands strain from all the shopping bags, as I make my way home - stepping around cleverly covered manholes and darting children. I can see flattened disks of potatoes, fry in an angry vat of oil - slowly browning into their golden skins - it’s little tendrils of batter, daintily curling. The road leading up to my building is just a sliver uphill; unnoticeable without heavy bags cutting into my fingers - lined with gentle Ashoka trees on both sides. I push the gate open and duck just a little, to avoid a tar that hung loose - as if pulled down by wet clothes. 

I make my way up the mezzanine floor, my eyes fixed on the stairs. Someone calls out my name and I jump - it’s my nickname - used by no one outside my mother’s house. 

I look up, curious, and see her - standing with a handful of orchids; wild and purple - leaving their telltale mark. 

And suddenly, in all of just one second - I don’t know what it was I was looking for, all along - the flowers? or just a house to put them in - to finally make it a home.