Cāmanti

The wind tugged at the pleats over her knees as she shuffled on the dry earth floor. Readjusting her sari, she tucked the fabric under her legs and brushed the dust out of her lap. Her dark worn hands expertly clearing the specks of sand and dirt off the brightly coloured material of her skirt. Pulling taught the blanket in front of her, she fixed her display, ensuring every last piece of her wares was expertly on view to all passersby, as yet another bus trundled past, kicking the dust she’d just shooed away back into the air and into her eyes. She was used to this by now, she’d grown up in this dust. There was a reason she was perched on this particular corner. The traffic might be heavy and the dust might be a nightmare, but it was this traffic that provided her business with customers, so she endured the toils of the hot Tamil Nadu weather for the pedestrians. Gazing over the already filling streets, she settled herself before beginning her day's work. Picking up the needle and thread with her right hand and the glorious head of a marigold, camanti, in the other, she pushed the sharp silver through the head of the flower, pulling it down the thin white thread to join the rest of the marigolds on the string. She repeated the motion subconsciously, lifting her face into the crowd to attract customers with her smile as she threaded on. f;p

The Tamil Nadu sun beat down on her as she worked. As it had done nearly every day, and would continue to do until her last. There was something different about this heat than anywhere else she’d been. Rather than a sweltering storm of light a fire, the Tamil sun caressed her, gently easing her through the day, the light guiding her to and from the market each day, basking in the welcoming heat as she worked. She’d sat on this very same corner her entire life. Her mother before her, and even her mother’s mother before her had each sat here in this very spot, threading flowers into beautiful garlands for every occasion. Tradition was very important to her and her people and flowers played a huge part in that; everyone had flocked to her mother’s stall to prepare for their special day. She’d helped when she was just a child, knowing this stall would be her fate. Collecting the flowers to be threaded, carrying box upon box of the sweet smelling flowers from her village to the main street, ready to thread. Now, with every breath of jasmine, rose and marigold, she was transported back to her childhood, the calming voice of her mother guiding her through the bustling market; which flowers to choose, checking the stems and the petals for disease, smelling the head for the most fragrant before cherry-picking the best they could find, walking miles and miles, lost in conversation through to the high street ready to thread and sell. Once back to the main street, she would sit and watch as her mother made her way through the hundreds of blossoming flower heads they’d bought. It was truly an artform and the beauty her mother created was unparalleled.

She, herself, had been terrible at first, always piercing the head of the flower too far to one side, missing the centre; her garlands looking more like floral snakes than the flawlessly straight and beautiful decorations her mother used to make. She’d watch her, endlessly threading each flower to perfection, careful not to ruffle the petals too much so every garland could be as fragrant as the day the plant was picked. Her mother told her to use her instinct.

“Threading is in our blood, trust in your senses and you’ll make the most beautiful garlands. Just like I learned from your grandma, so you will learn from me.”

And learn she did. Today, though she was highly regarded as making the most beautiful garlands in the village, she knew her wares were no comparison to the beauty her mother created. Driven by the need to make her mother proud, she worked tirelessly, to create the most beautiful floral art she could and would cater for every occasion.

Weddings had always been her favourite; the garlands her mother had made for hers were the talk of the entire village. Nobody had ever seen such beauty in tradition, and she’d felt so beautiful as the flowers passed over her hair, caressing her ears as they passed over onto her neck during the ceremony, seeing the joy on her betrothed’s face as he too was taken by the fragrant petals passing over his shoulders. She tried, with every flower, to make every bride feel the same way as she had on her wedding day. She dreamed one day of making the garlands for her own child’s wedding and put all her love into each, the way her mother had. Word had spread of her garlands a year after she lost her mother; the vibrant colours and the freshness of the flowers that many travelled across the state for them. From the hectic metropolitan cities, many came out into the Tamil country, to her village, just for her flowers. She poured her love into each of her creations as if they were for her own children and she was proud of every one she made.

Waking herself from her reminiscence, she tied off the garland in her hand, laying the glowing yellow petals of the threaded marigolds down onto the blanket in front of her, as if she was laying her son down into his cot. Returning to her perch at the top of the blanket, she resumed her threading, interspersing some bold-headed white jasmine into the vibrant yellow of the marigolds this time. She’d already filled her display before the first customers of the morning approached her. The first gentleman, an older man with sadness in his eyes, picked the purest white jasmine thread in front of her and held it close to his face. Sensing the occasion, she dropped her price before he could tell her it was for the funeral of his wife. As with the flowers themselves, she had a sixth sense for telling who and what her flowers were being bought for. She’d never been wrong and today was no exception. Gratefully, the man handed over his rupees and went on his way, his liver-spotted hand lingering in her coarse palm for a second as a gesture of thanks. She watched him shuffle away in the dust, a weight lifted from his shoulders as another difficult task of a very long day had been completed.

She sold throughout the day; funerals, weddings, birthdays, promotions, engagements, births. She saw it all, every day. She waited on that corner until the glorious Tamil sun had finally dipped behind the low rise buildings in front of her before she stood, dusted herself off and began to fold her display blanket up, one solitary garland remaining on the worn material. As she did so, a young woman approached her, well-dressed and clearly in a rush. She dashed in front of the heavy traffic over to her as she continued to pack up her wares for the day. The girl stepped ahead of her, begging to buy the final garland and reached down to pick it from the floor when she reached out to stop her.

“Sorry, not for sale”

“What do you mean, not for sale?”

“I’m sorry my dear, that’s my last one, I never sell the last”

Unsteady on her feet from sitting all day, she crouched and carefully continued to fold the blanket, sadly nodding towards the young woman as if this was common knowledge to all her patrons. Dumbfounded, the girl offered to pay double, triple the asking price, but to no avail. She could have made more than her entire day’s sales in one go, but still refused. Seeing no way past the rejection, she replied curtly and rudely to her elder, stomping away and cursing her and her superstitious ways to any other passerby. Disappearing into the traffic and the dust, the girl took her negativity with her and she returned to packing up her wares, content with herself and her decision. With the blanket fully rolled and tucked under her left arm, she placed the last garland, a vibrant yellow marigold and jasmine threaded beauty, into the empty flower basket and began the long walk home.

She shuffled away from the hectic main street as the sun continued the set, the sun, now illuminating the sky a brilliant red leading the way. As buildings gave way to trees, the air began to clear and she was able to ignore the niggling pain in her joints as she gazed at the beautiful countryside before her. She walked for miles, passing small huts on the roadside, the familiar smells of home cooking and drying manure filled her nostrils as she walked. In the distance she finally spotted her home and picked up her step, her bare feet prancing off the packed dry earth as the sun finally gave in and disappeared for another night. The star-filled sky lit the rest of her journey as she stepped through the creaky wooden door and closed the rest of the world off behind her. Now, in their old age, she and her husband shuffled through life, she with her flowers and he with his farming. They were content and happy together, leading a simple charmed life. She smiled and gave him a kiss while he helped her with the blanket as she came through the door. He already had the water boiling for some tea and had prepared the rice like she taught him. It took her longer to walk each day. Now, he was often the first to return home and began on a few chores before she arrived.

“What did you bring for him today, my love?”

“I saved the most beautiful marigolds today, he always loved yellow.”

“So he did, my dear, so he did.”

Her husband stepped forward and removed the fluorescent yellow garland from the basket, their sun-coloured petals turning orange in the dim light of the gas lamp. Walking through to the centre of their one-room home, he approached a wooden frame mounted on top of a small shelving unit and removed a beautiful white jasmine garland from the outside, its petals beginning to curl from a day exposed to the heat, replacing it with the fresh yellow. Taking a step back, he joined his wife in prayer as they both looked at the young man in the photo, the spitting image of them both. He was dressed smartly, a crisp white shirt and a beaming smile staring back at them as she wiped a tear from her eye. She kissed her hand and placed it over the photograph before joining her husband on the ground to prepare dinner. She could never shake the sadness that enveloped them both, but bringing in the light of the flowers at the end of the day always helped her mourn her son’s perfect wedding that would never come.