During the heavy rains in May this year, the bridge near our home collapsed, and the municipal authorities planned to reconstruct it. This bridge was built over a wastewater outlet as well. After bulldozing the old bridge, they left the site unattended for several days. Our neighbourhood is called Rajyog Colony, but the roads are not paved well. With the bridge blocked, we had to take longer routes to reach our workplaces. The new park, located just 600 meters from our home, became inaccessible. As a result, we started walking through nearby colonies and alleys that led us to more distant areas. During one such walk in a neighbourhood with only bungalows, I came across Parijata plants lined along the pavement. It was late evening, and the flowers had begun to bloom. The white flowers with orange stalks were beautifully soft and fragrant…
I picked up a tiny flower and saw my mother’s face in it. I showed the flower to my son and said, “My mother was a Parijata flower.” My husband chimed in, saying, “My mother was one too.” I looked at him and nodded defiantly, saying, “I can’t say that, but my mom was one.”
I then turned to my son and added with a smile, “You can’t say that about me, as I am not a Parijata flower.” This intrigued them even more. I continued, “You could say my mother was a dandelion or anything else, but never a Parijata, as I say…”
These thoughts took me back to my childhood and the Parijata plant that stood at the far end of the house where I lived. The Parijata symbolises love and spirituality with its beauty and fragrance. It blooms late in the evening and drops its flowers by morning, like snowflakes. According to tradition, Lord Krishna brought these flowers for Rukmini. Every morning, the Parijata plant in our courtyard would shed its beautiful flowers on the ground, creating a stunning carpet. We loved seeing it and would shake the plant even more until my mother would admonish us, saying, “Leave some on the plant for tomorrow.”
My mother was from Adoor, and her house spanned a few acres, surrounded by a rubber plantation and teakwood trees. Perhaps it was this love of plants that inspired her to cultivate them in the best ways possible. Each plant was treated with care. Whenever we tried to pluck the roses, she would say, “The flowers wilt in a day when you pluck them, but they remain fresh for a week if you leave them on the plants.”
My mother was hardworking and did her best for us in every way she could. Although her health was often poor, I looked forward to seeing her standing by the compound gate of our house whenever I came home. At first, she would water the plants at four o’clock and be there to greet us. She would also prepare some hot snacks for us while making tea. On rainy days, I noticed that many parents came to pick up their children. I would often return home and ask my mother, somewhat angrily, why she didn’t come to get us on such days. She would listen to me with amusement but never responded angrily.
It took me a few years to truly understand her declining health. Eventually, I stopped asking her to come to the bus stop when it rained. One day, when I was in the eighth grade, I saw her standing near the bus stop with the pallav of her saree wrapped around her head. She held two umbrellas — one open and one closed. My sister took one umbrella, and I walked proudly with my mother, but I could hear her breathing heavily, which pained us all. Shortly after, when she experienced a bronchial attack, we yelled at her, asking why she had to come to the bus stop.
When she was very sick, my mother would ask us to help her cook. She would lie down and give us instructions. During those times, when my older sisters were at home, I didn’t get many opportunities to assist my mother. However, sometimes I would be the only one available to help. I was inexperienced and kept asking her questions like how much salt to add, how big to dice the vegetables, and how much water to add to the washed rice in the cooker. I did not give her a moment of rest. On one occasion, I attempted to make chapati, but it turned out hard. My mother ate one with a smile and said, “I wish you would learn the art of cooking when I am in better health.”I had no desire to learn anything then. Today, however, I appreciate cooking and understand the creativity it involves. The experiences I had cooking with her have greatly influenced me later on.
She was a good learner who mastered the art of making delicious pickles, and she made a variety of them. One of her favourites was the Telugu chutney, a quick pickle-like accompaniment. She often encouraged my elder sister to make many of these, as my sister was the best cook. She would watch her with admiration, perhaps wondering how I would manage, since she did not know about YouTube or other resources that would soon become available.
She would take us along when we had to go grocery shopping or visit the ration shop to collect our supplies. The government provided unique ways to promote sustainable living and equity. Polished sugar would be given at a reasonable price during festivals, and she would take my sister and me to collect it. We would help her carry the load, as the distance was long, and we often suggested that we take a rickshaw. She would smile, but times were tough with only one breadwinner in the family. She would also bring us to the magazine and book lending store to renew our books or magazines. We were voracious readers and would usually finish them within a day or two. Concerned about our health and fitness, she would send us running around the colony early in the mornings. She always made sure we had seasonal fruits and vegetables, along with special jeera milk for good sleep.
As we grew older, she began falling ill more frequently. Her loneliness became palpable as we grew into teenagers, spending a lot of time with friends or at school. When I was in third grade, she taught me to play chess. Back then, I would pester her to play with me. But as the years passed, she would shyly ask, “Shall we play a game of chess?” Every Saturday and Sunday, Doordarshan aired movie time at 7 PM, and we would rush to our friends’ houses to watch together. One day, she said, “I want to watch a movie too. Shall we go to my friend’s house?” I noticed her face; her eyes were growing paler, and her skin appeared yellower, but as a child, I didn’t fully understand. I went with her to her friend’s house, but such outings were rare since she didn’t like going out often. Our friends frequently visited us, sitting on the steps leading to the indoors or in the garden. My mother exuded warmth and grace, touching the lives of everyone around her. We had a great time during those days.
One day, she fell ill. She had been perfectly fine in the evening and even chatted with us like the blooming Parijata flower. However, she left us early the next morning, just as the Parijata flower falls. Though her life was short, she taught us many valuable lessons, and to this day, I see my mother’s reflection in the Parijata flower.
“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you… I could walk through my garden forever.”– Alfred Lord Tennyson
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