THE BOUQUET
Living room. The one where no one really lived. It was a
passage to the verandah, a room that demanded regular footfall at night to
check if the front door was locked. The windows were opened at the crack of
dawn, curtains were drawn, the block-printed cushions were aligned diagonally
on the sofa which was a perfect contrast to the teal walls. All these felt
alive with the basket of flowers on the teapoy. Not plastic, not professionally
arranged. They were fresh with an expiry date. They were brought from his
office every two days, the day before there was a replacement. Those which
weren’t worthy of the dustbin, those which could enjoy a few more days of life,
of praise in the name of the prettiest pink and the yellow that brought
sunshine even on the gloomiest days. It wasn’t a regular thing. She liked how
the pastel shades of the gerberas and the contrast of the carnations lifted the
heaviness of the silence that lurked. She would pick a few at the extravagant
weddings they went together, arranged at the aisle, or even at the reception which
followed, where everyone eyed at a seat crushing them if it fell during the
hustle. She wrapped the ones on her table in the tissue they gave, picked a few
more undamaged ones on the trail while heading back from the empty tables. The pallu
of her sari would be held around her waist with its tasseled end holding a
small bouquet now wrapped in silk, slightly smaller than the one the bride
carried. She wasn’t ashamed of pick and hoard, he liked that about her. He knew
how she would make their cramped apartment look plush with those even if it was
for a few days. Over the years they grew from their crammed flat to the one
that hosted a living room, he grew from an office without cabin walls to a
cabin with walls and fresh flowers on the table. He picked the flowers first
when he slammed the door and rushed to work one day after a row. He was at
fault so she didn’t speak as he handed over the flowers and talked about the
flowers on his table and how they are regularly replaced. Over dinner, she said
about how fresh the flowers were and maybe he could give them a new home before
they were replaced. He did that without fail. Some days they were equally
amused at the purples and peaches of the same flowers and discussed how they
travelled cities to reach their small town and took pride in the costly bouquet
their living room hosted without them having to spend a penny. Her slightly
wrinkled face blushed when the living room hosted guests because there would be
an obvious question about whether the flowers were fresh, and how they sourced
them. When she passed away quietly in her sleep one day, he wailed
uncontrollably. Years ahead however long or short it was for him, seemed empty
and clueless. But, he did not doubt the funeral wreath she would have wanted.
He assembled one with the flowers from his office, all her favourites, placed
one in the coffin. The last thing that would go in her grave were the flowers
he got for her just like every other day.
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