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.