Bloom

"What should we gift them?" I ask my wife, not fully realizing that it's too late to think about a gift now. She is getting ready, and I am lying on the bed watching an IPL match. I generally start getting ready when she is done and is looking for our car keys while shouting at me that I am the one getting us late. Married life is fun. It generally takes me half a second to get ready. I am exaggerating, of course. It doesn't even take that much time. Many years ago, on one rainy Tuesday night, I had decided to stop putting effort into how I look. This face can't be cured, so why bother? Unless mentioned otherwise, I would like to enjoy every big occasion in life wearing my shorts. "I was thinking of taking flowers and maybe we can pick up Tres Leches from Magnolia on the way," my wife replies while applying mascara very carefully. We are going to someone's housewarming party. This is the third housewarming party of the week. How many more houses do I need to warm, I wonder? "Flowers are useless, people throw them anyway," I tell her. She gives me a look, sighs, and then goes back to applying mascara. We indeed are taking flowers. What a waste of money, I mutter under my breath. "I will pay," she mutters loudly. The word "mutter" has lost all its meaning.

It’s a little past 10 pm. We are in the typical Delhi rickshaw. I am sitting on that extended back seat. “What if the shop is closed?” my mom asks from the front seat. "No, it will be open," I say, hoping that it will be. We are going to buy a wooden pot kind of thing wherein you put the flowers. It’s not a vase. I don’t know what it’s called, but if I see one, I can spot it immediately. I need it for my arts and crafts class the next day. The teacher is strict, and if I fail to bring it, he might kill me. Or worse, make me stand in the sun. I am twelve.

My eyes scan the whole area in search of florists. There are none in sight. Whatever happened to romantic gestures and young couples? As I am thinking this, my dad spots a florist. We buy the wooden thing and take the same rickshaw back home. I keep that piece of wood in my school bag and go to sleep with a big smile on my face. The next day, the teacher was absent. For years to come, this would be my only encounter with flowers or things related to flowers.

I am at Connaught Place. It’s hot. My shirt is drenched in sweat. There are some clouds, but they seem to be just for the scenery, I feel. "Why can’t it rain always," I think, unaware that my later years will be spent in Mumbai, wishing for the opposite. She is late, so I roam around. If you have wandered aimlessly in Connaught Place, only then are you counted as a true Delhiite. Or jobless, depending on your age. Outside a Puma store, I spot an old bookseller. I flip through a few books before buying the one I wanted.

I am outside the F block metro gate, she calls and says. I start walking towards the gate. On my way, I spot a florist. I stop and buy a rose. It’s her birthday, and I have decided to be a little romantic today. My bar is set so low that she gets happy when she sees me with a flower. I should do better. I crack a bad joke, and off we go for our lunch date. I see her keeping the flower in her bag. "It’s nice, thank you." "You're welcome." I wait for the right time to gift her the book. It’s a joke-gift. The book is "The Myth of Sisyphus". Nobody gifts "The Myth of Sisyphus" to people on their birthdays. I should do better. We end up getting married. She could have done better.

A certain death has taken place. I am way too young to be experiencing this. But life doesn’t care. After a few weeks, I start going to the society park for a walk. If I keep walking, the feelings will pass away. I am too naive. Some plants in the park are uprooted because of a cyclone. I clear a bench and sit down. The flowers which bloomed yesterday rather joyously are no more. New flowers will replace them. Life goes on. For now, there are no flowers in sight.

na gul khile hai, na unse mile, na mai pi hai

ajeeb rang mein ab ke bahaar guzri hai.

The uncle I used to see every day hasn’t come for two weeks. I think of the worst. Or maybe he has changed his timings, I console myself. No point in thinking about strangers. Just walk.  I wander aimlessly as if this is Connaught Place. A guard comes and tells me it’s time to shut the park.

“Ye park kyun band karte ho?”

“Log phool chura lete hai raat ko.”

“Par aaj toh phool hai hi nahin”.

 “Kabhi toh honge”.

I go back home.

“Now I have to take a full U-turn just because of these flowers”, I tell my wife. “And why are they charging 500 rupees for ten roses?” I keep ranting like an unleashed Larry David. The Bengaluru traffic brings out my worst. My wife is least bothered and is busy searching for a song to make me shut up. The bouquet is sitting quietly on the back seat of our car. As if it’s in that same Delhi rickshaw, listening to its parents argue.