The Florist Part IV

“Abhigyan, I am leaving. I have other works to finish by evening” said the mother. She asked Drishti also to come with her and she consented. With these words mother departed with the florist and promised me to meet again in evening. The old man was still standing there. In a meek trembling voice he said “Babuji, can you help me? Can you please ask somebody to help riding my cart till my shop?”
“Of course!” . I caught hold of one the servants who was busy is arranging the chairs and asked him to help the poor. The old man felt obliged and expressed his gratitude.

5.00 pm, Mussorie Gardens

Things were now in place. The stage was all set for the Sameer’s wedding. It was just 5.00 in the evening and the sun was heading towards deep west. Behind those mountains was the place where it had to take rest and wait till dawn. The streak of sunlight in the dusky and azure sky was pleasing. The mist was all set to kiss the grass of mussorie gardens and in those glittering lights it was aureating. I was looking for a cup of coffee so I headed towards the roadside shops. I was able to spot out one in the corner, near a fig tree. I grabbed one chair and ordered a glass of coffee , yes a glass of coffee since Indian roadside cafes cannot afford to have ceramic mugs. And yes these glasses measure the same as the ceramic coffee mugs.
Sameer met Shristi, the bride tonight, in Mumbai during the fashion week. Shristi was neither a model nor she was photographer. She was an assistant editor in one of Mumbai’s dailies. I could still recollect the day when sameer called me up and said that he had some altercations with one girl in the fashion week. It so happened that sameer photographed her out of his impulse even though he didn’t knew her. She expressed her resentment. They had some altercations when he refused to erase the photograph. And the next day sameer patched up by asking her to meet for coffee for the photograph. And since then they never fought again. Lucky sameer was and so was Shristi.
By the time I finished my coffee it was 5.30 in the evening. Sameer’s “barat” was to start from a nearby temple at around 8.00 and was supposed to reach Mussorie gardens. It was already 5.30 and I had to get ready and reach the temple. I immediately took a taxi and asked to drop me to hotel.

Clarks Residency, Room No 732, 6.15pm

Finally I was back to my den. There was no time to relax even a single muscle. Hastily I took my shaving kit and went to the washroom. I had shaved my beard some four days back, but yet the harvest was less. Though beard gives a true manly look to anyone but I always appreciated the boyish appearance on my face. I took my time to shave them off. I decided to have bath as I love to bath with hot water during winters. When hot water rolled down my mildly tanned skin, stiffing each muscle beneath the skin, I felt the sensation of a smooth soft touch of the petals. I was enjoying the bath but since I could not afford to continue further I aborted. The vapors made the big mirror translucent so I could not have a bare-bodied masculine view of mine. I grabbed the towel, wrapped it along my waist and came out.
It was already 6.45 pm and I was getting late. I hastily dried myself and looked for some comfortable party wear. I had a suit, one of my favorites, but I skipped wearing that. Of course I cannot wear the formal since it was my best pal’s marriage. So I opted for something casual. Oh yes I was carrying an Indian party wear, a black colored Jodhpuri styled wedding attire. It was splendid and embroidered attire which I grabbed from cupboard for my style tonight. Yup, a handsome debonair, I was looking. I had a pair of Jodhpuri style shoes, perfectly resembled to one of those wore by the royal clan. I laced up. I picked up a small bottle of “Royal Yacht” from my kit and just sprinkled some. With that I was done with the party gear. The last thing which I could forget to accouter was my camera. So I took out a pouch reading “Samsung’.
My watch showed 7.15 pm and warned me. I locked my room and left for the venue.

The Temple, Near Mussorie Gardens, 8.12 pm

Well I was late according to my punctuality, but not according to Indian “Barats”. During my one month stay in Delhi I was a daily commuter in Delhi metro. I have seen those electronic panels camouflaging, at time they read “ Yamuna Bank :04 “ and the next minute the text displayed read “Yamuna Bank :05”. The other day in one of columns I read a snippet “Delhi’s Metro 99% punctual”. They should be, after all they were practicing the theory of relativity at their best.
Everybody gathered outside the temple, Sameer’s family and relatives. I was greeted by his father, the newly married couple, his sister Shikha and Sagar, and his brother Jatin. I was looking for Sameer and I spotted him near the gate of the temple. He was flocked by gray-haired women probably his aunts and grand-mother. It seemed some ritual ceremony was on the go and I avoided disturbing.
Truly speaking I was looking for her. My eyes were growing impatient. I scanned each and every face but was unable to catch sight of the most spotless one, the one of my sweet-heart. She was not there. Her absence raised suspicion in my slaved mind. What happened to her? Why she was not here? Had she left? Come on, she couldn’t do that. I was befuddled. Anxiously looked out for some help. At once I thought of approaching Sameer’s mom but it was not a good idea. I tried to contain my thoughts and my feelings but all in vain.
Seeing my perplexed face Shikha approached me and asked “Are you looking for her?”. I shook my head and said “No”. In my futile attempt to hide my anxiety she got a hint. She was just kidding and she never knew that her unintentionally targeted question had a such an obvious answer.
She said “Dada is calling you. Can you just come?”
“Ya lets go”. I followed her in the haze maze of near and dears. Gorgeous and Manlier, he was looking, in a creamish colored sherwani, a typical wedding attire of Indian grooms, with a radiating smile on his face.
“Hey Abhi where were you idiot? You hadn’t called since morning” uttered Sameer.
“I was in Mussorie Gardens. Was bit busy with work”, I said.
He just muttered under his breath “Dude. Have some beer.”
“Catch Manish. He has made the arrangement”.
Manish was one of our common friends. French bearded, voluptuous and cool-headed. He had a dream of getting an offer from Kingfisher as the sales manager, “No dream too big” and exactly there he was working for, the Jaypee group, as an area manager.
“Nooooo Dude” I resented.
“I could not afford to have it today.” I said.
“Come On don’t be a kid. I wish I could have one today”, said sameer.
“Baby Logon!”. A sound came from behind. This was Manish.
Fundamentally it was not “Log-on” of English but “Logon” of Hindi meaning people.
I wished recommending this Hinglish patio to be the part of Oxford’s latest lexicon.
“Hey. You are here. Delighted to see you. We will rock tonight”, said Manish.

The Florist Part III

I had no words to explain my misery. I was questioning her eyes for their dereliction and she was calmly sitting on the wooden chair, the beautiful florist in immaculate white. I heard somebody approaching. The sound of the footsteps adverted us. She was my friend’s mother. I was meeting her after a long time. I still remember that I last met her some five years back when I came to Mussorie with my friend, Sameer, the groom tonight, during the winter vacations. Me and Sameer were best pals since our college days and graduated in same profession, though our subject interest differs. Sameer had a specialization in fashion photography and I graduated with expertise in Fine art photography. Since we graduated we met many times though the geographical distances between us were more than thousand kilometers, as Sameer was in Mumbai and I was stay put at Bangalore since then.
His Mother still looks the same, ageless and beautiful. Time failed to put wrinkles on her face. I bent down to touch her feet to take her blessings. She felt very happy to see me there as I was absent in her daughter’s marriage last December for which she complains every time I meet her. She asked me when I came here and where I was staying? And the moment I said yesterday and I am staying in hotel, she blasted off on me. It was my mistake. Either I shouldn’t have told her or I should have stayed at Sameer’s house. I apologized to her but she was not ready to listen me. Suddenly her eyes rested on the florist. She was delighted to see her there. The expressions on her face revealed that she knew her. I can very well read the expressions since they really matter in my style of photography. But I still regret that I failed pathetically yesterday night to read her’s.
And yes, I was right. She knew her. She passed a compassionate smile to the florist and said “Oh Drishti beta, I was waiting for you to be here. I am delighted that you are here.”
“Drishti”, what the hell?? Who gave her that name, I asked myself. “The silence whistles”, that’s was her name analogous to. But, truly speaking whatever would have been a reason of naming here “Drishti” but the appellation was not wrong though it was an oxymoron. Have you ever woken up at the time of sunrise when the sun changes its shades from deep brownish orange to brighter orange, and somewhere between all these shades lay the shade of her eyes. But those eyes were spurious. They had luster but not were not lustrous.
“Hey Abhigyan, meet her. She is Drishti, our gardener’s daughter and our daughter too. Her father is no more and she stays with her grandfather now”, Sameer’s mother said to me.
“Oh Ya. I met her. And she is beautiful” , I said. “Ya she is”, she acceded, “ But god has not given her the privilege to see and admire this beautiful world and herself” , she said with despair. “Anyways she is going to be with us tonight to enjoy the event”
She requested the old man and said “Baba, Please leave her here for tonight. We will take care of her and will drop her home by tomorrow morning”. The old man in his low pitched voice murmured, “ Maalkin, she is your daughter and I am just a caretaker, I am too old to take care of hers even. You can keep her here with you”.
Mom expressed her gratitude and said “Thanks Baba”. I could able to figure out the silent smile on her face, the florist was happy and so I was after hearing those conversations. So finally she is going to be here tonight. (to be continued…)