As I sit in a cab, stuck in traffic in a city I’ve come to loath, watching the rain pouring down ruthlessly from the angry grey skies, I notice the trees by the footpath drooping low yet the beautiful blossoms glistening gracefully. My mind wanders off to a distant memory of a summer afternoon sitting in the Mumbai local, where the only respite from the claustrophobic air was the window seat which would bring a rare joy to anyone who has ever sat in these live beasts. There was this one halt of about 5 seconds on the route I traveled where if one were in the right carriage, you’d spot a graveyard the one which overflowed with flora and fauna as if the people laying their long forgotten, it had the most hauntingly beautiful aura. Usually one would never be on the lookout for a graveyard but there was something so calming about an eerily quiet graveyard when compared to the mass of people breathing down your neck every second.
However, another thing that struck me each time was this one tree with the most beautiful pink blossoms which looked so delicate and innocent that no mortal would dare to touch them lest you hurt them. I always wondered why such heartbreaking beauty would exist in such a solemn place, why did these graveyard flowers exist and moreover for whom did they bloom each day, unfurling their delicate petals and smiling through the heat and rains of Mumbai. Moreover, doesn’t the gloom of the graveyard slowly seep into their soul making them wither? While they provide solace to the solemn visitors giving them peace that their loved ones lie safely, soaking in the pain and memories of these visitors, don’t the graveyard flowers feel like fixtures of relief for strangers?
As a 19-year-old who was yet to feel grief and pain, these flowers were a source of respite on burning hot summer evenings in the city of love, but now as I sit stuck in the never-ending traffic of Bengaluru with unannounced downpours on a spring evening those flowers seem like the only ones who’d understand silent screams and sleepless nights I’d spent. The only ones who know what it is like to be a temporary companion in someone’s pain and silently take it all in, making it your own and forgotten once the ordeal is over. As the darkness resurfaced threatening to pour through my eyes, all I could for was to be 19 again watching the graveyard flowers at 6:30 PM with a rare breeze running through my hair. The air suddenly seemed thinner as I sat silently gasping through the cold that took over my blood fighting the urge to reach for the lighter in my bag and light up one smoke.
The cab driver took me out of my misery notifying me that we’d arrived at our destination, as I struggled out of the cab and entered yet another run-of-the-mill brewery in Bengaluru, I looked with horror at the time, it was 6:45 PM way too late for the actual rendezvous time. As I spotted the table I was supposed to be seated on 45 minutes ago, I saw them, dressed in all black with the most beautiful smile patiently sitting and nursing a sangria, looking as stunning as those flowers. The darkness melted away from my veins, as I felt hope replacing it dressed in black smiling at me the same smile those graveyard flowers gave me. As I sipped on Jamesons through the evening I finally understood for whom those graveyard flowers blossomed, they did for those smiles for those brief moments of respite in the hope that someday a visitor would stay and just look at them for a second longer and then they wither away in peace.
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