Sometimes, Joy Is Its Own Purpose

Anyone who knows me in a way that they should but seldom do know this to be a self-evident truth: I love flowers. The ones you can keep in a vase, not the kind you wear in your hair. That was more Mother’s style. Father’s devotion to her was measured not in the saris he bought her, not in the money he gave her to spend on herself, but in a strand of jasmine that he would bring home that she would first lovingly offer to the gods in her altar and then sport it in her serpentine braid. Her saris were basic, not the kind you’d find in showrooms, more practical. She did have her collection of silk saris that is a given in any south Indian woman’s wardrobe – your worth as seen by the other women in your world was measured solely on the number of pure zari Kanjeevarams in your almirah – but her daily wear saris were nondescript. Cotton saris were a rarity those days primarily because the upkeep was demanding, more so for the lady of the house, because in addition to managing home and kitchen and husband and children and visits to the parents to check on their well-being, cotton saris needed washing and rinsing and starching and line-drying and ironing just to render them wearable for one day, so nylon and georgette usually won, purely from a functional perspective.

Besides, the colors in cotton fabric tended to fade quickly even in the winter sun, and they would become dishrags after a few uses, or nappies and diapers for the next generation to arrive – true story. Not so with georgette and nylon. Colors didn’t bleed, and they were not as demanding of the sun as cotton was. Come rain, come shine, they would drip, they would blow in the breeze, and they would dry, so they could make their way back into the almirah with a few cloves tied in muslin cloth in between the saris to keep mold and pests away. All this to say that the routine was unerringly commonplace, expenditure was frugal, staying firmly on the side of necessity, and clothes were functional. If there was an indulgence my mother demanded, albeit very quietly, as a conversation between only her and Father, it was a strand of jasmine to wear in her hair as frequently as Father could afford to bring it to her. But even this was a luxury, something Father could afford only once a week, because after paying the bills and putting food on the table and saving for his daughters’ tuition – he was adamant that all of us should graduate college and learn skills so that we could fend for ourselves should the fates be unkind, and he had seen that happen so many times that he had come to accept that that was the norm – there was just enough left for petrol for his Bajaj scooter and one strand of jasmine for Mother’s hair every Friday.

This also tracked with his legs-and-mattress principle: if we could afford it and it brought us joy, we could indulge in it once in a while. The fact that it brought us joy was never the primary consideration. Sure, it brings you joy, but what purpose does it serve was a question each of us had to answer at some point – several points – in our lives, particularly during dinner conversations with Father. Middle class existence is beautiful that way. It keeps you grounded, teaches you the value of what you have to call your own, but still allows you to look up to see the stars, possibilities, gulmohur blooms in the spring. He seldom bought clothes for himself. Mother, saving paisa by paisa, would give him some money once every few months from her savings to please go get himself a new pair of pants and a shirt tailored, because the collar of his shirt was so frayed that it bought tears to her eyes.

Somewhere along the way that was this routine to my mother becoming an amputee, something shifted. In our routine and our relationships with one another, adolescence frequently came to blows with adulthood. Some of us developed saccharine demeanors, others lachrymose personalities that came out to play when no one else was around, truth be told. No, not naming names. Mother resigned herself to her bed and her bed pan, her gaze turned glassy, Father would work longer hours, dinner table conversations were replaced by silent resentment, time passed, we all drifted apart, and I came to love stargazer lilies with a vengeance. They are big, they are clumsy, they tease with a hint of fragrance days before unfurling, they take their sweet time to unfurl, and legend has it they have in them poison that can kill man.

Father and Mother seldom talked to one another once she retreated into herself. How do you talk to someone who only communed with her god on Fridays, refusing to meet your eye when you came home from work? She hated her artificial leg. She hated having to deal with the stump below her knee, ungainly and craggy like a mountain that the Earth sprouted but didn’t care to chisel, and she loathed the ordeal of having to wear it in order to make the short schlep from her bed to the living room. This involved tying a crepe bandage around the stump so the wooden leg wouldn’t chafe where her skin was still tender, and it was quite tedious because that bandage needed frequent washing, but come Friday, she would wear the leg in the morning, go bathe and wash her hair, and be ready for Father’s return from work in the evening, powdered and put together. All that held them together were the four girls who still needed to learn who and how and what to be in the world, and the strand of jasmine that exchanged hands sans words every Friday.

Mother’s hair withered right down to a grey worm tail that knew neither luster nor shampoo on all the other days of the week, but come Friday evening, hair shampooed and braided, she would again wear the leg that was not hers, and with the support of the wall, make her way to the altar that you entered through a hole in the wall in the kitchen. Lamps would be lit, gods would be prayed to – they were numerous – and soon, the dulcet tones of her voice when she sang for and to and of the lord would permeate through the thick walls that rarely allowed sound to penetrate through during the day. That was the only time we would hear her voice, and I would wait for it like I have not waited for anything else in my life, ever. Before and since. And then she would emerge from the corner room, luminous, eyes clear, with a smile on her lips, the strand of jasmine adorning her thin hair.

They barely spoke to each other from then on until she died, and if Mother’s silence was thick, Father’s was earth-shattering. But the strand of jasmine on Fridays spoke to us more than words ever could. I think about them a lot these days, and flowers bring me joy – long stalks of lilies and alstroemeria and orchids and gerbera daisies and carnations and gladioli and birds of paradise and chrysanthemums – and they serve no other purpose than the joy they bring. They adorn my living room, I have mostly cotton saris in my wardrobe, my left leg aches sometimes like my mother’s bothered her, and the little periwinkle plant in the balcony gives me one flower every day for Mother’s altar.

Sometimes, joy is its own purpose.