A yearning for faith

Isn’t it a wonder of democracy that for a full month the famished paupers of Kalahandi, the suicide-prone farmers of Andhra and Karnataka and the countless destitutes of 24-Parganas can have a glimpse of luxurious living — provided the last cold wave has not ended their shelterless existence already? But the issue of whether any such citizens had achieved the miracle of getting to the Mughal Garden was not what drew me thither. I wanted to hear the silent language of flowers. In the Circular Garden, the outer wall is totally covered by dahlias, some as large as cauliflowers. A plant named Taj Mahal standsalmost forlorn. Another, called Eiffel Tower, does not impress by its height. Roses are variously designated: Black Lady (though it has no blooms to judge if it answers my search for a black rose), Cock-tail, Bonne Nuit, Super Star, Summer Snow. Command Performance can’t have known whose command it was supposed to perform. There are flowers with an august presence, others with eye-catching hues, still others — tiny things, models of exquisite delineation — show a refined mix of colours. Fragrance varies from the mildly titillating to the maddening. A class apart are the plants which win one’s heart without flowers, their art embedded in their leaves.

What meaning can a dry person like me draw from this pageantry? The chill winds have called it a day and given place to the warm embrace of a loving sun. The marigolds that I had started accusing of recalcitrance are blooming in such abundance that one wonders how they had contained their bounty all these days. The roses and dahlias bring to mind the bouncein the steps of Bhangra dancers. It is spring, they say, which brings out the poetry of the Almighty — which neither dies nor goes stale (Pashya devasya kavyam, na mamar ma jiryati). I watch with amazement His loveliest creation: exquisite, inimitable and stand speechless. One has to be an artist to read its message. Makhan Lal Chaturvedi saw in flowers the aspiration to be scattered on the path trod by the brave marching to lay down their lives for the motherland (Matribhoomi par sheesh chadhane jis path jayen veer anek). Tagore likened the blossoming of a flower to the ring dropped by Hanuman from his perch on the Ashoka tree into the lap of Sita, a reassurance, in the depths of despair, that the Lord was only a call away. The flower is an assertion of man’s eternal yearning for faith in the ultimate.