By Ganesh Saili
My school was set among a clutter of trees. Past the medlar tree in the backyard beyond the picket gate stood a sombre man. He peered down at us. I was ten years old, she was eight.
‘Are you the new volunteers? Let’s see if you can find me that yellow flower?’
Assured of a bounty of two annas, we needed no convincing.
We clambered up the hill looking for the first flower of spring with butter-yellow blossoms. Taking a shortcut, we headed to the phyunlis (as we call them in Garhwal), gathered a few, and returned, dashed up the steps, burst through the door – victors come home with the spoils. Nothing on either side was said. He drew out his wiry spectacles, and he kept his word by giving us the promised reward.
Pic Courtesy: Author’s Collection
We ran off, the two of us with the cloying, bitter-sweet fragrance of flowers on our hands. I guess puppy love is a tune without words, a plant without roots, and what haunts me is the scent of bruised petals.
In the hills, rain is the oldest friend of the flowers. It brings out the flowers and ferns. At the end of the monsoon, watch out for the cobra lily with its protruding tongue. Its snake-like imitation is so realistic that birds and beasts avoid it. Flashes of orange mean it’s almost autumn, and the wild ginger sprays blink at you. After this, marching along comes General Winter. He shall marshal his troops of sleet and snow to paint the landscape white.
The glory of Himalayan wild-flowers is the feinkamal.
An old tale survives of a miser who refused to part with anything, until the time his daughter falls ill. All of a sudden, the realisation dawns upon him that he would have been so much better off had he parted with his bounty to anyone who could save the girl’s life. He shuffles off in the dark, looking for the gems he had buried in a corner of his field. He stumbles, breaks his neck and is found dead.
Those gems lay buried for years afterwards, then one day they sprouted a cluster of flowers, flecked with the colour of the gems that bore them.
Why do we seek flowers? Is it for their freshness? Or is it because we know that flowers perish? Often, I too am like that miser. I plead guilty. Sometimes I hang on to things that are well past their prime. Out of my copy of Alice in Wonderland slips a pale ghost of a dried flower. It is flat as tissue and brittle to the touch. Gently, I put it back into the pages of the book.
Perhaps it was a birthday gift? Or was it given in passing?
I always knew I would never make a botanist. To this day, I can hardly lay claim to knowing the botanical names of blossoms. But I have never let my ignorance cast a shadow between us and the miracle of wildflowers.
What happened to our fair lady? You may wonder.
Well! We met many years later, almost as strangers, after what seemed like a lifetime. She had a child accompanying her, a little daughter with impish eyes. We slowly climbed the same hill again. The trees were covered with dust from the hotel coming up nearby, giving everything a dishevelled look. Would we find those golden emperors – the phyunli – once again? Maybe it was a bit early; some flowers were asleep, while others had just about begun to stir.
As we struggled up the hill, wading through the chaos of an untidy place, I realised my companion had turned into a botanist, though of the fanatical kind, who gathers specimens and conducts post-mortems on them, and perhaps had lost the eyes of childhood teeming with fairies, goblins and elves.
Suddenly, the genie of the forest relented. Were my transgressions forgiven? I spot a solitary golden flower. Before I could react, she swooped down like a hawk and pulled out the plant, flower and roots.
The air was thick with betrayal. I knew I had failed the forest goblins yet again.
Ganesh Saili, born and brought up in the hills, belongs to those select few whose words are illustrated by their pictures. Author of two dozen books, some translated into twenty languages, his work has garnered recognition worldwide.
