Between the Two Crosses

The village of Digha lies between two Christian Crosses – the remnants of a Portuguese missionary culture. At that time, an unpaved road joined the two Crosses. The houses, spread out between and around these two Crosses, had little gardens that boasted of flowers all year round.

The Fonseca’s house had the best garden with its bougainvillea vines climbing one of the tallest trees in the village and blood-red ixora blooms competing with canna lilies and shoeflowers for attention. They had sourced some of these plants from different gardens in the town. Bees, butterflies, needle-shaped damselflies, and dragonflies seemed to socialise there.

People in the village had easy lifestyles then. There were no phones or television sets. Entertainment was found in local gossip, people-watching, and practical jokes. Home-brewed liquor or daru was made in many houses and brawls were not infrequent. Community and family prayers were given more importance than studies. Children were considered as a common wealth and all elders took it upon themselves to discipline them.

While the elders in the village had their afternoon siesta, the children played in the expansive Digha Talao – the biggest lake in the village, if it was dry. If it wasn’t, they played in the many grassy fields around the village. Some boys learnt swimming in the large wells using rubber tyres as lifebuoys. Girls sometimes sat with their sisters and friends on wooden swings and chatted or played board games.

And I?

When I wasn’t with the girls or boys, I went from garden to garden plucking flowers.

No, it wasn’t a good idea at all and I had been warned. It was a temptation too hard to resist. I am sometimes lured by this evil friend who lives in my head and takes over my reason completely.

One day, I got so carried away that I plucked all the red ixora blooms in the Fonseca’s garden. Along with the tuberoses and the lilies.

It was one of those days when villagers came to pray near the little wooden Cross in the Fonseca’s garden.

In the evening, the Fonseca’s son sprayed the garden with water so that dust wouldn’t rise when the villagers gathered there. His pretty sisters came out to decorate the Cross with flowers. It was then that they noticed that all the flowers had gone. They had suspected theft before but it was never so obvious.

The flowers were found in our house wilting away under my bed. I had hoped that their fragrance would fill up our room as we slept. We lived in a joint family then. It was a big shame for my family.

All the villagers who had gathered for prayer stood around and told me to beg for forgiveness.

I had to publicly declare that I would never ever steal flowers from anybody’s garden.

I was ashamed and could not meet my parent’s eyes. Or anybody else’s.

The villagers were all my guardians.
Today this thought makes me feel rich.

I still live with my weakness for flowers although I have succeeded in resisting the persuasions of my evil friend.

Now I visit gardens and steal flowers by capturing them on my camera.

It is not the same thing, however.