Inner Courtyards: 2. Meenakshi

Meenakshi has occupied the left side of the temple entrance for slightly more than a decade. She arrived before the first bell, when the mountain was still blue against the break of dawn, and spread her mat before the granite pillar with the solemnity of a queen setting up her kingdom. Upon it she arranged jasmine, kanakambaram, tulsi, and roses in an order that she felt would indefinitely satisfy the Gods. On a temple hill, the flowers had to look better than they did in the market below. To those who passed her in the morning, she was only the flower woman. This was quite an ordinary injustice of the world. A woman may raise three children alone, outlive two monsoons of fever, be one of the few true intellectuals left in the world, who learned to tell the weight of sorrow from the way a devotee asks for loose flowers, or the happiness of a new groom from the needless care with which he chose tightly strung jasmine; and still, after all this, was reduced to the identity of a mere flower seller. She found herself qualified for several rare adjectives: an entrepreneur, a philosopher and on difficult mornings, even a psychic. Though society was deficient in recognising her full range of talents, she did not resent it much. Resentment required leisure, and Meenakshi had never been provided with enough of it to make a proper practice. That morning, however, her mind was not with the flowers. Her fingers moved through them as they always had, separating the fresh from the bruised, twisting the thread, tightening the knot, pulling the garland to length. But her eyes kept returning to the eastern gate, where her grandson was supposed to appear with the second bundle of flowers. He had not come. This, by itself, was not yet a disaster. Boys of seventeen have many natural enemies to punctuality: sleep, pride, cinema posters, loose talk, and the ruinous friendship of other boys. Still, Kabilan had never failed her on a festival morning. He might argue, sulk, and spend too much time oiling his hair before a dusty mirror, but he took his grandmother’s sales schedules seriously. By nine, the good flowers would have been sold. By ten, only the late worshippers would come, those who bargained with God as they bargained with vendors, asking for miracles at half price. Meenakshi clicked her tongue and tied another knot. “Amma, how much for this?” asked a woman in a wet-bordered saree, touching a jasmine string with the caution of one inspecting silk. “Ten.” “Ten? Yesterday it was eight.” “Yesterday the flowers had not climbed the mountain,” said Meenakshi. “Today they have.” The woman looked displeased, but paid. This was another thing Meenakshi knew: people wished to offer only the best to the deity, provided the best came without troubling their purse. They would stand before the sanctum and ask for sons, visas, court victories, marriages, exam results, and the correction of other people’s character, but over two rupees they became philosophers of economy. She placed the coin into the steel box beneath her knee. Across the courtyard, a young man had stopped in the middle of the steps. Meenakshi noticed him because he had stopped badly. There are many ways of stopping in a temple. Some stop to pray, whereas some stop to adjust the slipping end of a saree. Some stop because the climb has reminded them of age, and they must pretend to admire the view until their breathing returns to respectability. However, this young man had stopped without the courtesy of any believable reason. His face had gone red, and he barely paid heed to the generous invite of the surrounding mountains. In between her serious knots of jasmine garlands, she followed his eyes and found them glimmering at a girl by the brass plate counter, who stood with Meenakshi’s flowers cupped in her palms. The flowers were getting warm. She ought to offer them for obeisance soon. Meenakshi had no objection to whatever damage was done to the man, but it was quite another to ruin her flowers. Ah, Meenakshi thought. The fever. The boy lowered his eyes, raised them again, lowered them once more, and stood with the helpless stiffness particular to educated young men who believe their feelings are private, while displaying them before an entire courtyard. Meenakshi almost pitied him. A monkey could have concealed its intentions better. The girl, for her part, appeared unaware of the injury she was causing. This increased Meenakshi’s irritation slightly. Beauty, when ignorant of its own market value, was always the most troublesome kind. At least a vain girl helped the world by giving it something to blame. “Paati,” a child said, pulling at the edge of her mat. “One lotus.” “For whom?” “For God.” “Which God?” The child stared at her, mouth agape, feeling wrong-footed by a sudden difficulty of the question. No one had warned him that it would arise in the purchase of one lotus. Meenakshi sighed and gave him the least bruised lotus. Of all her customers, children were the most dangerous class. In this venue, they carried the authority of God without any knowledge of pricing, or stock. Still no Kabilan. The first uneasiness, which until then had sat quietly at the back of her mind, now rose forward. She pressed her palm to the steel box. The coins inside were too few. The medicine shop at the foot of the hill would not give another bottle on credit. The man there had already begun speaking to her with the sorrowful politeness of a person preparing to refuse. Kabilan knew this. He knew, too, that his little sister had coughed through the night until her ribs seemed to plead with the air. Where had the rascal gone? She tried to be angry because anger was easier to carry in public. Fear made the face foolish. Near the sanctum, the young man was still looking at the girl. “Pa,” Meenakshi muttered under her breath, though no father of hers had been alive for forty years, “move from there at least. If she turns and sees you gawking, no god in this temple will be able to restore your dignity.” Just then, from the lower steps, a commotion rose. It began as a stir among the vendors, travelled through the waiting line, and entered the courtyard with that quickening movement by which crowds announce news before anyone has had the courtesy to explain it. Heads turned. A priest paused with coconut in hand. He had stopped mid-strike, holding the blade above the shell like he knew God too, was prioritising attention to the calamity rather than to his coconut offering. Meenakshi stood. At the entrance, between two men who had taken hold of him by either arm, came Kabilan. His shirt was torn at the shoulder. One side of his face had begun to swell. In his right hand, pressed so tightly that his knuckles had whitened, was the missing bag of jasmine buds. For one moment Meenakshi saw only the flowers, but noticed the blood on his lip right after. The anger she had been preparing all morning lost its footing. “What is this?” she demanded, though the question came out too sharply to reveal fear. “Did the flowers fight you on the way?” Kabilan did not answer. He looked past her, towards the sanctum, with shame standing upright on his face. One of the men spoke. “He caught a thief near the lower gate, Amma. The fellow had taken a chain from a woman’s neck and was running. Your boy went after him.” “And for this,” said Meenakshi, turning on Kabilan at once, because relief had made her unreasonable, “you decided to tear your only decent shirt?” A few people laughed. Kabilan smiled a little, then winced. The man continued, “The police have taken the thief. They asked the boy to come down later.” “Police?” Meenakshi said. “For what? Will the police pay for Dettol?” By now the courtyard had begun to look at Kabilan with interest. This he bore badly. He could endure a blow, perhaps, but not admiration. Admiration was a public inconvenience, especially for a boy who preferred to keep his unmatchable civic sense out of sensation. The girl near the brass counter had turned too. The young man who had been staring at her saw none of this properly, for his attention, having already ruined itself once, was deliberating where it was to better reside. Kabilan placed the jasmine bundle on the mat. “Paati,” he said softly, “I did not lose it.” This was too much. Meenakshi bent as though to inspect the flowers, but in truth to hide her face. They were crushed in places, some buds browned at the edges, their fragrance thickened by the heat of his fist. Still, they were jasmine. Still, they could be sold. She touched the torn shoulder of his shirt. “We know you are a great hero,” she commented in sarcasm, in an affectionate tone that would have deceived anyone who had not been loved by her. “Next time, kindly ask the thief whether he can run after ten o’clock. Morning business is not to be disturbed for public service.”. Kabilan laughed then, and because his lip was split, the laugh came crooked. “Paati, enough with your humour, please” he cried. The priest called for the next plate. The child with the lotus ran past, having already forgotten God in pursuit of a monkey. The coconut blade came down at last. Bells resumed their announcements over the air. Across the courtyard, the young man who had been staring at the girl remained where he was, still flushed, still foolish, still believing perhaps that his private thunder was the morning’s central event. Meenakshi looked at him once more and almost smiled. Let him think so, she decided. Youth must be allowed a few such mistakes. Without them, how would it give itself airs? Then she took the bag of bruised jasmine, shook it loose, and began to make garlands from what had survived.