It must have happened at all time of the year, but somehow now that I think of it, to me it seems like it always happened in winter. I remember the happy faces. My schoolmates' happy faces. Bobbing up and down with innocent excitement as they make their ways through the school buses and corridors, holding flowers in their hands. The flower holders are the centre of attraction. We try to coax them into giving us the flower. They refuse. We coax more, we flatter more. And we speculate more - who is the lucky one? A teacher? A senior? A best friend?
Boys and girls of all classes would bring flowers from their gardens. A nursery kid holding a flower is such a pretty sight. Sometime it would be Rashmi Bhaiiya from Class 10 holding a flower. A big burly guy, a juniors' favourite. He would often give the flower to a kid in the school. Sanjukta would most often give the roses to a teacher. Sometime she would give it to Niyor or me. Vijay Lakshmi Madam has long hair, which she always fashions in the traditional South Indian way - two slim braids from either side tied up at the centre of her otherwise free flowing hair. Sanjukta would bring beautiful red roses and Vijay Lakshmi Madam would wear it in her hair the whole day long. So would Das Madam. Those days, Sanjukta would be beaming with pride.
Boys and girls of all classes would bring flowers from their gardens. A nursery kid holding a flower is such a pretty sight. Sometime it would be Rashmi Bhaiiya from Class 10 holding a flower. A big burly guy, a juniors' favourite. He would often give the flower to a kid in the school. Sanjukta would most often give the roses to a teacher. Sometime she would give it to Niyor or me. Vijay Lakshmi Madam has long hair, which she always fashions in the traditional South Indian way - two slim braids from either side tied up at the centre of her otherwise free flowing hair. Sanjukta would bring beautiful red roses and Vijay Lakshmi Madam would wear it in her hair the whole day long. So would Das Madam. Those days, Sanjukta would be beaming with pride.
Some days, a friend would relent to my coaxing. That day, I would be the prized owner of a beautiful flower. As the day comes to a close, I would take out my heaviest book and put the flower in between the pages. At home in Assam, I still have a dried up rose in between the pages of a novel. Earlier, it was in between the pages of a Maths book. Its dried up into a shrivelled brown now. It must have been a yellow or a white rose. I wish I could remember who gave me that rose bud.
Sometimes flower reminds me of school mornings, of angelic kids in tidy school uniforms with a flower in hand, of prayer assemblies, of teachers and friends.
On retrospect, I know it is unwise to pluck flowers. They should be left alone to bloom in the garden. But those were such innocent days!
