THE JASMINE GARLAND
The priest was in a hurry. He frowned at the woman who
held a garland of jasmine in her wizened hands, trying to peep over his
shoulder at the beautiful idol of Lord Shiva.
“Why are you late today? The puja is over.” He turned
to lock the ornate wooden door of the sanctum.
“Please, please let me place my offering at His feet. I
was late because I had to walk further than usual to find these flowers. My
usual jasmine bush did not yield the fresh fragrant blooms that it normally
does.”
She wiped the sweat off her brow, casting a pleading look
at the priest.
“Please let me place these flowers at His feet.”
The priest shook his head as he continued to lock the
door.
“I have to reach the headman’s house in ten minutes. I
have a puja to conduct there. So, go away.”
“What will I do with these flowers?”
The priest snorted, impatient to be gone. The puja at
the headman’s house would be beneficial to him and his family. The headman was
a generous soul and highly charitable. He spent thousands of rupees on pujas
every month for the well being of not only his family, but also the village. As
a result, he was loved by all.
The woman watched the priest hurry away, sorrow writ
on her lined face. Her husband was a daily labourer and they had three
children. It was a hard life, but she did not complain. Whatever little he made
went into buying food for his family, and little more.
As she trudged back home, she wondered what she could
do with the fragrant garland. As she reached the gate of the temple, she
stopped. There was a tiny shrine dedicated to Lord Ganesha. Bowing her head in
reverence, she prayed for a moment, and then, placed the jasmine garland at His
feet with great reverence. She made her way home, her heart less heavy as she
knew that Lord Ganesha would appreciate her humble offering.
The next morning, the priest sauntered into the temple
courtyard, his mind filled with joy. The puja had gone off extremely well and
he had been duly rewarded by an appreciative headman.
He washed his face and his feet and went to unlock the
sanctum. As he pushed the heavy wooden door open, and folded his hands together
as usual, he was struck by the expression on Lord Shiva’s face. Was it a trick
of the light or was the deity glaring at him? The next moment, he laughed at
his own thoughts. How could the expression on a stone idol’s face change? It
was just his overactive imagination at play.
He moved into the interior, taking in the fragrance of
the oil, the sacred ash and the flowers. He wrinkled his nose. What was that
strange smell? Suddenly his eyes fell on the flowers that were draped around Lord
Shiva’s neck, and his heart ran cold. Every day, when he opened the sanctum,
the garlands made up of different flowers would smell as fresh as the day
before.
Today he was horrified to see all the flowers looking
wilted and stale, almost as if they had been there for a week.
“Shiva, Shiva!” he muttered as he quickly divested the
idol of all its flowers. “Maybe these flowers were old. I must chide the flower
seller today. How dare he palm off old flowers to me like this?”
Luckily, there was a whole new basket of fresh
flowers, flowers that had obviously been freshly plucked, fragrant with drops
of water on them. The priest replaced the stale flowers with them and started
his daily puja.
The morning puja over, he went home to have his
breakfast of idlis and chutney. As he ate, a niggling thought troubled him, but
he could not pinpoint what it was. His wife glanced at him, surprised at his
silence. She asked him what the matter was, but he shook his head and left for
the temple soon after.
Back at the sanctum, he stopped, aghast. The flowers
that had been so fresh that morning had wilted and gave off a rank odour. The
devotees muttered amongst themselves.
“Why have you used stale flowers to adorn the deity?”
came a sharp voice. It was the headman’s wife who did not believe in mincing
her words. “If you cannot procure fresh flowers, don’t use stale ones. It is an
insult to the Lord.”
Her eyes flashed fire, and she stalked off, her
annoyance evident.
The priest was at his tether’s end. As he stood in
despair, he heard a voice behind him.
“Sir, here is my jasmine garland. Please place it at
the Lord’s feet at least today.”
The fragrance of the jasmine flowers wafted into his nostrils,
and he stretched his hand out for the garland. There were no other flowers on
the deity as they had all wilted. Walking as though in a trance, he approached
the idol and placed the garland at His feet. As he moved back, he fancied that
he saw a benign smile on the beautiful face.
The woman clasped her hands together, her eyes closed as
she prayed. The priest looked at her and a strange thought came into his mind. “Where
did you place the jasmine garland yesterday?” he asked her in a low voice.
“I placed it on the Ganesha shrine near the gate.”
Was there a
connection between her jasmine garland and the wilted flowers? His sane mind
did not accept it, but… still…?
That evening, when he made his way home, the same
thought kept playing on his mind. As he had closed the sanctum door, he had perceived
the jasmine garland as fresh as ever, its fragrance heady. Adjusting his upper
cloth, he walked towards the gate. The little shrine of Lord Ganesha shone
bright, the lit lamp throwing a glow on to the deity’s loved face.
As he stopped to pray before the shrine, the fragrance
of jasmine assailed his senses, and he stood, transfixed, at the fresh garland
that nestled at the feet of the Elephant God.
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