Garlands

In the photograph clicked on my first birthday, exactly two years after you and Amma married, a garland is arranged over my frilly dress. I heard you bought the garland for a session with the professional photographer. The flowers in the black-and-white image appear dark, delicate. You chose hibiscus, for protection.

The snapshot of me sitting with you during my wedding wrings a pang. The picture has captured the kanyadaanam, the ritual when you presented me to my groom. A rose garland―marking new beginnings―sits heavy around my neck. You echoed the priest's mantras, a hand clutching my garland threaded with gold accents, during the sentiment-filled rite.

Here's a faded print of you in front of your new vehicle, a Tata Sumo, hood attired in a marigold garland. And here we are, celebrating Diwali, sparklers in our hands. We stand in front of our doorway, three cheerful, semi-circular rows of flowers strung across the top. Pale, orange petals have landed on your shoulders, blessings from the blossoms representing auspiciousness.

You're wearing a formal shirt, a chrysanthemum garland draped over your arm, in the picture taken at a company event. You slid the flowers off your neck after you were garlanded as if overwhelmed or embarrassed. Yet, you brought that garland home, didn't toss it in the garbage until the blooms shriveled and the petals fell off. You believed chrysanthemums ward off negative energy.

You appear youthful in a black-and-white moment from your wedding reception fifty-five years ago, Amma and you adorned in inches-thick jasmine garlands, tassels dangling at the bottom, pendant-like. You're dashing in suit, bowtie and formal shoes. Demure Amma's gaze is on the floor. She's dressed in a wide-border sari and matching long-sleeved blouse. Her fingers hold a boxy purse with a big buckle. Your hands are crossed over the garland as if seeking the calmness jasmines are known to bring.

The last physical photo I possess is the framed copy displayed at the memorial service on the thirteenth day after your demise. Your scant hair is white, your nasolabial folds sit deep, and your ocher-brown kurta's buttons shine gold. In this picture, your likeness is not garlanded.

The priests didn't permit me to photograph your body before cremation. But I hold close the image of you laden with layer upon layer of garlands―the rainbow of tributes, the symphony of colors.

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