I am sure I can count on my fingers the number of times I have worn flowers in my hair. I am quite sure I have never worn the strings of jasmine, kanakambaram and marukozhundu so popular in the South.
But memories are a terrible thing.
The other day, I got thinking about my grandmother, and the little things we did together took on a terrible significance. I got thinking about how we would stroll through the flower market at Malleshwaram, commenting on how almost all the ladies wore the national tricolour in their hair.
I couldn’t help myself any more. The same weekend, I brought home a Crossandra plant.
Even though it was my other grandmother who’s wispy stands of hair were always loaded down with flowers, it is my favourite grandmother that I think of every morning when I see the orange-red kanakambaram flowers.