Red roses, love notes and an occasional kiss and hug. Gifts
of handmade cards, paintings and sketches, candies and toffees. Very often, to
add a traditional touch, fragrant jasmine flowers to embellish my black curls.
No they were not from my boyfriend (who is now my husband). They were all from
the children I taught. It was literally like celebrating Valentine’s Day every
day! Given with a lavish dose of love and affection, it was really difficult to
say “no” to the eager kids who would peep into the office room early in the
morning, waiting for their favourite teachers.
I was one of the earliest to reach school. An extreme
obsession about punctuality that sometimes infringed upon insanity. As I walked
down the way to school many children, babies to teens would join me and soon we
would be a chattering mob marching through the school gates. Children would run
up to me and give me flowers they enthusiastically plucked that morning. Roses
(from their parents’ flower laden carts), Bottle brushes (a flower true to its
name), Jasmine, Hibiscus, Marigold and what not! Some insisted that I wear it
on my head immediately. The slightest hesitation on my part would have serious
repercussions. No, not sulking and crying. The flower would be snatched and
forcefully thrust into my locks. I had no right to protest. Just for this time
of the day, they were the teachers and I, a meek student. I did not even want
to picture myself with roses, jasmines, leaves happily perched on my head.
So after all the pampering, I headed to my class looking (and
smelling) like a puja room or wedding hall if you like it. But the kids thought
I was beautiful. The more flowers I had, the better I looked. Throughout the
day- during break time or a free hour, children would check the back of my head
to see if I had dared to take away the flowers given with tonnes of love. At
these times I often remembered my mother, aunts and grandmother and the
struggle they had to go through to make us cousins (the girls’ gang) wear some
flowers on our heads during festive occasions. I hated the fragrance of
jasmines or rather its stench. Over the course of the day they turned brown and
presented a pathetic sight. Yuck! How I hated flowers in my hair. How proud I felt
when my mother let out an exasperated “do whatever you want” when I refused to
accept flowers. And now these kids had absolute control over me. They had the “childlike
innocence” advantage.
Some days I would
take them off my hair and put it in my bag. Imagine walking around in jeans with
a floral helmet! I didn’t have the heart to throw them. I would often wonder what to do with them. At
the end of the academic year, I had a box full of dried flowers. A potpourri of
the children’s feelings for me. Something I can keep revisiting when life seems
boring or difficult. Opening the box unleashes the scent of sweet memories in
which I can drift along, feeling loved. I don’t need Valentine’s Day.
