The frail aaji sat under a tree, bent down, deeply absorbed in her work. Before her sat the large basket that held her delicate craftsmanship. Gajre. Around her, time sped; cars and motorcycles roaring by, people walking, children running. But in her little valay, the universe bent its rules of time, and as I crossed her, I could feel myself stopping and turning back to her. She did not see me. I, and the whole world, was invisible to her just then, perhaps the very reason I saw her so clearly.
She only looked up when I was next to her basket, bending down and pointing at the mogra-aboli gajra (hints of aboli and green peeping amongst the fragrant, white jasmine buds), wishing I could speak Kannad. ‘How much?’ my hands asked. “Twonty five”, she said in English. My hands gestured, ‘two’.
Now I was in her valay proper. Every second stretched like a yawn – long and surprisingly comfortable. Slowly her thin arm reaches for the cut newspaper, laying it neatly on her knee... slowly the long continuous chain of flowers is measured and cut, and wrapped gently, each paper fold careful and considered.
As I took the bundle and handed her the notes, I nodded and smiled, forgetting I had my mask on.
But she beamed back, and no mask hid the wrinkly smile that suddenly seemed to light up her time-stopping valay. That smile for two gajre? I wished I’d bought twenty, but even if it had been two hundred, it wouldn’t have been enough.
