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’.

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.