Imagined world 2 [2020]

An artwork, the water seems to be just misted to mist, drops to drops. The hypnotic Dal Lake in Kashmir is famous for being the venue of the 2day long Shikara festival. It is renowned not only for its beauty, but also its vibrance, because it sustains within its periphery, a culture that is unabashedly unique.

This old man has spent his life inside this perimeter, selling fragrant flowers of multifarious hues to tourists who want a keepsake from this festival. He has sold flowers to charming young men and women, old couples, and lively children from Texas to Taiwan. Every morning he leaves his wife and two daughters asleep in the morning mist, loads his boat with flowers, and rows around the lake calling out to travelers in mellifluous tones. The old man’s day begins at six in the morning and ends around midnight. Spring and summer see the largest influx of visitors. Today, he rowed to the end of the lake where a new lodge has been built. The murmur of the water surrounded his wooden boat and silvery fish danced in and out of the water, sending sprays onto the blossoms. The sound of the oar plunging into the transparent, turquoise water is rhythmic and familiar to him. Lily pads on the surface of the lake host the tiny frogs that peered up at him. The dew drops slid down the leaves of the trees, who, with their arms outstretched, create a canopy of flora for as far as the eye can see. Summer days see limpid skies that are mostly obscured by the lush foliage. Sunrise and sunset are characterized by streaks of metallic gold, tangerine, and crimson adorning the sky. As the old man reached the lodge, he saw enraptured tourists climbing into Shikaras. He followed the tourists and watched them carefully, for an opportunity to sell his flowerets without disturbing the silence. He then set his eyes on a lady with a garland of Gul mohar flowers around her neck and Chrysanthemums in her hair. Those were the flowers they give tourists at the hotels, and they had begun to wilt. He rowed towards her boat and offered her some magenta tulips. The other members of the boat also wanted his beautiful blossoms. So, they waved money at him. Ten minutes later, he rowed away with moist, crumpled notes in his khaki pocket and bunches of vibrant flowers gone from his boat. He continued picking the perfect customers. Time had made him shrewd and by dusk his Shikara was empty and his pocket full. He rowed back towards his home in the still water. He spent the day at the head of the boat, selling flowers for a living. The trees seem to part in acknowledgement of his arrival back home and he scooped up a lily off the water for his wife, got off the Shikara and trudged home.

This old man is one of the many florists of the Dal Lake who brings beauty to so many people who visit their hometown, while feeding his family in this sleepy town where jobs are scarce. This is a life to be experienced in the cool confines of Kashmir, on the Dal Lake, celebrated in the warmth of its people.

[Teacher’s notes: Extremely colorful string of images, apt vocabulary and quite a serene read.]