A day in November. Weather is colder than usual in this hill station. Rain crepitates with a boulder rolling sound from the mountains of heaven. Flash booms careen around the sky like hissing snakes. The dusty leaves are being massaged and lubed. Windows and rooftops of houses are clattering in the wind, sometimes even flying with them. The rain drops sculpt puddles with a steady cadence; plop, plop, plop, tip, tip, tip ... plop, plop, tip, tip.

 

I am standing in my usual place, surrounded by weeds, all of us sinking in knee-high water. We’ve been here for quite a long time now, by the side of this homestay. Many have stayed in this house. And inhabitants change so frequently that the sound of a trolley bag or the shrill of the gate never really raise my head. Only we are the same. Between the side compound wall and the house, away from the visibility of the visitors, we form a small community of plants pushed to oblivion.

 

Car tires screech and stop in front of the gate. “How much is it?”, the man who gets off the car asks the driver.

 

“2000 Rs sir”, the driver replies very politely.

 

“2000 Rs? Really? Have you brought me to heaven buddy?”, the man asks.

 

“2000 Rs is the usual charge sir. And it is heaven. You will realize it soon”, driver tells with a smile.

 

“No, I had my doubts that I might reach heaven while you were driving itself. In fact, I glanced at the mirror to see if I was riding with Mr. Yamdev?”, the man winks at the driver and laughs.

 

The taxi leaves on that happy note.

 

The man wears a brown shirt, cream pants, and an alluring smile. Before he disappears into the homestay, he walks around a bit, and at one point even comes closer to the side walls. Did he look at me? No. No way.

 

Next morning, I wake up to a captivating aroma of grounded coffee. The new visitor is slowly walking and examining the premises. As he walks, in his hands, in a ceramic mug, there swirls the royal coffee, piping out the vapour. The caretaker of this house is also there with him.

 

“Sir don’t go that side. It’s all a mess. The rocks there are slimy, you might fall. Nobody goes there”, the caretaker asks him.

 

“Hmm, I can certainly see that you never go there. What do you mean when you say I have cleaned the house?”

 

“But sir”, the embarrassed sentence is broken by him.  “No worries, at least the house is clean. It doesn’t look like it never had any occupants. Very clean in fact”.

 

“Nobody will stay here sir. You know this is a tiny cottage. There are plenty of big ones to attract tourists”, caretaker updates in a very tensed tone.

 

You liar, how many lodgers you have brought here. And how many times you ran to the shops down the hill to get them the balance for the rent they paid at the end of their stay. Good that I can’t speak your language. Or else I would have told this to sir. So, he is not a visitor. He is the master of this house.

 

“It is a compliment. My cottage is very well maintained”, he laughs.

 

“How long would you be here sir?”

 

“Not sure Mani.”

 

“Really! Why? I mean, want a break from the hustle and bustle of the city?”

 

“Not really buddy. My flat has a court case on it. We have been asked to vacate immediately. I only have this cottage other than the flat.”

 

“How can that be? You purchased it long ago. Government gave permission to builders. Now who can ask you to vacate sir?”.

 

“All pranks. I just bought it as it overlooked a beautiful lake. But now it seems it was also ‘overlooking’ some coastal laws”, he laughs insanely.

 

“Oh my! That’s too bad. I can’t bear that. Nothing can be done now?”

 

“Yea, we are trying for that. We have been organizing protests and trying to meet politicians. Some don’t need a demolition at all. Some just needs a decent compensation.”

 

“What do you want sir?”.

 

“I just don’t know. Now I am all alone, you know, right? It is just for my job, I stay there. If nothing works, I might end up coming here for good.”

 

Saying this, he pats Mani and goes inside. Mani for obvious reasons doesn’t move a bit. He squats down, propping his chin in his palm and sighs.

 

So, the master is in a dilemma. And he is alone for whatever reasons. Interesting. Hmm.

 

*

 

Next day they come with a trowel, hoe and garden scissors. They both have worn gloves.

 

“Start from there Mani”, master calls out.

 

Mani, for some unfathomable obsession, brings the scissors closer to me first.

 

That’s all. It is time for me to leave. Thanks for this wonderful, unproductive life. I enjoyed it, whatsoever.

 

“Hey, hey, don’t cut it. She is Lilium Cas********.”, master runs towards me and stops Mani’s hand.

 

I am what! I couldn’t hear the second word. More jubilant than to realize I am still alive, is to realize that I am something. I am so impatient to crack what that second word would be. Is it Lilium Cascade? Lilium Casket? Maybe I am Lilium Cascia? Who am I?

 

“It is a rare species. It will give big white flowers with a sorcerous fragrance that makes you transported to a mystical world.”

 

Oh my! I am one of a kind, huh? Can you utter my name one more time please?

 

“It is just a weed, sir. It has never given any flowers. If you need a garden, we need to get rid of a lot of these types of, of”

 

Of useless, I complete his sentence. At that time a bee passes above me with a buzz, kindling the dried-up hopes in me. Will I bear anything, ever?

 

So long as the clay doesn’t sit on a pottery, it will be clay.

 

So long as the dough doesn’t go into tandoor, it will be dough.

 

He sings. Though it sounded exciting, Mani and I are now groping in the dark for the meaning and the double meaning of it. So, he is a singer? A poet? A cook? I don’t know. But, he is the master of this house, my master.

 

*

 

Coffee smell passes by me quite often now.

 

My master carefully shovels a trench near me to drain the standing water. Then lines the trench with pea gravel. “Hello, lady Lilium Casa Blanca. You’re my focus now. Let me see if my work becomes fruitful at least with you. By the way, you can call me Mr. Flop”, he laughs.

 

Lilium Casa Blanca Lilium Casa Blanca Lilium Casa Blanca, I learn my name by heart. He keeps on saying something. But I don’t listen. Before I forget, I repeat my name all throughout the day. Even as the cool breeze in the late night tries to hypnotize me, I conquer it. Lilium Casa Blanca Lilium Casa Blanca Lilium….

 

*

 

He has come with some shrubs to plant besides me. They are planted to give me shade. I need shade at my bottom and sun at the top, my master told me. His fingers fondle my ears, my head. Then they reach my svelte midriff. I smirk. He too.

 

He slips and falls when he hurries through the rocks. Sometimes he bleeds his hands as he pulls out some thorny bushes. I watch helplessly. “No worries, I am immune to pricks”, he laughs aloud.

 

Master, am I worth it?

 

December. Spine-chilling winds fly above the hill station, heralding the arrival of winter. Early mornings wrap the earth in frost-blankets. Fruits and leaves look like sugar-crystal coated candies. Everything is sweet and chilled until sun shines late in the morning, melting them all. It doesn’t snow here. Or so I believe. We also have got our share on top of our heads as sparkling white caps.

 

Coffee sits there on the ground, cold and unattended. Mani dutifully brings it periodically.

 

Even in this cold, master sweats so much that his half sleeve baniyan clings to his chest. He has covered his neck with a woolen shawl. His feet are mucky. He has planted more of me, all along the sidewall. His beard has grown with grey freckles, here and there, and in its small knots, hawkmoths rest as they pass by.

 

“Sir, breakfast.”

 

“Sir, your phone is ringing, someone named builder.”

 

“Mani, can you move a bit, you’re stepping on the new pit.”

 

“Sir, I will come back in the evening. Hope it is ok. You want anything from downhill sir?”.

 

“Mani, can you bring that neem leaves you told. I need to make a spray”.

 

“Sir, shall I get wheat from the ration shop? I guess you don’t like rice”.

 

“Get a jute string from there. And a jute sack. You will get it there”.

 

Mani looks at him jaw-dropped.

 

In the evening, a new mouthwatering aroma of food creeps down the hill. I suppose, Mani is experimenting with the food items that he bought early. After the dinner, while my master is hovering on the front yard, he gets a call from a man called lawyer chacko. He reluctantly picks it up and says a lousy ‘Yes’ occasionally.

 

He never used to come to me during night time. But tonight, he comes. “Castles by The Lake, what a name!”. He hits hard a stone by his foot. It makes a big parabola in the air and falls far away.

 

“Castles in the air”, his signature cackle follows. After that, he embraces me and cups his hands around my shoots and gives them a kiss. Snuggling close to his chest, I sense the grief he heaves. I see the pain in every laughter of him as I rewind from the beginning. I draw him more to me.

 

Master, can you count on me?

 

*

 

Next day, he comes in his brown shirt, cream pants, the one which he had put on the first time when we met. Mani is also here very early.

 

“Sir, you didn’t say much over the phone.”

 

“Because I don’t know much. We’ll come to know by this month”. He then points his finger to me and says something in a very soft voice. Mani nods his head. I sharpen my ears until his footsteps recede into the car. I peep to see a final glimpse of him but fail miserably. I can’t see anything beyond the gate.

 

Well, the fact is, I can’t see anything beyond him now. I start counting days. Mani use to come hurriedly to water me, when he is reminded of his duty, once in a week or so. I learn to endure less water, excess water. My dreams were hatched enough that they break open the shell even as he is gone. I sense the start of a peculiar motion, a heaviness, within me.

 

March. Sky is pristine blue. Malabar whistling-thrush happily roams around, whistling and pecking food from the ground, with its blackish blue standing out in the oblique rays. Leafy-green parrots make somersaults around the branches.

 

“Whoa, what is this!”, it is Mani.

 

What is it Mani? I check the surroundings, I then check myself. In the golden rays of the sun, I see my blossoms shining in crimson red! I see the love that my heart bears. My blossoms are not white. I beam with pride.

 

“Unbelievably eye catchy and what a fragrance!” He is right. This side of the house looks like a red sea! And it is drowning everything in the divine fragrance.

 

Master, did you see this? Did you hear what these people say about it?

 

Visitors start rushing to the cottage. They don’t look at me directly. But stand in front of me, smile and look at their phones.

 

Couples come for homestay. Mani regretfully nods his head, “No”.

 

“We can give 500 Rs extra, what you say?”

 

“Sorry, the owner may come anytime. So, No”.

 

“Can we get the seeds of this plant?”

 

“How to grow this plant, who is the gardener?”

 

I enjoy the visitors. I like the newly found grace. I devour the fragrance.

But I feel empty without him, my master. Everything I do is fake but the waiting for him.

 

Each day, I burgeon with scented gifts for him, and the miracle news of my rare colour, glorified more by the rays of the sun and the children who trespass. Tilting my head towards the front so that I can see the road clearly, I pray for his return. Mani sits on the other end, after all the watering and cleaning, propping his chin in his palms and possibly praying that he may never come back…