Malati combed her long opal black hair. She loved running her fingers through these wave-like limpid tresses before organising them into a graceful plait. Then, in her twilight pink sari, she ambled down the winding mud road leading to the railway station. There, at the corner of the platform sat Shiva, the jasmine seller, one she had known since her childhood. He had his usual endless string of those fragrant white blossoms coiled in his wicker basket. He nodded and smiled as she approached him. “Your usual, missy,” he said, measuring a string of jasmines of the length of his forearm and cutting it for her. “Thank you,” she answered, handing him a fistful of coins. Inhaling the rich scent of these dainty blossoms, Malati felt like a demi-goddess in a floral haven. She pinned the flowers on to her plait. How she loved this Sunday ritual and the pleasing…
