The Poo Kari

I looked once again at my wristwatch as if the five minutes that I usually took to walk the distance from the bus stop to the Murugan temple would have magically reduced to two.

I was running late for the school where I worked as a Science teacher, but there was no way I was going to miss my customary visit to the temple. I dare not miss it ... things were tough enough. My son was in class 10 and my daughter was in class 12.Double whammy. My mother-in-law was sick and my husband had enough problems of his own with a new-broom-sweep-clean young MBA graduate for a boss. I needed all the help I could get, especially of the divine kind, to tide over the various crises in my family.

As I approached the temple, I looked anxiously for the poo kari or flower seller. A young woman in her thirties, Kamalamma sported a huge red bindi on her forehead. Her turmeric-smeared face, her infectious smile, and her twinkling eyes had attracted me to her. She was my good luck charm, my “nalla shagunam” and I always bought flowers from her.

Oh God! Where was she? Had she changed her place? Don’t tell me she hasn’t come...My eyes darted feverishly, searching for her but she was nowhere to be seen. This was going to be the worst day of my life. Bhagavane, neengadan enna kappatthanum, I muttered to myself.

I approached the lady who usually sat next to her.

Where is Kamalamma?

Oh. Her husband passed away yesterday. She will not come for the next fifteen days at least, she said, her fingers deftly weaving the flowers into a garland.

Ayayyo!!Fifteen days! Bhagavane! I would now need to propitiate Him even more fervently in the absence of my good luck charm.

What happened to him?

Amma was a good for nothing. a kudikaran, beating his wife and daughter regularly. He was drunk and weaving his way home. A car hit him and he was killed immediately. Possibly the only good thing he did in his entire life,that. No unnecessary hospital expenses you know, she said, spitting the pan juice expertly on the wall behind her even as she pressed the garland into my hands.

A fortnight later, my eager eyes sought out Kamalamma. There she was at her usual spot outside the temple, looking just the same. Except for the bindi...that was missing. She greeted me with her trademark smile.

Kamalamma, I heard about your husband. I am so sorry.

Yes, Amma. What can one do? It is all destiny, she said.

Who is this? I asked her, for beside her was a young girl who appeared to be mentally challenged. Her head rested on a bundle of clothes and her hand lay protectively across a sack that probably contained all their worldly possessions.

Oh, Amma. That is my daughter Krittika. My parents-in-law have thrown us out of the house. They let us stay till the rituals were over. They consider me inauspicious, an ill-fated woman who not only was responsible for her husband’s death but also bore no son, and the only child she did bear, is mad.

What will you do now? I asked, my voice tinged with sadness and worry.

Kadavul vitta vazhi,Amma.God will take care of us .

What about food? Where will you sleep? Your daughter...

With the money I earn from selling the flowers, I will buy food for us from Amma’s canteen. As for a roof over our heads, the temple pujari has allowed us to sleep in the temple courtyard till we find some other form of shelter. Don’t worry, Amma, she said reassuringly.

As I made my way to the school, my mind churned. I thought I was beset with problems and I propitiated the Lord for his blessings. I wondered at the calm attitude of the poo kari. She was unlettered but there was a lot I had to learn from her...her unswerving faith, her complete acceptance.

Was she foolish or was I the foolish one? She had put her faith in God and went about her work. I too had reposed my faith in Him, or so I thought. Had I really done so? If I had truly surrendered to His will I would not have felt the need to propitiate Him, and would not have required the assistance of omens and good luck charms to help me deal with what I thought were insurmountable odds.

That night, I spoke about the poo kari to my family. There was an outhouse beside the cowshed in the compound of the ancestral house we lived in. With no cows and no cowherd, both had fallen into disrepair.

Perhaps,...I gingerly broached the subject. Perhaps, the mother and daughter can stay in the outhouse?

Drishti looked back at the events of that night some fifteen-odd years ago. She remembered asking her mother in a shocked voice how Kamalamma could accept what Fate had meted out to her with such equanimity. Her mother had told her that though it was not possible for them to understand her attitude, they had no right to question her faith.

Mysterious are the ways of God, Drishti thought, as she showed the visitors around the Art Gallery. If it had not been for what had happened so many years ago, would Krittika have been exhibiting her paintings today?