The Man with the Chafa
written by: Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy
I had seen him after a long gap, about a month since the onset of the rains. He asks me why I wasn’t seen around, and I tell him that my timings had changed.
An old man of around 70 years, he usually wore a white T-shirt and black trousers. He walked alone. The other old men walked in groups. He greeted us with “Jai Hari.” He progressed to saluting us as we walked past, making us break out into smiles. He walked from 5.00 in the morning to 8 am.
A friend and I used to take a walk around our housing society every day from 6.15 in the morning till 7 am. The walk done, we sat cooling down, enjoying the early morning breeze on the small katta on the podium, used as a car park. When we saw him, we usually asked him how many rounds had been done. He was usually on his 8th! We did only 5. We had to make breakfast and leave for work at 7.30 am.
One day, my friend and I were walking past, lost in the world in conversation, enjoying each other’s company, when we heard loud claps. Looking to see who it was, we saw Jai Hari (we hadn’t asked him his name ever and used his greeting to refer to him) trying to attract our attention. He waved to us, we waved back, and walked on without stopping.
Some days, when my friend was unable to come for the walk, I went alone. One such day, I saw Jai Hari standing at the entrance to his building. As I walked toward him, he took out something yellow from his pocket and offered it to me. It was a chafa. I asked him where he found it. He said he had plucked it. I was surprised because all the chafa trees in our society were quite tall. I imagined him struggling to nudge the fragrant flower from the tree with a stick. I accepted the flower gratefully with a smile and walked away saying, “Thanks!”
Sitting on the katta to cool down, after my rounds, I held the chafa in my hand, enjoying its heady perfume. Chafa was my favourite flower, especially because it was fragrant even after it was completely dry. A neighbour, looking at the chafa in my hand, asked me where I got it from. I said someone had given it to me. When she prodded further, I said the man who greeted people with “Jai Hari” had given it to me. She said, “He does not give us chafa flowers!” I had nothing to say.
All the old people in our society went for walks with plastic bags in their hands, to collect flowers for the gods. We had chandini (a white flower which looked like a self-rotating paper fan), chafa (the golden champak, a flower that looked like a golden bell), hibiscus (offered to Lord Ganesha probably because it’s petals are shaped like an elephant’s ears and its pendulous style looks like an elephant’s trunk), parijat (the Queen of the Night — night blooming jasmine), krishnakamal (Passion flower) and aparijita (Butterly Pea).
One evening, around 4 pm, as I was returning from work, I saw him sitting on a low katta near the podium. I greeted him, smiled, and walked on. He called me, gesturing with his hand. He asked me why I was not seen around. I was surprised to see him taking out a chafa from his pocket. Giving it to me, he said, “Go,” gesturing accordingly and looking down the road. I wondered whether he was embarrassed to be seen giving me a flower.
And now, here he was walking his usual route below the podium (he probably found the climb to the podium tough) and was asking me why I was not seen around. Today, he didn’t have a flower for me. But he said something unforgettable. “Disle ki chaiin, thevdach!” (“If I see you, peace! That’s all.”) Now, I find myself looking to see if he is anywhere around when I return home from work and sending a small prayer to heaven for his well-being!
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