On my way to physiotherapy in Lisbon, flowers kept stopping me. I was recovering from an accident, and much of my summer revolved around hospital visits, pain, and the slow work of getting better. Yet there they were, giving me something else to look at. Some brought back my childhood in Mumbai and Konkan. I still remember Prajakta (Jasmin) , Sadafuli (Periwinkle), Jai, Jui, (More Jasmines) Kevada (Screw pine) by their smell. In Cascais, I kept meeting some of them in different forms and names.
On my walks from home to the hospital, on grocery runs and evening walks, there they were. I am not good at recognizing flowers by name, so I call them anonymous beauties. Often, I would put my grocery bags on the sidewalk to take pictures.
This “white one,” with its pointed petals, grew beside the sidewalk at the bus stop near my hospital. It had no fragrance, but its symmetry and shape were perfect. It could have inspired the likes of Matisse to discover a new form. I would see it on my way to physiotherapy appointments, and for a moment, it would make me forget my pain. It was good company while I waited for the bus alongside a Bangladeshi mother and her kindergarten child, whose school schedule coincided with my appointments several days a week.
This one became my friend.
Summer is over, but it is still there. A street flower, growing without anyone seeming to water or care for it. Its perfection still stops me. Yet it has no fragrance. For twelve weeks, it has kept me company through the change of seasons, new flowers taking the place of old ones. In a world so given to changing its mind, here was something that kept showing up.
There were others that adorned the sidewalks and gardens. I didn’t form a bond with all of them as I did with the “white one.” They were pretty, but we couldn’t be friends. There was no time. Sometimes, on the narrow walkway from the grocery store to home, I would quickly put my bags down to take a photograph. Summer could get hot, and it is always a climb from anywhere to anywhere in Lisbon.
These flowers grew near the Cascais bus terminal, beside a ruined house. They had taken control of it. They stood guard over the graffiti on its walls.
Some are truly anonymous. I don’t remember where I took this picture, but I love how they carry so many colors on the same branch.
There was an innocence about them. Such intricate designs, offered without explanation, in places where people were mostly trying to get somewhere else. There were others I didn’t photograph, but their fragrance reminded me of walks through Linda’s garden in Chicago.
By September, many of the other flowers had begun to wilt. They had done their job and were moving on. Would they come back next year…? Would I be here?
Even as they wilted, they left me with memories. As they disappeared, their absence reminded me that they had once been there. I would know where to look for what was no longer there. Like some people we lose, whose memories return to us in small, unexpected moments.
That thought brought me to one of my favorite songs about flowers, written by the Urdu poet Majrooh Sultanpuri, one of India’s greatest poets. "Rahe Na Rahe Ham" - Whether or not I am here, I will remain fragrant.
It is rather funny, in hindsight. Growing up in Mumbai, I worked as a tax clerk at my uncle’s firm, which had many Hindi film personalities as clients. I handled Majrooh’s taxes. I had not yet developed an interest in poetry and art, and I still feel foolish about having had the opportunity to meet him without making anything of it. We used to send the peon to collect his papers.
I knew his tax papers before I knew his poetry.
His song “Rahe Na Rahe Hum,” immortalized by Lata Mangeshkar’s voice, speaks of a love that outlasts our physical presence.
Even when we are gone, something of us remains, like a lingering fragrance: “mehaka karenge.”
What moves me is the thought that meeting and parting might lose their meaning when a connection is deep enough: “kyaa hain milanaa, kyaa bichhadanaa.” Someone can be absent and still remain part of our lives. In the song, even loneliness carries the possibility of a comforting echo, a presence felt in the tear-soaked moonlight.
The flowers had gone, but I still had their photographs. I wanted to keep something of their company.
Using a combination of drawing, photo editing, and AI, I began turning my photographs into patterns. I kept returning to the petals, the symmetry, the contrasting centers. Flowers I had met on separate walks now found themselves together. I could not keep them growing by the sidewalk, but I could give them another life on the page.
When I look at these patterns now, I remember a difficult summer, but not only its pain. I remember the small companionships that made it bearable: a white flower at a bus stop, a familiar fragrance far from home, a reason to put my bags down and look. I feel grateful, and a little sad, as I often do about things I cannot keep. Perhaps making these patterns was my way of thanking the flowers, and of keeping a little of their company after the summer had passed.
Summer is over. My recovery is not. As I make my way into winter, I hope 'the white one' will still be there at the bus stop, keeping me company.
