I was five when I first saw them. They looked dazzling and were set beautifully in my mother’s hair. For some reason she wouldn’t stop smiling every time she wore them. My father bought them for her, whenever we would go for a drive at night. He would stop at the signal and buy her a string of those white flowers, and my mother would tie them in her hair and smile coyly.
I was convinced that that flower had magical powers. Once, I remember, my mother was really upset. My parents had gotten into an argument and father had been rude to her. I was very angry and at the same time very frightened! I would never talk to him! All father did was get her a string of jasmines and all resentment vanished. Not only was mother on seventh heaven, I decided to love my father again!
Gradually I started to identify the fragrance of the jasmine with that of my mother and it’s presence with her smiling face. Very soon, it came to symbolize the bond my parents shared, the love they had for each other, which I believed, was eternal.
And then everything changed. I came to realize that eternal was just a word. I came to realize that change is the only truth and that all beginnings have an end.As I grew, they, grew apart. My mother would sit alone in her room and I would peer out the window waiting for the jasmine string to come and work it’s magic. I was certain my mother would be delighted to see those blossoms. But they never came.
The flowers once gave me hope. Their colour reminded me of the purity of their love, their fragrance, of my mother’s bashful smile.Today, when I stop at the signal and I see those jasmines, I am filled with spite. They appear black like the colour of the kohl filled tears from my mother’s eyes. They reek of betrayal.
Black jasmine. Reminiscence of the pain.