The 5:00 AM Military Operation

Flowers. Flowers. Flowers….

It is a universally acknowledged truth that no child in the history of humankind has ever wanted to be awake at 5:00 AM. Yet, in our household, 5:00 AM on the dot wasn’t just a time; it was an unyielding daily summons.

My father was our resident drill sergeant. Without fail, he would rouse us from the sweet land of nod for early morning Mass at the Carmel Convent church in Gandhi Nagar. One second you were dreaming of floating on a cloud; the next, you were deposited directly onto a woven floor mat in a kneeling posture, hands folded in pious submission.

Dozens of sleepy, half-crusty eyes would attempt to focus as we sang our morning Christian hymns to the feet of the Lord. Think of it as our household’s very own version of M.S. Subbulakshmi’s iconic Suprabatham, except pitched three octaves lower by a choir of groggy, dragged-out-of-bed children.

What followed was a masterclass in frantic speed-running. Brushing was a drive-by event. Dressing up was purely tactical. Bathing? Absolutely out of the question—who had the time? We would burst out of the front door and rush into the crisp, fragrance-filled streets of Gandhi Nagar, hurrying toward the church before the priest could start without us.

The Sacred Art of Garden Poaching

As we marched along the pavement, our lips murmured the collective Rosary with dutiful precision. However, while our mouths were reciting prayers, our eyes were conducting a high-stakes reconnaissance mission.

We weren’t just walking; we were scanning the perimeter of every grand bungalow along the street. Our targets? Flowers. Specifically, any bloom foolish enough to hang over a compound wall, or anything accessible via a well-timed, stealthy little vertical leap.

The wealthy bungalows emanated rich, tantalizing scents, but the grand prize hanging out for us commoners was almost always the humble, ubiquitous hibiscus. While our mouths piously uttered Latin prayers during the Mass—prayers that sounded like alien incantations to our young ears—our hearts were secretly calculating our potential flower yield.

Standard Morning Mission Protocol

1. Recite Rosary >  2. Spot Flowers  >  3. Execute Jump  >  4. Pocket Bloom   > 5. Look Innocent  >  6. Resume Prayer

Occasionally, lady luck would shine upon us, and we’d score those tiny, six-petaled blossoms. These were precious gold. If you pressed them tightly between the pages of your school textbooks, they would leave behind an exquisite print in a vibrant, potassium permanganate-purple hue!

During the mind-numbing boredom of afternoon classes, we would peek into our textbooks to admire these botanical pressings and secretly pass them under the desk to our classmates. Frankly, what did I care if the pages of my Algebra, Geometry, or Archimedes’ Principle books were smudged with floral dye? Math and Physics were my absolute enemies anyway! If a purple flower stain ruined a page of quadratic equations, I considered it a public service.

Of course, the harvesting process carried extreme operational risks. On any given morning, the owner of a target bungalow might be sitting on his veranda sipping tea and reading the daily newspaper. Worse, he might be accompanied by a terrifying, razor-fanged dog. Many a flowers plucking attempt turned instantaneously into a 100-meter Olympic sprint, propelled by the raw terror of a furious bark!

The Altar of High Expectations

Back home, our meager loot was used to adorn our small family altar. The tiny hibiscus flowers were carefully arranged between two large, colourful framed pictures hanging on either side: one titled The Homely Virtues and the other The Homely Blessings.

While I completely ignored the virtuous, high-minded prose printed on those frames, my gaze was perpetually locked onto the artwork inside them. Specifically, I drooled over the depicted flower garlands—massive, multi-coloured rose creations held triumphantly by two cherubic Plastic angels on either side.

Oh, how I ached for those heavenly roses! I would stare at them and pine, thinking, “If only we had a rose garden, God would love our altar so much more!”

Culture Shock in Capital City

Years sped by with the unstoppable speed of a runaway train. Before I knew it, I had children of my own, and the days of jumping over fences for hibiscus were long gone. Then came an invitation that took us all the way to Delhi for a close friend’s grand wedding.

The sheer scale of the national capital stunned us beyond imagination. But what truly took my breath away wasn’t just the architecture; it was the flora, so many flowers. The entire city seemed to be bursting with vibrant dahlias, zinnias, and majestic chrysanthemums. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. My mind instantly raced back to Gandhi Nagar, remembering how my siblings and I used to perform acrobatics just to pluck a single, droopy hibiscus. “If only we had been fortunate enough to grow up in Delhi!” I lamented silently.

Since we had a full day to kill before the evening wedding festivities, we set off to do some grand sightseeing. The prime destination on our itinerary was the majestic Rashtrapati Bhavan and its world-famous gardens teeming with flowers.

Getting into the President’s estate, however, was no walk in the park. Unless you were a distinguished citizen receiving a national award from the President himself, you were subjected to an interrogation-level security detail.

We lined up like a suspect lineup in a heist movie. We were frisked with the thoroughness applied to high-profile burglars. Bags were inspected for explosives, confiscated, and replaced with small metal tokens. Then came the ultimate indignity: our footwear was stripped away! Walking in our intact socks, handed yet another token for our chappals, we were nudged along by vigilant security guards.

Denuded of our material possessions and shuffling in our socks, we walked through the heavenly, fragrance-filled grounds. But the guards kept a hawk-like watch over us.

“Fragrance and eye contact are more than enough, ladies and gentlemen! Look with your eyes, not your hands!” their stern expressions seemed to command.

The Great Flower War: North vs. South

That evening, we attended the North Indian wedding, which was a wild, energetic departure from the brisk, 6:00 AM South Indian ceremonies I was used to. For starters, the groom arrived on a lavishly decorated white horse in a procession known as the Baraat, surrounded by friends and relatives dancing in front with carefree, electric joy.

And then came the gifts.

In a traditional South Indian wedding, guests arrive carrying practical, utilitarian items for the new household. For instance, back when I got married, a stainless steel water jug with a pour spout was the reigning champ of wedding gifts. No one ever believes me when I tell them that we received a grand total of seventeen identical water jugs on our wedding day! (I suppose the guests thought we were planning to run a small municipal water board).

In Delhi, however, the guests walked up to the podium carrying massive, aromatic bouquets of roses, chrysanthemums, and exotic Stargazer lilies. They piled these floral masterpieces onto the stage until the couple was practically submerged in a sea of heavenly scents. The flowers ruled.

While my eyes appreciated the glorious floral spectacle, my pragmatic South Indian mind was rapidly running the math: “Look at all that wasted money! You can’t even use a Stargazer lily to pour water!” In our culture, a simple floral garland of jasmine or roses—perhaps a modest bouquet featuring a single lime pressed into the middle for good luck—was more than enough.

When a few guests presented lavish bouquets to my children, accompanied by affectionate kisses on their cheeks, the kids looked like they had been transported to an alien realm. They had never held so many real flowers in their entire lives.

Epiphany Among the Trash Cans

The true revelation, however, hit me the following morning.

As we passed by the venue, the janitors were hard at work clearing out the previous night’s celebration. There, sitting in the alley, was a massive, tragic mountain of faded, crushed, and wilted flowers—thousands of rupees worth of flora being shoveled directly into gigantic dustbins.

In that single, quiet moment, my lifelong philosophy and romance with flowers underwent a complete metamorphosis.

I thought back to our childhood home in Gandhi Nagar. I remembered those old, photocopied text frames hanging on either side of our tiny altar—The Homely Virtues and The Homely Blessings—which I had ignored for years while pining over painted rose garlands and unattainable luxury. In fact, those very same photocopied words had been passed down and still adorned the walls of my own house today.

I smiled to myself as we walked away. I realized that God never really cared about the size of the roses, the price of the Delhi lilies, or how high we could jump over a neighbors wall for a hibiscus.

Living out those simple, humble words on our wall—kindness, patience, gratitude, and love—had been the absolute best “Flowers for God” we could ever offer. And the best part? They never wilt, and no dog will ever chase you for picking them.