“Are the rhododendrons' failure to bloom due to climate change or unusual weather?” The shrill tones of the well-groomed TV presenter sitting in her AC studio floated through the open window.
Ignoring the noise, Gauri looked at the huddle of village women. Their usual laughter and folk songs of the Himalayas were missing. Instead, there was a sullen silence as they stared at her for guidance. Around her were buransh bushes, verdant green, but there was nary a bud to be seen.
This was the first time in Gauri’s eighty-five-year-old life that the buransh had not bloomed.
“If there are no flowers, what will we do?" Ramdulari wailed, for it was the squash made from buransh flowers, sold in the shops in the plains, that kept their hearths burning.
Gauri knelt by a bush, picking up a handful of soil with hands gnarled with age and responsibilities. Susurrations and lamentations filled her ears. The earth was weeping. Its bounty was empty. The dam that promised development had dried up the soil, leaching it of everything it had to offer. It complained.
Gauri felt an answering rumbling in her heart. She wanted to chant a spell that would bring down the dam, re-energise the earth and make buransh bloom again.
“Tell mai! What should we do?” Ramdulari implored.
Gauri stood up, her knees protesting the time she had spent mourning by the buransh. Dusting her hands on the folds of the saree, she answered, “Try getting jobs in the new five-star hotel constructed.”
The women cried and protested. Buransh was not only their livelihood, but it was also their heritage. Ignoring them, Gauri walked into the house and turned off the TV.
Her heart knew that the rhododendrons would never bloom again.
Harshita Nanda is a writer from Dubai. Shortlisted for the Rama Mehta Writing Grant, 2023, her short stories have found a home in many anthologies, including Lightning Strikes. She has also been published in Kitaab, Porch Lit Mag and Roi Faineant Literary Press. Connect with her on X @ashnhash.
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