by Ajay Patri
The poppies are not happy. Their morning began with a glorious sun shining down on them and moist mud cloaking their roots. Now they are shorn of the comforting intimacy that the sun and the soil brought them, uprooted rudely by the hands of a wiry woman and thrust into a paper bag. They lie on a wooden tabletop in a claustrophobic kitchen while the woman yells at her son to hurry up.
‘Where is that damn boy?’
A pockmarked runt of a child runs into the room with a sheepish grin on his face. The woman is not swayed, pointing at the poppies with her lips set in a grim line.
‘Take them to your father now. These wretched flowers keep growing everywhere, spoiling my beautiful vegetable garden. Maybe someone in the market will actually pay for these worthless things.’
Why does she say that we were spoiling her vegetables? The poppies ask themselves. We never bothered them.
‘Don’t you dare drop them, boy! I’ll whip you to an inch of your life if I find out that you dropped them in the mud outside and nobody bought them because they were all soiled.’
‘Yes Ma’am.’
The boy picks up the poppies, his tiny hands pressing into their sides. They cry out in pain, reaching out of the paper bag and right into his face. The snub nose trembles for a moment before the boy sneezes forcefully.
Ugh!
‘Are these weeds, Ma’am?’
‘They aren’t weeds but they are no good either. Why should all my energy be spent in caring for flowers that bloom and die without any benefit?’
Why does she insult us so? Are we really that bad?
And so the poppies are borne aloft in the boy’s hands and carried out into the sunshine again, bringing little spasms of happiness from them. Their happiness is interrupted by the loudness of the outside world. Never having witnessed anything apart from their tranquil little world in the garden, their senses are rubbed raw by the sheer scale of human activities around them now.
What is all this commotion? Why is everyone so loud and in a hurry?
Their ride comes to an end when the boy stops abruptly in the shade cast by a big stall made of timber set in the middle of a large thoroughfare. A man sits in a reclining chair behind the goods on display, vegetables that the poppies recognise from their time in the garden. The boy reaches over and brandishes the poppies to the man, who looks up from a newspaper with a frown on his sunburnt face.
‘What is this, son?’
‘Ma told me that you forgot to take the poppies with you in the morning.’
‘Poppies? We don’t sell poppies, son.’
‘Ma said they are spoiling her vegetables. That you might be able to sell them for some money.’
They really think we are worthless, don’t they?
‘Alright, then. Give them to me now.’
Relinquishing his grip on the poppies with a sudden cherubic smile, the boy gallops away. The man takes the poppies out of the rough paper bag and lays them down carefully on a mat, beside a bunch of sour looking vegetables.
Hello there! What is this place?
The vegetables are not particularly happy at the sight of the poppies.
God! You poppies are a real infestation, you know that? First you suck all the nutrition that was meant for us. And now you have the gall to come here with your pretty little petals.
The hostility of the vegetables takes the poppies by surprise. At least the bees in the garden were delighted by their grandeur, though they never stayed for long, flitting around with boundless energy. And now a bee zigzags its way towards the poppies, who are instantly gratified by its presence. But their happiness evaporates when the bee starts to backtrack.
Wait! Where are you going?
The bee hovers in mid-air long enough to answer them before buzzing away.
You lot are no longer in the soil. You will die soon. You are no use to me now.
The bee’s words sting and the poppies suddenly become aware that tiny tendrils of exhaustion are creeping up on them. They develop a sudden craving for the sunlight that is tantalisingly out of their reach as they sit in the shade.
Is this it for us? Are we just going to wither away and die?
The vegetables take time away from their morose introspection to snicker at the plight of the poppies as a man walks up to the stall. He is tall with a sallow face and brownish hair that is swept to one side. A much worn hat rests in his hands. He peers down at the poppies with black eyes shaped like almonds.
‘How much for these?’
‘Two guilder and they are all yours.’
The poppies expect the man to make a face and say something insulting about them, like everyone else. But without a word, he dips his free hand into a pocket and gets out some money. The man behind the stall gets up with a sigh and starts wrapping the poppies into a different roll of paper.
Wait. What just happened? Does this man really think we are worth something?
The transaction done, the man in possession of the poppies bids the shopkeeper a good day. Their happiness at being taken away from the vegetables is tempered by a rising tiredness that even the rays of feeble sunshine trickling through the grey clouds cannot alleviate. They cling to each other for comfort as the man walks into a small house with tiles missing from the roof.
He’s taking us indoors again!
Inside, they are greeted by another man who looks almost exactly like the man who bought the poppies, except his hair is greyer and his face sallower. To the dying poppies, he looks the very picture of death himself.
‘Theo. What are those?’
‘You said you wanted to paint flowers. I got you some. These should help you take your mind off the fever.’
The other man looks at the poppies with a blank expression on his face.
‘I said I want to paint sunflowers. Sunflowers! And you get me, what? What are those things?’
We are poppies!
‘They’re poppies. I don’t think the light in here does them justice but look at this shade of orange and red! You really must paint these.’
The man shakes his head and starts walking away.
‘I don’t like the look of them.’
‘I paid for these! Come on! Just give it a shot!’
‘Oh yeah? I thought you picked them up from someplace. Must have cost you a fortune, eh?’
In spite of their tiredness, the poppies gristle indignantly at the sneering man, flapping their petals in the dank air of the house. So does Theo, who seems even more determined to convince the other man.
‘Just paint them, brother.’
The poppies see the conviction of the man wavering. He looks around him like he has lost something, trying to think of what to say.
‘Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Just don’t go expecting anything good, okay?’
‘Rubbish! One day, someone will buy it for millions of guilders and I will make sure that they will know your words before you commenced painting.’
The man scoffs but doesn’t reply. The poppies, a little droopy now, perk up at Theo’s prediction.
Millions in money? Could that man be telling the truth?
With one hand still firmly grasping the poppies, Theo drags a circular table covered with a white cloth and places a vase the colour of rust on it. Unrolling the poppies carefully, he puts them into the vase, whose dark depths contain traces of moisture that the poppies hungrily devour. A few straggling daisies, blue and white, are their companions in the vase.
Did you hear him say that? We will be in a painting worth millions soon!
The other flowers are already quite dry, their petals wilting at the corners.
How does it matter? We will die soon and everybody who looks upon the painting will only talk about the genius of that sulking man there. We would rather be the flowers a man gives to his sweetheart. At least she will admire us for ourselves, not some version of us as seen through a man.
The poppies feel the relentless pessimism of those around them shrivelling up their insides. They shrug, gathering the last shreds of hope left in them.
Perhaps you are right. But then again, maybe someone someday will spare a moment to think about us when they look at the painting. They will see it and wonder what we did the day we were painted.
‘Here, brother. Does this look good?’
Theo looks at his brother with an expectant smile. The other man shrugs, just like the poppies.
Kudos to Ajay Patri for this beautiful story. Without giving it a particular locale, the universality of the theme is wonderfully brought out. Great work of Literature indeed.