Jasmine In Metro

 

Jasmine in the Metro

By Sarita Sharda

Outside the bustling Rajiv Chowk Metro Station—amid the cacophony of hawkers, the hum of footsteps, and the metallic screech of trains—sits Rajjo, a florist with a modest basket of jasmine gajras. The scent of fresh blossoms, strung together with practiced care, rises above the city's chaos, creating a small pocket of serenity.

For years, Rajjo has sold her fragrant garlands to women passing by—brides, lovers, and admirers of delicate things.

One humid August evening, a woman in a crisp navy-blue suit stops abruptly before Rajjo’s stall. On impulse, she buys a gajra, paying more than its price in her hurry, barely noticing as she disappears into the crowd.

Inside the Metro, the scent envelops her. Heads turn. In the polished corridors of her office, the garland becomes the subject of amused whispers.

"A jasmine gajra in a board meeting?" her colleagues murmur.

But Ananya Mehra—a senior executive at an investment firm, a woman of contracts and calculated risk—is unmoved. Something within her stirs.

The scent reminds her of a girl she once was—a girl who lived under moonlit terraces, crafted silly poems in Tamil, and wore jasmine not for attention, but for sheer joy. A girl who dreamed barefoot beside the sea.

The next day, as Ananya walks by, Rajjo calls out, holding a few crumpled notes.

"Madamji, you gave extra yesterday."

Startled, Ananya waves it off.

"Keep it. Your flowers are worth more."

She pauses, then adds softly,

"I had forgotten that some things are beautiful and powerful just because they are—not because they’re useful or profitable."

Rajjo smiles gently.

"Jasmine never asks for attention, madam, but still people turn when they smell it. Sweet, serene, and soft things carry divine power."

Still, Rajjo insists on returning the extra money. Ananya accepts it—and buys two more gajras.

Amused, Rajjo asks,

"But you seem like a big officer, madam. How come you like gajras?"

Ananya smiles.

"Sometimes, I feel like I’m two people. One who signs deals and speaks on panels… and one who just wants to sit quietly by the sea."

Rajjo chuckles.

"These jasmine gajras… they're not just flowers. They’re memories. My mother used to say, ‘Jasmine carries the scent of prayers and promises—reminding you of the ones you made to yourself.’"

Ananya inhales deeply.

"When I was a child, my grandmother would braid my hair and tuck in a jasmine strand. We'd make silly poems together. She used to say, 'Jasmine brings you closer to the divine.' Funny how something so small can hold so much."

Rajjo nods.

"It’s always the small things that stay—and build the big ones."

That is when their real conversation begins.

One cloudy Thursday—the kind when even the sky seems undecided—Ananya lingers a little longer. Today, she’s in a soft beige kurta instead of her usual blazer, her hair loosely tied.

Rajjo, cross-legged and threading fresh jasmine buds, mutters under her breath,

"Fifty strands from Mehrauli, ten from Chhatarpur, some already drying..."

Beside her, a tattered cloth bag overflows with unsold blooms and fading receipts.

Ananya chuckles and sits on the low wall beside her.

"I do that too. Every Friday. Stocktaking. Only mine's on spreadsheets—no scent at all."

The crowd blurs past—phones, elbows, missed moments—but here, in this tiny pocket of the world, two women from very different lives count the things that matter.

Ananya slips off her heels and folds her knees. For a moment, there are no spreadsheets, no stalls. Just skin, sweat, and stories.

Softly, Rajjo says,

"I wasn’t always selling flowers. My husband and I had a tailoring shop in Daryaganj. He died young. Rent went up. Machines were sold. Jasmine was the only thread I could still afford."

Ananya listens, heart heavy.

"Every gajra I make," Rajjo continues, "feels like stitching something back together."

Ananya swallows a lump in her throat.

"And I spend most of my day... tearing things apart. Markets. Deals. Strategies."

Rajjo smiles.

"But still flowers, in a way. You plant something, wait, and hope it grows."

Ananya pauses.

"Sometimes, I look at my life and wonder—what am I even harvesting?"

Rajjo’s eyes crinkle with kindness.

"Even weeds bloom if you let them. And sometimes, they make the world more beautiful. But only if you’re looking."

She pulls out a bundle and hands it to Ananya—a gajra interlaced with tiny red flowers.

"Why the red ones?" Ananya asks.

"They bruise easily," Rajjo replies. "But bloom anyway. They reminded me of you."

That night, Ananya opens a trunk she hasn't touched in years. Inside: a school ribbon, a cracked anklet, and a letter from her grandmother, still faintly scented with jasmine. She sits on the floor, the gajra still tucked in her hair, and begins to write—not an email, not a report, but a thought.

A life is made not only of gains—but of grace.

In the weeks that follow, Ananya returns—sometimes for a gajra, sometimes just to sit. Their conversations unfold in fragments, their lives in layers.

Ananya begins raising her voice—not just for revenue, but for herself.

Rajjo, encouraged, asks her son to close the stall earlier and dreams of teaching others to string flowers.

Ananya begins writing again—poems like the ones she once scribbled in the margins of school notebooks. Rajjo listens, nodding in rhythm.

"You have a soft voice," she says, "but strong words."

One rainy afternoon, Ananya sees Rajjo again—but this time, she’s not alone. A young woman—her niece—sits beside her, laughing as she learns to string gajras.

Holding up a broken strand, Rajjo says,

"Sometimes these break. Weak thread, heavy flowers. Doesn't mean they're useless. I save the petals for prayers."

Ananya teases,

"Training a partner?"

Rajjo grins,

"Building something that lasts. Even jasmine needs succession planning, no?"

Ananya laughs—a deep, belly laugh—the first in a long while.

Later, back at work, Ananya drafts a CSR proposal to mentor small street vendors. She writes Rajjo’s name first.

That evening, beneath a softening sky, they sit together with cups of tea.

"You know," Rajjo says, "I once dreamed of being a teacher. Life had other plans."

Ananya smiles,

"And I once dreamed of being a poet. But I became... efficient instead."

They laugh—not out of regret, but out of recognition.

Two women.

One in suits, the other in sarees.

One threading numbers, the other threading flowers.

Both searching. Both healing.

Quietly changing course—not through grand gestures, but through jasmine threads and unspoken truths.

They never call it friendship. Or therapy. Or purpose.

But in the quiet space between them, something blooms.

A life reclaimed.

A path seen clearly.

Each, in her own way—because of the other.

Threaded in jasmine.