This year, an impulse stirred within me—a barely audible yet insistent whisper. I
found myself drawn to the idea of planting marigolds in my garden. It was not a
fleeting whim but a yearning that felt both ancient and immediate. I longed to see
their golden hues dance in the sunlight, to inhale their distinct fragrance, as if
seeking solace for my eyes and something deeper for my spirit.

But why marigolds? Why not jasmine or roses, which I have always loved?

The question lingered, hovering like mist over a quiet morning. And then, as if a
veil had been lifted, the answer came—not in words, but in a memory.

I was a child again, and my tiny fingers curled around my dadaji’s (paternal
grandfather) hand. We walked together through the bustling streets of Old Delhi,
past the rhythmic clatter of rickshaws, the calls of vendors, and the scent of frying
pakoras mingling with the earthiness of damp stone. It was a familiar path leading
to the sacred embrace of Sis Ganj Sahib Gurduara, a revered Sikh place of
worship.

Before stepping inside, we would pause at a small flower stall near the entrance. I
watched as my dada ji surveyed the blooms with quiet reverence. Roses and
jasmine are all lovely, but he always chose marigolds. The stall owner would
thread a garland of vibrant orange petals, worn from the weight of their own
abundance, and hand it to him with a knowing nod.

Inside the Gurduara, the air was thick with devotion—the comforting sound of
prayers being sung blended with the silent stillness of those lost in reverence.
Some devotees sat with their eyes closed, while others swayed gently to the rhythm
of the kirtan, their bodies moving in quiet surrender. And then, there were the
tears—tears that slipped down faces, unbidden yet deeply felt. I remember those.

As a child, I could never understand why they wept. Their silent cries unsettled me.
Why tears in a place of peace? But now, I do. Now, I know that sometimes the
heart overflows in ways words cannot contain.

My dadaji carried the marigold garland with the same gentle care that one holds
something sacred. Slowly and deliberately, he placed it before the Guru’s presence,
bowing deeply. The orange petals, rich as the setting sun, rested in silent offering.

It became a ritual, repeated visit after visit. As a child, I did not know they were
called marigolds. In my mind, they were simply “gurduara flowers.” They were
woven into my childhood, unnoticed then, but waiting patiently to be remembered.

And so, decades later, I find myself kneeling in my garden, pressing marigold
seeds into the dark, waiting earth. The soil is cool beneath my fingertips, the air
thick with the scent of damp earth and possibility. As I water the small mounds, a
quiet stillness settles over me. I am no longer merely planting flowers—I am
planting remembrance.

I don’t know what to expect. I have never seen a marigold bush before. Marigolds
were always in garlands.

Weeks pass, and my marigold bushes flourish, their blossoms ablaze with gold and
saffron. I gather a few, cradling them as if holding a piece of my past. Their
fragrance lingers on my skin, a scent that bridges time. It’s as though I am back in
that moment, a child again, standing beside my dadaji. I can feel his presence—the
man who adored me from the moment he laid eyes on me, on the very first day of
my life.

The colors are a feast for my eyes, yet they offer something more—a connection
that transcends memory. A soft yet absolute realization washes over me as I stand
before the marigolds: nothing is lost.

The marigolds before me are not just flowers; they are whispers from the past,
echoes of my grandfather’s devotion, reminders of moments that live on beyond
time. My grandfather is still with me. I feel him—he is in my words; he is in my
thoughts.

Love never dies; it lives.

A gentle embrace of bliss envelopes me. The world around me falls silent as I
stand still, as though I have stumbled upon a sacred truth. This truth speaks of the
intricate interconnectedness of all things—of memories and scents, of flowers and
beings. It speaks of how love lingers, how devotion imprints itself in ways we do
not always recognize, and how the smallest acts—like choosing a marigold
garland—become sacred echoes in another’s life.