It's not often that you commemorate defeat in gold.
I haven't ever been able to tie into my braid a mala of kamini-kusum in the seven years that the tree in my garden's been bearing, ŕ gogo, bouquets of tender ivory blossoms. Belphul, juin, strands of madhumalati (they too are the evanescent kind), all I have woven into garlands for my hair — common flowers, and fragrant, that he so adored.
"Tulsi . . . ", he'd whisper, and snake my plait across his nuque, pressing his chest to mine so that the separation of our hearts by their beats could no longer be discerned, nor the figures of our flesh in their shape or gender ; even our breath seemed to match and merge, quiver for quiver, speed for speed, sigh for sigh.
At daybreak, when passion would turn to persiflage, and we'd mock each other for our amatory pursuits before drifting into sleep fortified by a fulfilling exhaustion, I'd pick the stray aestival blossoms from my torn mala off the hirtellous crest of his groin and trace my fingers from there through a meandering furrow of fine and curly and now untidy hair to the little well of his umbilicus, and then gently onto his bosom where his hirsuteness became the crown of the honey bush, lush and satiny, sprinkled with wilting flowers like tired stars come to rest, but from other skies.
We'd open the window to the bagan, and by the lustrous light of dawn I'd see the kamini tree in bloom, and know the heat of the sun from the day past had made it gravid, and that there was water in the air, for only as a foreteller of summer rain could its flowering be of such sweet-scented lavishness.
All the white blossoms of the garden perfumed our love ; only the kamini abstained, its flowers too tender and flimsy to be strung, their petals falling off, as if in protest, moments after the blooms were gathered from the tree.
As we drew our palpebral curtains upon the gamboge of a newly born day and turned it into morning twilight, I accepted defeat.
The kamini would never adorn me in life or love.
On a canicular afternoon not long later, having returned from his travels to distant lands, he quietly slipped me this guinea-gold jewel. As he rested it low upon my breast, he explained, "It's been blessed with kamini buds strung together like a festoon. As fruits — the bright red berries that, you say, ignite the bush — little polished orbs line the top. In the centre, holding them together is a hand-woven kamal chain that's symbolic of your lush braid.
It's a simple ornament that fulfils the one wish you never revealed to me : to wear upon you a garland of those fragrant blossoms. But remember, each Kamini-Kuri is now eternal, as are the fruits. Wear the mala only in my absence for then your heart shall well with love and make the flowers bloom and spread forth their fine perfume, and you'll feel me with you, and deep within you in the very shrine of your soul."
He kissed me then, and it rained. And the Kamini-Kuri made our love numinous and never-ending.