Forget Me Not – this is what these flowers are called.
Growing up as a kid running wild in the hills of Darjeeling – our local term for this flower was ‘ powder phool’ or simply translated as ‘ powder flower’.
As little girls, we believed that the powdery substance was actually ‘grown up powder’ that we could apply. In sheer excitement , we would dab them on, if we were playing ‘make up’ . Of course we would end up with white patches all over our faces. We would laugh – amused at each others patchy faces – silly girls were we!
As teenagers, these flowers began to have more deeper,somber meanings. Many of us had these flowers pressed between pages of a text book (remnants of a past admirer) – withered and aged – it still had traces of its glorious past.
Each had its own story to tell.
Maybe the cute boy in the dashing school uniform, we had all been admiring for weeks, had picked and pressed the flower; and finally had the guts to send it along with a letter proclaiming his undying love for her. Or maybe they were sitting on a ‘patchy powdery’ slope when they exchanged their first kiss. Or maybe out of sheer nervousness ,when she flashed her million dollar smile at him, he bent and picked out a posy of flowers for her – an expression of his love….maybe just maybe.
Today, many years have long been gone since those childhood days, those girlhood days – those days of innocent bliss.
One look at this flower growing between cracks on the familiar stone wall ; I felt like a soldier returning home from war – tired, haggard, aged -left only with memories tied to where his heart belongs – where memories from the distant past remain untouched and every little whisper cries out Forget Me Not!