I captured this in my backyard, where the lantana is growing without any resistance or interruption, mirroring the growth of the Indian population that refuses to slow down, regardless of the circumstances.

Back in childhood days, when the summer would peak, the best respite was these lantana bushes cropping around Grandma’s orchard. I wonder why we never watered them, nor did any other attention get offered, yet they grew and continue to grow, creating hubs and dense bushes blooming with flowers.

Lying down beneath the shade, one curious game I often indulged in with my cousins was of eating those black ripe fruits close to the flowers.

I made many attempts to create a garland or tuck the lantana into my ponytails, but when my cousin said it brings head lice, and quickly seeing tucked in my hair erect like a branch in my ponytails, she threw it off my rubber band, which was in the shape of pink bells (she would call my rubber bands“love in Tokyo) for reasons best known to her.

My curiosity about these flowers, which I cannot tuck in my hair and whose petals often easily separate from the main pod, gave me a new theory. I thought this was perhaps used as showering flowers, the kind used in Hindu Weddings, where at a pivotal moment, everyone seems to throw something at the bride and groom.

I never bothered to validate my theory. As a seven-year-old, I lived mindfully, and validation was an alien concept.

Be it flowers or otherwise, back then, ideas were nurtured and experienced more than shared and validated.

The black ripe fruit of these Lantana flowers resembled black plums grouped together, but in its miniature form, and tasted far better than those Neem nibolis, which were yellow and, despite being overripe, still carried the bitter hint of the neem inside them.

I would scatter the flowers and binge on the fruits, so many of them throughout my playtime, the petals remain stuck to my hair and dress, with a woody dense fragrance, and I would consume nonstop of all the black fruits, so much so that the tongue and lips dyed indigo made me look like the poison had started to take effect.

The black fruit was never poisonous and tasted sweet.

My cousin had an Urdu /Hindi name for these flowers; she called them Kamini ke Phool. I don’t know who or what got this name, and I let the mystery remain a mystery.

Capturing them today, I looked intently for the black, ripe fruit, which was nowhere to be seen, but found many clusters of green pods basking in the sunshine.

I came with the hope that I shall return soon, when it will be the ripe time to dye the lips again.

Who said blues are to be feared? Some are for enjoying a sweet wild berry and dying lips.

Warmly,

Mehnaz Amjad

PS: This post is part of Little Joys of Life — a series on finding happiness coded into the ordinary, if only we stop long enough to look.