THE BRAIDED POLITICS OF FLOWERS

There are invisible connotations stringed with what one has adorned their hair. They aren’t mere flowers; they reek of caste and class

- DIYA MARIA GEORGE

AS the morning light filters through the doorway of Sujatha's puja room in central Chennai, she kneels before the altar, arranging fresh malli buds and tulsi leaves with practised hands. Saraswati receives the first strand, followed by Kubera, Mahalakshmi, Vinayagar, and Perumal. Each deity has its place and preference. After gods are pleased, the remnant flowers go in her own hair.

She favours the white flowers. But there are flowers she will never wear.

The bold orange kanakambaram, for instance, vivid against dark hair, lasting longer than the expensive whites that fade by afternoon. She has never worn it. Not once. "They say some flowers suit 'decent girls' and some make you look 'local'," Sujatha says. "If you wear white jasmine or mullai, you are seen as respectable. If you wear kanakambaram, you are labelled 'lower class'." A lesson taught since her childhood.

In another part of the city, writer Shalin Maria Lawrence wears her flowers differently. Three mozham minimum, long, fragrant, and abundant. "I cannot wear just one or two mozham. I need three or more, very long." She recalls her jasmine varieties like long-lost friends. "Madurai malli is one of the best, you can see the quality, completely different from other mallis. Next to that, Velankanni malli is my favourite. It's almost greenish, like moonlight." But the flowers of North Madras carry different names and different histories. "Working-class women from my area preferred kanakambaram and December poo. The latter is a light violet shade available only during Margazhi. Then there was kadhambam, the cheapest option, a mixture of leftover flowers. A bit of green tulsi, malli, and kanakambaram, like the Indian flag colours. Vendors and working-class women wore it," Shalin explains.