The Petal Pilgrimage – A Tribute to the Flower Thieves of Yesteryears

There was a time—not too long ago—when plucking flowers before sunrise wasn’t just a task; it was an adventure, a secret mission wrapped in festivity and mischievous delight. Festivals like Saraswati Puja, Ganesh Puja, and Khudurukuni were never complete without the early morning rally led by the Apas of our colony. They were the generals of our little army, and we—obedient and enthusiastic like pet dogs—followed them into the twilight of dawn, ready to “steal” flowers for the gods.

Armed with torchlights and homemade plucking sticks, crafted from household jugad, we set off like warriors. The targets were clear—Champa, Hibiscus, Roses, and Marigolds. The mission: collect as much as possible before a single soul in the neighbourhood stirred. We climbed trees with the agility of monkeys, stretching to the last reachable branch, our hearts pounding with both excitement and fear.

Every flower stolen was a badge of honour. Every successful escape without being caught was a tale we’d tell and retell for days. But sometimes, our luck ran out. We were caught red-handed, earning a round of uthal baithak (sit-ups in punishment) from a furious uncle or aunty. And yet, the thrill never faded—it only made us bolder. Next time, we’d return to the same tree, the same house, with renewed stealth and smarter tactics. That resilience, that unity, that laughter—that was what made those days unforgettable.

But today, the scene has changed. Flowers are now bought from markets. Trees are no longer climbed. The sticks gather dust. The camaraderie has faded, and the morning air no longer rings with whispered warnings and muffled giggles. Flowers still bloom, but many now wilt unplucked, untouched by the joy of those secret pilgrimages. They no longer get the honour of reaching the feet of our beloved gods through the mischievous hands of little devotees.

It breaks my heart. Not because we buy flowers now, but because we’ve lost the spirit that once united us. The shared risk. The unspoken brotherhood. The joy of doing something "wrong" for the right reasons.

Today, when I see my own child not jumping over the boundary wall of a neighbour’s house to steal flowers or mangoes, not returning with scraped knees and triumphant smiles, I sometimes wonder—have I over-parented him out of those precious moments? In my attempts to protect, to guide, to offer a "better" life, did I unknowingly snatch away the wild, unscripted joy of childhood? These weren’t just pranks; they were life lessons. Lessons in risk, resilience, camaraderie, and courage—taught not in classrooms, but by peer groups, colony big brothers and sisters, and the streets that raised us. And perhaps, just perhaps, it’s time we let our children climb a few trees, break a few rules, and make a few stories worth telling.

Good old days—they weren’t just good. They were golden.