It was early, very early, when I set off -- the night sky still cast dark shadows in Dal lake. I sat back in the covered canoe, known as a shikara. My driver dipped his heart shaped paddle into the water, and we glided forward, seemingly effortlessly.
Slowly night turned into day. And then we were there. At the floating market. While others marveled at the glossy beauty of the eggplants, the heft of the melons and the snap of the green beans, I had eyes for only one thing.
The flowers. The floating flowers.
It was only when I got back that morning -- my pockets bulging with saffron and jasmine bulbs -- that I saw the name of my boat.
But perhaps, somehow, I knew its name all along.
