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Had Krishna been less haughty, it might have shamed him to admit how little he knew of his mother's religion. To the point that, until he was approached as a tutor, he knew nothing of The 64 Traditional Arts. Such things meant nothing to him... but in his heart, he knew that they would have meant a great deal to her. For that reason alone, he would have studied the arts pertaining to flowers even without it being a part of lessons. It would be a means of connecting with his mother, even beyond the grave, and help him study a new form of flower arranging that was one of his largest hobbies. That he was being asked to teach, and would be paid handsomely, was a bonus of which he would not complain.

It had shocked him initially to have the woman approach his shop. He recognized her, vaguely, as a previous customer, but when she described the yellow flower bouquets with various colored ribbons, it had clicked. She was the adopted mother of Isha, the kind-hearted rich boy who had ordered a tremendous amount of flowers. (Also the recipent of one stolen kiss on the cheek, but that was a slight to his pride that he swallowed back for the purpose of supplementing his income.) Apparently, Isha had decided he was interested in the 64 Traditional Arts and felt he would be a proper souce of information regarding the three that dealt with flower arrangement. She had determined to pay him for his time... and given that the new funds might finally allow him to move back into a real apartment, Krishna had eagerly taken her up on the offer.

The subject of today's lesson? The tandula-kusuma-bali-vikara, which was the art of preparing offerings from rice and flowers. Krishna had done as much research as he could into the matter, using the resources of the public library. From what he had found, this art actually broke down into *three sections: (1) Tandulavikara, or forming images such as lotuses and elephants with the display of rice grains; (2) Kusumavikara, which was a bit more complicated and involved making garlands of flowers of diferent colors in order to decorate figures of deities OR flowers in different pots/places OR flowers for decorating temple or gate of temple for festive occasion OR simply arranging flowers in a vase and (3): Balivikara: arranging different cooked food t look like beautifully designed patterns according to choice of devotee.

Obviously, Krishna had decided to focus on the second of these three arts, as it was particularly suited to his skill set and his student's interest. He had arranged appropriate materials in the shop on several different tables. All that he needed now was for Isha himself to arrive.

*(Information found in e-book version of: Ganguly, Anil Baran. Fine Arts in Ancient India. Abhinav Publications, 1979: 109-110.)

The owner of the flower shop looked up immediately when the door to his business opened and closed. He certainly recognized the student whom he had been hired to teach. His cheek stung from the stolen kiss, but such matters could be dismissed in light of the money he would recieve from the lesson. "Come, Isha," Krishna said coolly. He motioned for him to follow--certain, as he ever was, that his commands would be followed without question. Haughty as he often was, in this environment he truly was king.

The table to which he led his pupil was covered in a variety of different types of flowers. Creamy stars of jasmine lay next to the slightly curled petals of the champaka flowers. Lilies and hibiscus lay in shades of white, red, orange, and yellow. Ashoka with its needly extensions, pale-pink oleander, ruffly chrysanthemums, manoranjitam with blossoms that looked almost like peeled lemons. Additionally, several different kinds of leaves were carefully placed in neat sections. Each had their unique charms, their specific uses.

Set aside in a position of prominence was the lotus flower, the titular plant of his shop. In shades of pink and white, both blended and solid, they stood out amongst all the other blossoms in Krishna's eyes, and his gaze softened when he looked upon them. Could he infuse a love for such beauty into this boy? Coule he teach him the delicate touch of handling these fragile blooms before nestling them into their arrangement? Perhaps not with any of the skill Krishna had mastered over his years in the shop but enough to give him a taste for the craft.

"Each Hindu Deity has a garland of flowers meant for him or herself, as I have read." Krishna began with a simple statement, a rehearsed statement. Lecturing was not one of his strong suits, and he did not intend to repeat anything he said. "I have gahered some, here. We will be creating garlands. Some of Hibiscus, some of jasmine, some of lotus, and so forth."

"Stop." A calloused hand rose to put an end to the seemingly neverending stream of words pouring out of Isha's open mouth. Although he was not given to responding to every portion of a conversation anyway, at this rate he would not even be able to tell the boy what he needed to know! Getting worked up over his ability to smell was understandable; the florist's chest puffed, just a bit, at the compliments given to his flowers. But the simpering thanks, the neverending speech, the worrying about details that would later be explained... Krishna could tell that it was going to be a long lesson, for him at least.

"I will be perfectly clear." The florist kept his speech as direct as ever, and his gaze fell heavily on the eager boy. "I neither believe nor worship these gods. I do not care what you do with the garlands or with your knowledge of the art." The florist reached for one of the padma, gently stroking its petals before lifting it towards his pupil. "As long as you respect the craft, my plants, and my teaching, it is enough. In doing so, you respect me and those who came before us."

Ground rules laid, he continued on with what he remembered from his research. "We will be making only a few. Hibiscus, for Lalitha. Jasmine, for Subrahmanya. Red lotus, for Mahalakshmi." He picked up a needle already with two strands of string looped around it. "We use this to thread the flowers. To make it is simple. Take the needle, double string it for strength. When you do that, use the needle to slide through the center of the flower and place it on the string."

Unfortunately for his wounded student, Krishna was not a soft man. Certainly he saw Isha react to his words, but it did not cross his mind to apologize. In his mind, there was nothing for which he should apologize. He was not annoyed, merely straightforward. He cared--about payment, about respecting his flowers, not bringing undue shame to his deceased mother--but not about an art to which he had not dedicated his life or his belief. He was here to teach because Isha had sought him out to learn.

When the needle and string were presented before him, the florist took a practical approach. He took hold of his student's wrist and pulled it closer to better examine the threaded needle. He held this postion for only a moment before nodding with a small smile. It was an excellent knot with a strong base of the garland. "Good. Now, flowers."

He chose hibiscus for his own garland, but all the flowers lay within reach. Krishna took a particularly large flower and carefully threaded it towards the center, to further demonstrate the technique. "As many as it takes. I anchor the center with a larger flower. Partially aesthetics, partially weight distribution. Then simply string until the garland is full."

Krishna was too engrossed in creating his own garland to think too much of Isha's sudden redness. Eitther he was having difficulty regulating his body temperature or perhaps it was a side effect of the heavy medication he had to take in order to stay in the shop without sneezing after every other word. He had chosen a large yellow hibiscus for the center but now was slowly, carefully layering white hibiscus down either side.

Each of his movements were precise, but greater experience made him speedy. He knew how much pressure the bloom could withstand, so his touch left them unmarred. He was well into his garland when he heard the exclamation of pain from the boy beside him. The crushed flowers were painful to see but... expected on some level when dealing with an amateur. At least it had occured because of an injury.

The florist gently placed his garland down and pushed his chair away from the table. "Replace any broken ones. I will get a bandage."

The florist was mildly surprised to hear that sing-song voice so near when he turned away to get the first aid kit... but if the child was bleeding, then there was no help for it. Better to take care of this little mess all at once and not stain the flowers. "Certainly. In the bathroom - adjacent to the front desk."

He pointed to give him direction and then went to the desk himself. The First Aid kit was always there so it wouldn't get lost, and he personally made sure that it was well-stocked. He placed it on the desk and waited for Isha to return. While he waited, he took out the necesary supplies one by one. Bandages. Ointment. Tape.

Krishna was waiting for his pupil when he returned. The bandage was unwrapped, and he was in the midst of opening an individual packet of ointment. Then he heard Isha's question, and his movements paused. Slowly, he lowered the packet and looked up at the teen.

The florist had no one to blame but himself. Krishna was usually meticulous about putting away the personal items he kept at the store. He had been living in his shop for months now, with no one getting supicious because of that. He had simply been caught offguard this morning when a shipment of supplies had come early and... obviously gotten so tied into his work that he had forgotten to go back and hide his toiletries.

He could not ignore the issue, but he did not want to admit to the truth. So he did as he did best and tried to deflect. "Pay it no mind. Come, before the bleeding worsens."

Krishna tended to the wound with the same efficiency as any other part of his life. He used an alchol wipe to clean the wound once more. He then finished opening the ointment packet and squeezed a bit of the jelly onto his student's finger. Then he began to wrap the clean bandage around it.

Through it all, he said nothing to Isha's offer. A slight reddish hue dusted his face. His jaw tightened. Still, he said nothing. He tore the end of the bandage in his teeth before taping it down. Then, he releasedhis hold on Isha and turned back to the first aid kit.

Only when he began to pick it up did he break the silence, and it was to ask a question. "How old are you?"