They are growing everywhere here, pots filled at the humblest village doors and the grandest hotels.
Everywhere you turn, a riot of oranges and yellows (and ambers and ochres and saffrons and gold all those other wonderful sunny hues) tumbling over the edges of walls.
They are snipped and strung into necklaces to hang at the shrines of the gods, or arranged in a decorative pattern in bowls at entries to homes and guest houses.
The colors of the flowers leap straight into the dyes of the fabrics, and marigolds are all over the streets too, and in the fields, on turbans and saris, on the banners of blessings. I used to turn my nose up at marigolds--I rarely had them in my garden, and I don’t like the sight of ribbons of them as edging to a bed. But a profusion of them? Fantastic.
Marigolds remind me of the constant cycle of plant vogues; they are like carnations, which have also been shunned by plant snobs, and are horrid in bouquets when they’ve been so perverted by the machinations of florists who dye them unworldly colors. But true to themselves, carnations are interestingly sweet.
Marigolds have always had a lot going for them. They’re right up there with zinnias in the Indian gardens--bold in color and graphic in design. Marigolds are sunshine, a warm welcome, and the promise of good fortune drawn straight from their sunny hearts.