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Worship and the Language of Flowers
In the grand tapestry of Hindu worship, flowers play a vital role, one of those sixteen “upacaras” or services that beckon the divine. Picture this: the “pujaris,” those priests clad in devotion, carefully lay flowers at the feet of deities or drape them in garlands around the neck of the icons ensconced in their sacred abodes. The flowers, you see, face the devotee, a silent acknowledgment of the connection between the worshiper and the worshiped.
As someone who wanders through the intricate corridors of South Asian religions, I’ve unearthed stories within the “Puranas”—those ancient texts, somewhere between the second and tenth centuries, rich with tales of gods, goddesses, kings, and the odd sage. They’re a bit like old friends, these stories, recounting why certain flowers tickle the fancy of particular deities.
Take basil, for instance—dear to Vishnu, but a total no-no for Ganesha. Then there’s Lord Shiva, who blesses his followers with wood apple leaves but would scowl at the thought of offering them to Surya, the Sun. The rules are elaborate, almost like a dance, where each step is crucial.
The “Skandha Purana,” that colossal tome of 81,000 verses dedicated to Skandha, the son of Shiva and Parvati, makes a grand case for jasmine, or “jati.” “This flower,” Vishnu declares, “is better than all others. Offer me a splendid garland of a thousand jati flowers, and you’ll find yourself in my heavenly city for billions of kalpas.” It’s a promise that hangs in the air, thick with devotion.
In the realm of Kali, the fierce mother goddess, tradition demands red hibiscus flowers—a stark reminder of her power and protection. June McDaniel, in her studies, captures the essence of this practice beautifully, illuminating how these flowers, saturated in meaning, become vessels of worship.
Then there’s the “Shiva Purana,” with its chapter devoted to worshiping Shiva. Want wealth? Offer him kamala, the lotus, or marigolds—hundreds of them, if you please. It’s said that such offerings wash away sins, cleansing the soul in a sea of petals.
But beware, for not all flowers please the gods. The red plumeria and screw pine flowers could earn you a divine frown, particularly from Shiva. There’s a story that lingers about the “ketaki” flower, once caught in a moment of deception. It’s a tale where Brahma and Vishnu, in a test of supremacy, find themselves tangled in arrogance. As Brahma lies, with the ketaki flower as his accomplice, Shiva curses them both. The flower, despite its beauty, is banished from Shiva’s altar, only to be grudgingly welcomed back during Mahashivratri, when its price skyrockets in a frenzy of devotion.
Yet, in the “Bhagavad Gita,” Krishna speaks a different truth—one that transcends the floral hierarchy. He assures us that it’s not the flower but the heart behind the offering that matters: “Whoever offers me a leaf, flower, fruit, or water with sincere devotion, I will accept them.” It’s a gentle reminder that sincerity outweighs the finest bouquet.
Lakshmi, adorned on her lotus throne, cradles the very flower that rises from murky waters, embodying purity, prosperity, and spiritual enlightenment. During Diwali, as homes glow with the festival of lights, the lotus is offered with love—an invitation for the goddess to dwell among them.
In the end, the language of flowers in worship is a dialogue—a bridge of sincerity, history, and devotion that connects the divine with the hearts of those who seek.