I wrote this story 2 years back. And now that I’ve chosen to be active on social media, I couldn’t resist sharing this very creation. (Although, I give credit to my little sister for this, Priyanshi.)
Here it goes….
It was a cold winter morning. Swati was sitting by her window, with her favourite cup of coffee in her hand.
“Wow, what a beautiful day it is.” She said to her self and looked down. That florist was again standing there. He was a bit too handsome for a florist with sparkling green eyes that were continuously gazing her. She felt uncomfortable, hence curtailed the window and went to get ready for her college.
She found a long-stemmed red rose at her doorstep as she stepped outside. A little suspicion struck her mind. Swati ignored the rose and went ahead.
Next morning the same thing happened. This time she took the rose and smelled it. “Aah! What a wonderful perfume.” She kept it in her bag and the day went just the same.
Now it was a part of her daily routine. And occasionally she would look down the window too, to give that florist a gaze.
It was a silent acceptance of admiration.
One day her mom was cleaning her daughter’s room and decided to arrange her cupboard. A book fell and along with it fell a rose out of it.
“What’s this?” She said to herself. She checked all the other books. All her books told a secret her mom never wanted to know.
She grew suspicious and scared. For a single mother, it was a thing of great worry.
“What is the thing with all these roses Swati?” She asked her daughter as soon as she came home.
“Oh! Not a big deal maa.” She shrugged. “You know that florist downstairs, he just leaves one rose daily and has never done any harm.”
“But still! You never told me?”
“Maa! Please! It’s alright. He’s a nice guy. And don’t worry. I don’t love him or anything. I just love these flowers.”
“I won’t allow this Swati.”
“Maa, trust me please. It’s nothing.” She was firm this time.
The days passed. Her mom was always worried but she never uttered a word about it.
That florist was no more around. But the roses didn’t stop coming. Swati grew a strange attachment with the roses. But she was not much bothered about the florist not being there anymore. Which was an even more strange a thing.
2 months had gone by. Swati was a quite girl now.
“Sweety, go take a bath.”
She went for the bath.
“Would you like some tea?”
There came a nod.
And that was the only type of conversation that happened in the house now.
One day Swati’s mausi (aunt) visited her.
“Namaste didi! How are you? And Swati?”
“I’m fine and so is Swati.” She replied
“What are you writing didi (Elder sister)?”
“Oh it’s nothing. Wait. Let me make some tea for you. I’ll just come.” She went to the kitchen.
The pages were getting flipped. Fan was a bit too fast today. Hot day maybe.
She went through one page.
“How do I make her stop from taking those stupid roses.”
She flipped another page.
“She just doesn’t listen to me at all. Such a rebel she has become.”
“Finally made that florist leave society. After all, how can a low-class florist keep any relation with my beloved daughter!”
“I must keep this chorus of roses intact for a while.”
“Why is she so addicted to those roses! Maybe this perfume would gradually fade memory of that florist.”
“I lost my daughter.”
She turned around and her didi was standing with tray in her hands.
Swati was sitting by the window. With a rose in her hand, smelling it. Her room was filled with roses.
That perfume faded everything but saved the respect of her mother.
Swati doesn’t remember that florist anymore. Neither does she remember her mother or herself.
But only the roses. Long stemmed, red roses.
Sometimes, in order to protect our loved ones and our honour, we go so blind that the very essence of love gets lost somewhere. Maybe, love needs to be set free, and then only we can enjoy it forever.