Tea, Spring and the Blossom

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Flower plants loaded with new offshoots, twigs, buds and blossoms. Spring morning breeze containing a whole lot of energy to finish all unfinished and never conceptualized desires. The morning was smelling teen. It was still catalyzing the thought process of the garden’s owner, who was sitting on his usual cane couch but was being gradually carried away by the spring air into the small yet comprehensive cosmos of the garden. They say spring air and midnight dew have psychedelic effect. Maybe. 

The red rose was blooming in its full glory. The plant was not enormous in its size and neither were its thorn- in fact they were not noticeable. The lustrous redness was turning his eyes all red and it seemed as if he was caressing and feeling the velvet skin of the blossom’s teen petals. His eye lashes were gently kissing the tender furls of the petals- one by one, from their brim to the near of the core. Feel of the sensation to run his dry lips over the dewy-and-therefore-juicy petals of the rose was reflecting on his face that was turning red. The pupils were dilating and squeezing in as if they were squeezing the blossoms and sucking the nectar of its core. The tea’s temperature was zeroing down but the growing heat of his hand’s cusp was averting the tea’s temperature from dropping down. 

While his eyes were deeply rooted into the warmth of blossom’s redness, a voice asked ” would you like to have another tea?” He bounced back with his eyes, consciousness and an in-satiated desire. That desirous look and feel of his face was strangled by the terror of being caught-in-the-act. And that too in the early morning. He slowly turned back and could not help avoiding looking into her eyes. Eyes, that were full of joy and gratification. The presence of these two elements in her eyes and the charm on her face, brought his tense facial lines to ease. He waved off his head to say a no and remembered sipping the remaining tea. His wife began to walk back into the house, and his back began to measure the distance travelled by her. And with her passing into her own world, he turned back to the blossom. Hoping to recourse to the point where he left and finish the unfinished rendezvous. 






“Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of ‘not knowing.” 







He sipped in the tea. Felt the terseness mellow of the drink for the first time. Senses focused on the taste, his eyes and his consciousness had missed the lustrous train of the rose. The hallucination was over. His repeated efforts to recourse ended upon the stub of the rose plant. The stub of the twig was from last spring. Right below the blooming flower, the stub was carrying the history of a miscarriage. A failed effort to branch out and bring in blossoms like the ones that others like it had brought this season. A sign of failure. He shook off this thought instantly. Corrected it. The stud was a sign of a meaningful effort. An effort that gave into its existence to supplement the existence of a meaningful substitute. While it retained itself as a failed twig, for the inexperienced eyes, it remained as a important lesson for the plant. A lesson learned through loss and a lesson that pushed the plant into maturity. At this thought, lines on his face became more grave. It was evident that he had once again stumbled upon his own life’s stud. 

It was all silent. Lines on his face became more intense. Eye lids closed. Remained so for some seconds. When they opened, they were wider, brighter than the morning light and washed like the stones on the banks of Ganges. His eyes took recourse to the blossom, the stubs and the plant. He realized that the blossom that he took for a teen is not so. It had been the best offshoot of the plant that survived all odds. The best that had come up after sacrificing all those that could not make it throughout these years of its being. A glory gained through sacrifice. A beauty gained through tears. A beauty gained through ugliness. Lips smiled in self-irony. All these time he was enjoying the guilt- of seducing a virgin. It was not a teen rose, it was a mellowed rose, that had all the desire to gratify its own being. Like him, it had mellowed into maturity through studs. They were equals who had moved on and got into maturity by loosing the teen spirit. While he thought he was seducing the velvet petals, it dawned on him of having been seduced, of being the hunted instead of the hunter. It was for the rose’s desire to be the best that it had overcome loss of so many offshoots, lived with their studs and excelled in being and bringing the best of its being. He smiled. Got off and went in with full conscious, while the rose kept blooming for someone else to come by, to seduce, to gain its being, to complete its objective. 
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