The Rose, The Stub and Him  

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Blossoms were blooming in the lustrous rose garden. The early spring morning garden was yet some minutes away from meeting the morning minion queen. And in her stead, the morning spring breeze that contained a whole lot of energy, enough for anyone to finish unfinished and never conceptualized desires, was reigning the teen petals and the grass twigs along with the dew. The whole environment smelled teen. It was catalyzing and carrying away his thoughts and desires. Sitting on his usual cane crouch, he was gradually giving into the seductive air. He was experiencing the entire cosmos in their without realizing what it was. They say spring air and midnight dew have psychedelic effect. It seemed a true story.

A red rose blossom was blooming in its full glory on a small twig of the plant, that in autumn would have failed to make the impression that it could be so much fertile- as to give birth to such a masterpiece. It was not enormous in its size and neither were its thorn- in fact they were not noticeable. Lustrous redness of this blossom was turning his eyes and himself red. Totally engrossed in its being, it was evident that 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 their core. The desire of his hungry and dried-up lips for the dewy-and-therefore-juicy petals of the rose was reflecting on the blushes of his face.

Deep somewhere in his unconscious, he was getting involved in the play- The play that had been his private game. That has a player in it. But the game where its him who makes the rule and who is the only one that has a say in the details and results of the play. So, here he was again, readying for his best sport- a sport that he created, modified and perfected. All in his head, all in his unconscious and all to his will. And there she was – his rose. A human representation of the teen blossom. A beast even beautiful than any roses that bloomed on this or any other morning garden.

His stare was going blank, as he started the game in his dream garden. The wide open eyes stopped looking at anything in front of them. Making it evident that they were voyeauring inside the head, on him and his game’s subject. As his carnal desire driven lips began to squeeze the tender petals, he could feel the animal within coming into action. Soon, he was fast vandalizing each and every inch of his rose, sucking each and every drop of life from its being. The violence was evident in the dilating pupils and the drowsy eyelashes.The tea’s temperature was zeroing down but the raging heat in the cusp of his hand that held the cup was averting the drink’s temperature from zeroing down.

“Would you like to have another cup?

The question derailed efforts to finish the play. He was pulled back into the garden. But the voice failed to push back the reflection of the in-satiated desires that had left him in the ancient ruins. Manifestations of these feelings in the lines of his face were discernible, but they were strangled by the terror of being caught-in-the-act. He slowly turned his head back and while avoiding looking into her eyes, said a polite no. For the first time, he sipped the already cold gone tea. His ears were measuring the increase distance of her from him. And when they confirmed that she had completely withdrawn from his moment, he turned back to the blossom. The hopeful eyes tried to touch the blossom once again, just as they had done, hoping recourse to the point where he had abandoned the unfinished rendezvous.



Rose and Sweet Pea by Lucian Freaud.




“One of the saddest things in life, is the things one remembers.” ― Agatha Christie





His tongue caught the terseness in the cold tea. All senses focused on the drink and cursed the shit out of the drink. He had been drinking it for years now, but now in the second half of his game all of sudden he felt that it was crap. In doing so he did not realizing that he was expecting some other taste there in the tea. In this criticism, his eyes and his consciousness had missed the train of desires to the lustrous rose.

The hallucination was over. His repeated efforts ended up nowhere. Once again he found himself at square zero. All alone. All to himself and shattered dreams. With the wholeness of his thoughts weighed out with tattered feelings. With the wholeness of his possessions weighed out by his lacking. Once again, there he was finding answer to the unanswered. This ancient quest, led his eyes to the stub of a rose blossom that had succumbed to the tyranny of nature, this very spring. Right below the blooming flower, the stub was carrying the history of a miscarriage. A failed effort to branch out and manifest its beauty in the form of a blossom like the ones that others like it had brought this season. A sign of a successful failed attempt.

This thought suddenly sparked more meaning to this whole junk of feelings. He found in the stud’s existence, the manifestation of a meaningful effort. An effort that could not make a meaningful existence, in the worldly sense, of supplementing or contributing to the existence of a meaningful substitute. There in this stud, he found meaning to the existence of the blooming blossoms and the rose plant itself. It was a lesson that the rose had learned.

Everything that sprouts in you, does not always materializes into its intended existence. Everything that comes into this world is not essentially destined to gain maturity. But every loss, every failure and every pain received in making efforts make us more willing to compromise with our inability and powerlessness- the inability to change things or circumstances that do not confirm to our desires and aspirations. Everyone and everything in this world has a stud. A branch that fails to branch out. A failed attempt that reminds us of our limited capacity and unlimited desires. At this thought, lines on his face became more grave, it was evident — he had stumbled upon his stud in the rose garden.

Silence prevailed. The tornado inside him could not control the melting of the dew, blooming of the blossom and the rise of the minion queen. His closed eyes, shut lips and exhausted brain were drowned in the quagmire of the past. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Eyes remained closed. The lines were disappearing – hinting at the success of reaching another compromise with the self. Everything that closes has to open. His eyes also followed this positive dictate- that is just an assumption. Because he knew it isn’t so. Everything and everyone don’t subject them to the notion of essentialism. But in this case, the optimist view prevailed.

His eyes threw open. They were wider than the horizon, brighter than the morning light and hard washed like the stones on the banks of Ganges. He fired his morning cigarette. After blowing two heavy puffs, his lips smiled in self-irony. How could he be still hinging on the inability of the stud to make a meaningful existence. Why was he taking it as a failed attempt. Why was he thinking that the stud had to essentially transform into blossom. Why could not he realize all these time, that every bud on the plant is not meant to bloom. Some of them just come into existence to stand as a comparison for those that bloom.

The rose plant is beautiful because it’s been through seasons and the stud stood witness to the coming and going of many summers. The plant stood witness to nature’s tyranny of not letting everything going good. The rose’s and his own life – were still the same. Some studs, some buds and a blossom to cherish and a meaning to attach to life. He pulled himself together. Gently placed the cup on the table. Stood on his foot, walked through the steps that sometimes earlier she must have gone through. He retraced her steps to find his self in the present.

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