I stood at the edge of the footpath waiting for the signal to turn red. Two of my comrades accompanying me. An eloquent and accomplished lady in her late 20s, with the most interesting stories that she imparts humorously, stood on my right. On her right stood our very own metro man, with his thin black rimmed glasses. A kind guy two years older than me, who’s always ready to offer a helping hand or a joke to light your mood up. The two engaged in some conversation that I drifted away from as something on the road caught my eye. On the white line that runs like a river along the road were three roses, each wrapped in a clear sheet with white hearts printed on them. The flowers must’ve been fresh for them to have only wilted as much as they did under this burning sun. Some of it’s petals were a rotten shade of brown, discolored, no more dripping with the color of love. Others that still held onto the crimson hue, too were slowly melting into the same despair.
The flowers lay flat on the road from being run over a few times. It amused me. How come they were still intact at all? Covered in dust thoroughly, the wrapper was the evidence of the damage done. These flowers took me to two different memories at the same time. The way they lost their form and their petals wilted, reminded me of the familiar pages in my diary, tinted with the scent of a withered rose. I remember a lady putting that in my hair ages ago when I told her of my love for gajra. She smiled and said, “you can have this, it suits you better”
The abruptly my mind wandered to the faces of the children I saw this morning holding out bouquets into the rickshaw I sat in. Pleading words and helpless eyes. Their feet black from running around bare feet. Only God knows how they endure the scorching ground as the heat rises and the land below their feet burns. I wonder how they ended up in that state. Both the children and the flowers.What might be their story? It wasn’t difficult to sit and talk to one of those kids. There were too many of them. But it wasn’t possible to know all their stories. And it would feel unfair to only take in account the pain of a few while the other stories go unheard. The roses seemed to me like a reflection of their aspirations. Maybe in their childish candour they would hope to dream and dream to hope. But will any of them ever be able to break the vicious cycle they are trapped in? My mind clutters with too much all at once. My companion nudges me with a soft hum that the signal was red. Without much thought the tips of my fingers gently held the sleeve of her kurti to cross the road. “Come along,” she said pulling my hand to wrap it around her arm as if permitting me to hold it. We crossed the road and their conversation continued. I heard everything they said but I lost interest in listening, though I participated in that trivial exchange my mind still lingered on the withering roses.