Monday, March 01, 2010

To my beloved “Rose”

A Short Story by Supraja Gaini

Writer’s note: “Hello readers, I am Supraja Gaini and also go by the nickname of Pooja. I currently reside in Huntsville, Alabama, U.S.A. and am originally from Hyderabad, India. Although my day is spent coding software, writing is a creative outlet that revitalizes me. I appreciate any input regarding my stories from the readers of Pravasi Herald. My email is .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) !!

What follows could be about, a romantic interlude a heroine by the name “Rose” had. Mayhap it describes a ‘sweet sixteenth birthday rose’ or the one I received on my wedding night! Alas my memory protests, when it comes to events that may or may not have happened two decades back.

This gentle reader, (to your relief I am sure) is about the very first rose that blossomed in my garden of three years. Don’t you dare snigger? For someone who has dreamt of English roses all her life, the first rose in my garden has been a dream come true.

I admit, I’m a victim of the hangover left behind by the British Raj. Growing up I splurged on a diet of books by ‘Thomas Hardy’ and ‘Barbara Cartland’. And thence began my fascination with roses. Of course being in possession of an imagination that is in constant overdrive, when I look at a rose, what comes to my mind are long walks in the winded lanes of an English countryside, the fresh faced beauty of an English farm girl, romantic interludes and more. But I digress.

The first bud that appeared set my heart racing. The deep hues of dark pink coupled with the tender green leaves made me yearn for an artist’s canvas. Having just paid the bills for all the gardening tools I had bought, I decided against signing up for a painting class. And it was early days yet for this new hobby, as my realist husband derisively pointed out.

Yes my rose bloomed, each petal as perfect as the fingers of a new born baby. My teacup in hand, I sipped and gazed at it alternately every morning, with pride. I forgot in that moment the innumerable hours I had spent digging the hole to put the plant into the ground. I might as well own up to it, I was no respectable gardener, when I first bought this rose plant. While I am at it, let me confess, I chose the sharpest object left behind by the workmen next door, to dig the hole and it took me, lets see, just about three hours to get the plant into the ground.

Having lowered the plant into the hole and filling it with the dug up soil, I gave the earth one final loving pat all around. I was reaching for the watering can, when I realized the bag of potting soil I had bought still remained unopened beside me. If I remembered correctly the potting soil was supposed to go into the hole before the plant.

Yes sire, it was the dream of an English rose garden that kept me going and one kindly neighbor. He told me later he was seriously concerned when he saw me brandishing the sharp iron bar as I said a breathless hello, hunched over the hole in the ground. Looking back, my disheveled appearance and the intense look on my face as I dug with all my might must have been what inspired him to rush over and offer a hoe and a shovel.

Well the blooming rose, evoked in me a sense of accomplishment, elation and success. Wow! All these feelings without a trip to the psychiatrist definitely justified the gardening expenses on my husband’s credit card bill. Or so I tried to convince him. Before my skeptical hubby could vent satirical comments about my tendency to flit from one new obsession to the next and general lack of persistence etc., I racked my brain for ways to store away the memories of my first love.

Braving the amused smiles being cast in my direction by neighbors and family alike, I got my digital camera out. Squeezing through the shrubs to get closer to the rose, I struck a mighty awkward pose, aka ‘Nadia Comaneci’ style and zoomed in and zoomed out a couple of times before I finally snapped a few pictures. While indulging in the throes of my first bloom’s beauty, I decided, to store the pictures of my first rose, a labor or love, a dream realized, on a CD for posterity and beyond.

The story could end here but it would be unjust to all the romantics out there if I were not to mention the common travails of a first love. Yes you guessed right. Like every love story, my villain appeared; a dark, ugly and menacing bug, feeding on the petals of my beloved. It brought with it several more of its kind, clung to her and sapped at her strength while I slept unaware of this treacherous act of the night.

My tea cup shook, the next morning as I saw the petals lying on the ground.
“Japanese Beetles”, sympathized my neighbor, as he laid a kindly arm on my shoulder. My ire knew no bounds and if looks could kill, those big fat beetles holding fast to the remaining petals would surely get the message and not return. But alas, as my husband reminded me sagely, “Life is not a bed of roses”.

That clinched it for me. I read up about the monstrous villains and armed with sprays that claim to kill all villains without discretion, I went to war. While my kids think it is insensitive to kill so many beetles to save a mere rose, I say, “All is fair in love and war”.

And I know in my heart, that while first loves win rave reviews in the excitement department it is the mature second love that is hardy and lasting. So I now wait for the blooming of a second rose, daring the beetles to get past my vigil and the strongest spray on the market of course!!

While the author accepts the charge that she does tend to view the world through rose colored glasses; she requests the readers to join her in her rosy vision of the world. Yes the picture inset is the very same rose she saved from the villainous Japanese beetle.