The White Roses

She came up to me and showed the roses. They were shining bright as the rains pounded the windscreen, the wiper worked feverishly to clear my view. Amidst the outlines formed by the scattered raindrops, I could see the reflection of the traffic signal, a bright red flush.  

The rains had decided to pay me a visit on my birthday, not knowing I already had a dinner date with my wife. It was the 30^th year of my being around; I was happily married, with a great job and a good life; perhaps living a dream.

I ensured winding up all my work earlier than usual so as to reach home on time. The downpour came as a surprise. I drove out of the parking lot and arrived at the longest traffic signal of my daily route. I saw the usual hustle-bustle; the pointless honks from a few bored-with-idling drivers, the clogged drains overflowing with muddied rainwater, the huddled up beggars below porous tarpaulins, the wandering stares of the auto drivers and her!

A dark, petite figure selling unusually white and vibrant roses, she would rather be fit for a school. Her innocent smile, her grubby locks, her playful banter gave her a rather strange aura. These street kids were my emotional weakness and could drag me away from the most crucial of my routines or the best plans of my life. I bought them without a second thought.

The signal turned green, the girl smiled and life moved on. I was back to squinting at my rain-speckled windscreen. The white roses lay next to me, staring at me, with an expressionless face. I glanced at them and smiled, as if to say, I know where you’ll land up, on my wife’s lap.

This distraction turned out to be a serious miss. The car screeched and came to a halt! Did I hit the brake pedal in time? I rushed out to check if there was any hope left.

There was!

I saw her standing in front of the car and staring at me. It took me a while to realize why she was staring at me. Well, you do lose some eyesight by 30.

I was looking at a girl who had been an indispensable part of my life at one point in time. Was this a Eureka moment for me?

Titli, which meant butterfly, was true to her name. She was as vibrant as the colours of a butterfly and graceful as well. She was my classmate in college and one of the good students in the class. Our love for poetry had struck an instant bond. I would recite my poems, half as good as hers, and she would appreciate and encourage me. We would sit in the woods and discuss the work of great poets for hours at a stretch. Time knew no bounds when we were together, enjoying the sun, the shade, the rain, the hail, the sky, the tree, the lands, the seas. We were known for our poetry, our camaraderie, our free-thinking and our attitude. Jealous eyes would keep stalking us all the time.

Life had other plans for us, our destiny betrayed us. We applied to US colleges together. I got through, she didn’t. It left a scar. With a promise to come back for her, I left for the high seas.

I still remember that day at the airport. She came to bid farewell. Her eyes moist, her voice choked and her hands cold. We embraced each other for a long time—eternity—if I could call it so. I left her standing at the entrance, in her white kurta, as if stealing away all the colours of her life. In return, I only gave her a bunch of white roses and a glass fairy, something I would remember her as.  

Wait a minute! Was this a coincidence? She seemed to be wearing that same kurta now! I was a little surprised.

We stood there in the moist air looking at each other, letting the reality of this incident sink in. To my surprise, my voice broke the silence. A soft 'Hi!"

I smiled at her and before I realized, a tear or two rolled down my cheeks. I had imagined us meeting again in life, but never thought it would be like this— so wet and this cold.

She greeted me with a simple "Hello, how are you?"—a seemingly guarded response. I wondered if she was unhappy to see me again.

“Don’t worry, I am unwell and hence the cold response,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. I was quick to change the topic and threw a barrage of questions at her, generally. How was she, where was she living, what had she been doing… Was she married?

“Care for a walk?” was her only response. I thought for a while, about my birthday and my dinner. The realities of my life had changed. For me, “my” did not include her anymore. However, I said yes.

There was an uncanny silence around us, perhaps within us as well. A guilt did reside deep down within me. 

This time she started, strangely enough with a story, her story.

“I got admission into post-graduation in the city itself and therafter pursued PhD. It was during my PhD that I met a young man, a replica of your persona, whom I liked a lot. I don’t know if I liked him because he was like you, but to be honest, I never could forget you. I knew you would never come back, but I had hope, which kept me going. This hope always stopped me from getting involved intimately with him. Our PhDs got over and we both started working; I, as a lecturer and he as a chemist in a private lab.

One day, I heard about your wedding. The twinkling of hope died. The day changed my life. I said yes to him, to get married.

Within a year we got married. It started off well; we shifted to my ancestral cottage and did it up our way. We went on vacations and had a healthy social life. We were married for three years but I could not conceive, it was a medical impossibility, a reality we slowly accepted, or so did I feel.

It seemed to be going fine until a stormy night. He got home another woman. I was shocked and could not even react. The next day, he said, he wanted a divorce because he didn't love me anymore. With no further explanations, he moved out of the house. I only heard from his lawyers thereafter.

I was devastated. I had no support, nobody to console me, no shoulder to cry on. I was a disheartened soul.

I could only think of you, but you too were far, beyond my reach. My only wish was to meet you once before I go."

Her voice faded away. I turned to look at her and she was nowhere to be seen. It took me a while to realize I was standing at the gate of an old cottage, dilapidated and fallow. I opened the gate. The old wood made a crackling sound. I walked up the cobbled path; the sound of silence was overwhelming. Suddenly I saw her again, standing in front of the main door and smiling at me. Before I could ask where she had disappeared or where she had brought me, she stepped in, rather floated in.

All this while, it seemed I had no control over my actions; as if some other force was driving me. Why on earth would I be here, rather than at a wonderful restaurant eating good food with my wife?

By now, the wind had picked up speed and made a slow whooshing sound behind me, the leaves rustled and the only source of light was a dim lamp outside the wooden gate behind me. Titli was nowhere to be seen. I called her name, once, twice, thrice and suddenly I felt something falling on my feet. A small broken glass fairy and a few sticks of white roses.

I picked them up and froze!

She stood in front, pale and feeble, sporting a sad smile. Her eyes were deep and her look intense. As her white kurta ruffled in the wind, she pointed at my hand and I heard her voice one last time as the shadow faded away.

“You gave me those when you left me; I return these to you as am leaving you.”