It’s a little over 10 pm. We are in the typical Delhi rickshaw. I am sitting on that extended back seat. “What if the shop is closed?”, my mom asks from the front seat. No, it will be open, I say, hoping that it will be. We are going to buy a wooden pot kinda thing wherein you put the flowers. I don’t know what it’s called but if I see one I can spot it immediately. I need it for my art and crafts class the next day. The teacher is strict and if I fail to bring it, he might kill me. Or worse, make me stand in the sun.
My eyes scan the whole area in search of florists. There are none in sight. Whatever happened to romantic gestures and young couples. As I am thinking this, my dad spots a florist. We buy the wooden thing and take the same rickshaw back home. I keep the pot in my school bag and go to sleep, with a big smile on my face. The next day, the teacher was absent. For years to come, this would be my only encounter with flowers or things related to flowers.
I am at Connaught Place. It’s hot. My shirt is drenched in sweat. There are some clouds but they are just for the scenery I feel. Why can’t it rain always, I think, unaware that my later years will be spent in Mumbai, wishing for the opposite. She is late, so I roam around. If you haven’t wandered aimlessly in Connaught Place, you aren’t a true Delhiite. Outside a Puma store, I spot an old bookseller. I flip a few books before buying the book I wanted to buy.
I am outside F block metro gate, she calls and says. I start walking towards the gate. On my way, I spot a florist. I stop and buy a rose. It’s her birthday and I have decided to be a little romantic today. My bar is set so low that she gets happy when she sees me with a flower. I should do better. I crack a bad joke and off we go for our lunch date. I see her keeping the flower in her bag. It’s nice, thank you. Welcome. I wait for the right time to gift her the book. It’s a joke-gift. The book is Myth of Sisyphus. Nobody gifts the Myth of Sisyphus to people on their birthdays. I should do better.
It’s our second year in lockdown. I go for a walk in my society building. It’s safe, I say to myself. The plants in the park are uprooted because of a cyclone. I clear a bench and sit down. The flowers which bloomed yesterday rather joyously are no more. New plants will replace them. Life goes on. For now, there are no flowers in sight.
Faiz once said -
na gul khile hai, na unse mile, na mai pi hai
ajeeb rang mein ab ke bahaar guzri hai.
I decide to call her. It’s been weeks since we have met. But these are smaller problems. The uncle I used to see every day hasn’t come since two weeks, I tell her. Maybe he has changed his timings, she replies. Maybe. I wander aimlessly as if this is Connaught Place. A guard comes and tells me it’s time to shut the park.
“Ye park kyun band karte ho?”
“Bacche phool chura lete hai raat ko?”
“Par aaj toh phool hai hi nahin”.
“Kabhi toh honge”.
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When people read a book, everyone takes different lines or passages as a take home msg. The beauty with which you manage to do the same feat in mostly less than 1000 words (equal to just 3-4 pages of an avg book) is really commendable :)
hey...really love your write ups...there are really inspiring and makes me feel calm and happy.
btw even i try to write something if you have time to read please do..
https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/6531411722559341134