The Rose

It was a usual, bright, happy day at Barcelona, Spain. The date was October 18^th, and it was a day after Hari’s birthday. He wasn’t there at the corner café, but his two best friends were already there waiting hungrily for their breakfast to be served. After searching for a long time, Tarun, Dev and Hari had finally found this small, quiet café which served the perfect breakfast for the three friends – Idli, Sāmbhar, Vada, coffee, and lots of it!

They sat at the usual outdoor table, discussing last night. Dev had missed a few moments of the party, since he had passed out. Tarun, on the other hand, hadn’t slept all night. First, it was Hari who had kept telling him a story that was quite interesting, and then finally when Hari went to sleep himself, it was the German girl next door who kept him up. It was her Tarun and Dev were discussing, when the Waitress named Monique approached their table.

“Good morning, boys. Beautiful day, isn’t it? What can I get you today, the usual?” asked Monique, with her light rolling French accent. The boys adored that accent, and it always made their day to have a pretty French waitress serving them early in the morning.

“Uh, yeah. The usual,” said Tarun, “but get only two plates of Idli, and one plate of Vada. Hari’s not going to be here today, not right now at least.”

“And just two coffees, same reason,” smirked Dev.

“So, it’ll be two Idli-Sāmbhar, one Vada-Sāmbhar, and two double espressos,” Monique repeated their order, “Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks, Monique,” said Dev, as Monique walked away from the table, her high heels clicking rhythmically with every step.

“So, what did Hari talk to you about for so long last night?” asked Dev.

Forgetting the story about the German girl-next-door, Tarun frowned hard, trying to remember the other tale. “It was something about a rose,” said he, “something about what happened to the rose. Not a great story. Nothing against Hari, though, but you can’t always come up with great stories. Plus, he was really drunk too, last night.”

“Tell me what he said, already. Drunken stories from Hari, that’s bound to be fun!” quipped Dev.

“Alright, I’ll tell you the story,” began Tarun. “He said that a long time ago, when we were all little boys, and Hari was staying in Spain, he heard a very interesting story from a vase…”

“A vase? He heard a story from a vase?” asked Dev, unbelievingly.

“Look, that’s what Hari said last night, ok? You want to hear the story or not?”

“Oh, absolutely! I can’t wait to hear the rest of this. Story from a vase – that ought to be good!”

“Right, so Hari heard this story from a vase,” continued Tarun, “who had fallen in love with this beautiful rose. The vase told Hari that she was beautiful, and that the vase would just go on and on about how beautiful that rose was.”

“So, how beautiful was it?” asked Dev.

“The rose?” asked Tarun. “From what Hari described last night,” Tarun answered, “it was deep red, and still a bud when the vase first met her. It was Hari’s father who had brought her to the flower shop, and kept her in that vase. They talked often, right from the start, the vase and the rose, and soon became good friends. The rose, at that time, did not know just how beautiful she was, and the vase, being somewhat shy, couldn’t tell her that upfront. Even though he tried, many times, to tell her just how beautiful he thought she was, he couldn’t.

“With every passing day, the beauty of the rose grew. The bud unfurled, slowly, to reveal the real beauty of the petals. A rich, dark red, soft velvety petals, so thick that when they fell, the plop could be heard at all corners of the little flower shop. And the scent, it was divine! With every passing day, the scent of that one rose brought in so many people into that little shop, and the vase was so happy and proud. The rose was indeed beautiful, in all respects, and now finally, the world could see that too. He saw that the rose was happy, and in her happiness, he found his own. Before he knew it, he was in love with that rose.

“Still, the rose didn’t believe that she really was that beautiful. Every time they touched upon the topic of her beauty, she would constantly say that she wasn’t that pretty. The vase, too shy to press on the topic, would let it go, and they would start talking about other things.

“As the days went by, the beauty of the rose increased, and so did her popularity. Soon, the flowers in the little shop all knew who she was, and she was having a merry time with everyone. The rose, in the wake of her ever growing popularity, soon forgot how close she used to be with the vase. She had new friends now, and although the vase saw her every day, things changed. Her priorities had changed, but the silly vase didn’t want to understand that.”

Monique came up to the table, with a tray laden with their breakfasts; two plates of Idli, and one plate of Vada, accompanied by a delicious bowl of Sāmbhar. Tarun stopped for breakfast, but Dev somehow, wasn’t interested in that anymore. “Go on with the story, would you?” Dev urged.

Tarun smiled, seeing that Dev had become so interested into the whole story. So, he put down his spoon, and picked up his cup of coffee, and he continued with the story. “So, the rose had gotten popular,” he said, “and there was this growing distance between the vase and the rose. But the rose did not seem aware of that distance. Maybe she was, and she just pretended that it didn’t exist. Still, the distance kept growing, and yet the vase found that he silently went on loving her.

“Many people had started visiting the little flower shop now, after hearing all about the beauty of the rose. The vase was so proud of the rose, and he tried, in little ways, to make her look even more beautiful. The demand for the rose grew more and more, till one day, Hari’s father decided to sell that rose. The highest bidder got the prize, but the vase wasn’t aware of any of this. So, one morning, he woke up, to find that his best friend, the rose that he loved so much, had gone.”

“She didn’t say goodbye?” asked Dev.

“She didn’t think there was a need to say anything. The vase was left in the store, alone, and as he told Hari this tale, the vase seemed reminiscent of all the good times they had had. Hari said that he could feel the vase’s nostalgia, and although he knew his efforts at making her beautiful had gone unnoticed, and even taken her away from him, the vase was happy knowing that she, too was happy.”

Dev, at this point of time, was hanging on to every word that came out of Tarun’s mouth. Like a little child, waiting to know the ‘then what?’ of a fascinating story. Tarun, however, shut up, so Dev ultimately had to ask him, “Then what?”

In mid bite, Tarun waved to Dev to wait a moment, swallowed, and said, “I’m not sure. That’s the point where Hari also passed out. I couldn’t sleep though, I stayed up a long time after that, thinking about what he said.”

“Huh. So that was the end of the story? What happened to the vase?”

“From what Hari told me, I think the vase was alone, at least for a while after that. Beyond that, obviously, I don’t know.”

Breakfast was over, and the two of them glanced at their watches. It was time for them to leave for work, so they paid the bill and got up to leave. Walking to the bus stop, Dev stopped Tarun, and asked “Do you think there was a point to that story? I mean, why did Hari tell you that story, is there a reason for that?”

“Well,” said Tarun, “I’m not sure if even Hari knows the answer to that or not.”