Roses and Thorns
Dawn's rosy fingers had crept into their room, gently coaxing the father and son duo sprawled on the bed from their deep sleep of night. Rudra was the first to rouse, leaving behind a lightly snoring boy for the chance to address the new day.
It was a Sunday. Dhruv could sleep in as much as he want. His five year old son had already begun his education in kindergarten at the insistence of his cousin brother, Samrat.
Having finished his morning bath, Rudra headed over to greet the garlanded portrait that hung on the wall of his bedroom. His wife. His Parvati. Oh how he missed her. Sometimes, he could still feel her presence. Her warm embrace and soft voice.
His son, Dhruv was still snoozing with his mouth half agape. Sniggering, he opened his cupboard for some fresh clothes. A thud on the floor stopped his rummage. Looking down at the cause of the sound, Rudra found a book. A novel, to be precise. 'Godaan', authored by Munshi Premchand. It was his wife's.
Little that everyone knew, his wife was quite the avid reader. During the move from their old mansion, she had packed a number of books in their luggage. They had bantered about it. Of course, the lady won… as always.
He began flipping through the worn out book until he came upon a dried stalk of rose. She had used it as a bookmark.
He remembered that night. The night after they had both chose a bowl of roses, blindfolded. She had lectured him on the beauty of thorns.
"Phool murajhate. Lekin kaante kabhi nahin murajhate. Hamesha waise ke waise hi rehte. Phool ki raksha ke liye, hamesha taiyaar."
Lowering himself on a nearby chair, Rudra felt himself tearing up. "Oh, what a soft shell have I turned out to be," he muttered. It was times like these his need for Paro became more prominent. The guilt would never leave his being.
He was the thorn. The lonely and abandoned thorn, who has lost its flower forever. She was right. The thorn stays and will always be there, even after the flower is gone. But one thing she got wrong was that the thorn will never be the same again.
Looking up at his beautiful wife's smiling portrait, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Paro. I failed to protect you. I'm sorry for not reaching you in time."
One would note the many times this man had uttered those words to the unmoving painting. The walls be witness. Rudra Pratap Ranawat prided himself as a man of his words. But there were times where fate intervened and he could no longer change what was destined. His flower did not only withered, it was forcefully plucked by a heartless villain.
He still recalled that stormy night when his lovely wife took her last breath, covered in her own pool of blood on his lap. Their one month old son crying at the loss of his mother.
Just a month before that dreaded night, Paro had given him a silly request of planting a rose tree. It was her favourite kind of flower. He had absolutely no idea how she had found the bare root of the rose, but they had both dug the soil together. At his own insistence, he did most of the job; for Paro was still weak after their son's birth.
"Major Saa, promise me we will both take care of this plant as much as we will care for Dhruv. It will grow together with him."
Shaking his head at his wife's sheer guilelessness, he put up a hand to take the vow.
His son is five now. True to his words, he had taught Dhruv to water his mother's beloved plant every day. Roses had bloomed throughout the seasons. Blue butterflies were even seen fluttering around it. He had lost his flower, but he will see to it that these roses will never be separated from their thorns.
"Papa?" called a little boy, jolting Rudra up from his reverie.
"Hmm?"
"Have you water the roses?"
"I was waiting for you," he smiled wistfully.