FICTION

How I Learned To Grow Carnations?

Final moments

Photo by Natasha on Unsplash

I love to plant roses, whether they turn out fragrant or not. I experiment with all varieties, all the time. Those who know me are often surprised by the blooms when they see my garden after leaving my house.

Perhaps it’s because I don't have a yellow wall in my drawing room, and my tea doesn't depend on who has come to visit me.

Quite a few still come, even now, years after I left that job. I can no longer teach them regularly. I have turned away from the glances that once looked at me with so much hope. It is the guilt alone that stops me from closing the door on their faces.

I do not enjoy morning or evening walks in my garden; I do not want anyone to see the desperation behind growing those roses. Still, I step out around noon, just before the afternoon sun begins to mirror me. We share a moment on days when fresh water drips from some leaves, while on other days, I get my hands dirty with compost, emptying whatever remains inside me.

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As soon as I finish and go indoors, I see my neighbour arriving home for lunch. I close the curtains as soon as she shuts her gate. Yet the sound of her keys — and who knows what strange ornaments — lingers in the air. Who comes home for lunch these days? Strange. And who waters roses while hiding from the world? Strange, that too.

I sit in front of the largest screen, opening smaller ones all around me, struggling each time to find the same page in a giant book — even though I have bookmarked it.

In the mornings, as I decide what I’ll search for while looking at dew drops on the black roses, everything feels hopeful. But by the time afternoon arrives in full glory, I no longer know what I am looking for.

Smoke slowly fills the room, and when hunger becomes unbearable, I go to the kitchen in search of leftovers and make tea. I look back at the checklist I prepare every morning — and fail again. Nowadays, I earn by searching for things that are useless in discovering anything new.

As soon as the sun bids goodbye, one or two students wait outside without ringing the doorbell. I feel they are the only reason I still keep track of time behind those dark navy-blue curtains. I wear a mask and step outside.

Earlier, they came to me looking for answers. Now they come with answers, still unable to solve them. I envy them. I have no answers to the questions I scream at all day, nor the ability to solve them — and worst of all, no one who understands what my questions even are. I solve their riddles, talk about solving them, and make sure they do not return here facing the same problems again.

By the time I close the door, night has already seeped in. With night comes hunger; there are no leftovers left. Darkness dulls the guilt of disappearing into smoke and consuming intoxication.

The moon begins to romance the black petals — petals I can look at only for a moment — before the moon peeks in and laughs at me.

I do not laugh at myself. My state is not pitiable; it is redemption for mistakes I am still unable to face. My demons are weaponless now. We are both submerged in drink — one or two glasses, just enough to drag us into nightmares we have yet to face. I will have to face without any shield, without any navy-blue curtains. I will have to watch the moon romance the black rose I have managed to grow.

The next morning, another red bud blooms in the adjacent pot. It will be the most beautiful one — the one I will never let die, the one I will hide from the moon, the one I will press into a book and preserve.

The book she gave me. The book she wrote. The book I can never forget. The book I have hidden in so many places that I have misplaced it for decades. Why can red roses not defeat every other rose? Where is the book?

I make the longest to-do list every morning, gathering all the tools to survive the day — until it all collapses and I step out to water the red bud. I do not care how I look or how crumpled my kurta is. I water them all: the white roses blooming quietly in a corner of silence; the tiny pink ones building an empire of fragrance; the balsam roses waiting to become itra; the yellow ones competing with the afternoon sun; the black ones that have awakened the darkest shades within me; and finally, the red bud waiting to open and become part of the fleeting affection we all live for after our stories end.

Yes, I know my story has ended. There is nothing left. Even if I were to receive everything I ever desired, I no longer have the capacity to give anything back. I do not have it in me. I do not want to change the story anymore; I only want it to be read once before I fail, before I surrender to the truth that I learned nothing from what I taught or preached. The deeper I dig, the closer I come to the shallow surface of my own existence.

Before I can run inside, I hear my neighbour approaching. She seems astonished to see me alive — less alive than her, of course. Her gaze shifts between the roses and me. She smiles at them and laughs at me before disappearing behind the yellow curtains of her doorway.

That evening, no student comes — but the neighbour does. I open the door, though she has no intention of entering. As if she does not want to know me — only the roses, or perhaps to ask for cuttings.

She does not.

She touches a single petal — yes, the black one — and hands me a packet of seeds. No words are exchanged. Yet I feel a comfort I have not known in years.

As if her eyes understand: it is okay to feel guilty and be unable to fix it; it is ok to live with a story that was never written the way you intended; it is okay to meet emptiness after all the digging; it is ok to envy someone else romancing your roses.

She leaves before I can see the moon rise through my misty eyes.

In late winter, when roses stop blooming, I wait for these new seeds to germinate. The next spring will belong to carnations — a flower someone else gifted, and I know nothing about. The story of roses will end with carnations, with some of the guilt, and with one reader who was able to read it, unlike her book, read by many.

And now, I do not want to forget the book, for the fragrance of carnations lingers longer than roses within it.

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