Red Roses
He sent me a dozen long stem red roses, with a note saying: Darling, I love you. As I placed them in the yellow vase he brought me from Shangai, I caressed them, moving my fingers along long stems. I let my cheeks rest on them, closed my eyes and said: Yes my darling, I love you too.
He took me to dinner that evening and ordered champagne with biryani. Suddenly, while sipping champagne, he proposed to marry me. I was shocked. I hadn’t known him for long. I wanted more time.
The ring in his pocket pained. He went silent after that. He brought me home, bade me good night, and as he walked away, I panicked. Running after him I wanted to say I loved him. He said: “It’s getting cold, you know, step fast inside.”
I never saw him again. For years I waited for him. Those red roses now celebrate my memories of his love in my journals. I have taken them few times with me across the globe on my trips. I caress their dry petals and kiss them when I think of him. I had bought a baby blue silk sari embroidered with red roses at the borders to wear for him if one day I saw him again.
I was young and naïve then, just out of college. I did not know how to accept his love. I am writing this now for him. If he happens to read this, he will know I truly loved him.
Whenever somebody mentions biryani or champagne, I go silent. I feel cold waves running through me and I hear him: “It’s getting cold, you know, step fast inside.”
He took me to dinner that evening and ordered champagne with biryani. Suddenly, while sipping champagne, he proposed to marry me. I was shocked. I hadn’t known him for long. I wanted more time.
The ring in his pocket pained. He went silent after that. He brought me home, bade me good night, and as he walked away, I panicked. Running after him I wanted to say I loved him. He said: “It’s getting cold, you know, step fast inside.”
I never saw him again. For years I waited for him. Those red roses now celebrate my memories of his love in my journals. I have taken them few times with me across the globe on my trips. I caress their dry petals and kiss them when I think of him. I had bought a baby blue silk sari embroidered with red roses at the borders to wear for him if one day I saw him again.
I was young and naïve then, just out of college. I did not know how to accept his love. I am writing this now for him. If he happens to read this, he will know I truly loved him.
Whenever somebody mentions biryani or champagne, I go silent. I feel cold waves running through me and I hear him: “It’s getting cold, you know, step fast inside.”
posted by Ravi Kopra at 10:42 AM
1 Comments:
You should step away from the cliches. Rather than dozen long stemmed roses, what if he had yellow tulips or stargazer lilies or even pussy-willows. Something different. If the idea is that the object spurs a memory, it should be as unique as the memory. And why just champagne? why not a specific brand? Also, I think there's one reference to biryani (something got edited?)
It's a good story if you can push it some more.
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