..is still a rose, but 10 years ago, it could have been an orchid and I would not have given a damn either way.
I particularly hated roses since they represented every single stale romantic cliché in the book and I – well, I had Simone de Beauvoir to live upto – I would be damned I was going be seen swooning over roses. Boys and/or men were allowed to resort to poetry, music, letters, silver and raw appeal. Roses would just have been a glaring amplification of HE DOES NOT KNOW ME ONE BIT. So.
My mother might have suggested roses for the wedding to decorate the mandap. She then ran for her life to avoid the avalanche of vitriol that would have drowned her.
Since my present is really all about making a mockery of my pretentious past, I present you this.
This is the first rose to bloom in my garden this year.
I sniffed it, I swooned over it, I spent hours watching it unfold and caught my breath staring into its complex, velvety depths. (Don’t worry, I promise not to spout any poetry likening the rose to complex, velvety woman parts – PUKE! Why do people do that? And what do you mean, do I have no life? Of course I don’t.)
It’s not the perfection that makes me love it. It’s the sweat.
Unlike a lot of other flowers, roses have attitude.
You can’t be casual about them.
They are tough, suddenly fragile, highly temperamental, a princess on a frikkin’ pea HIGH MAINTENANCE, if everything is NOT JUST SO, they will die on you. Or entertain lice. Or wither and look sickly. If you water them too much, their roots will not be able to seek water at the core. Thats where they derive their true strength from – the deep recesses of the moist earth. If you are not passionate about their well-being, they will not care to respond with splendour. You must water, spray, fertilise and actually nurture something (that is not a child) every single day. This constancy and care (not my strongest suits – either of them) have changed me permanently.
It takes one high maintenance lady to know and love another.