by Swati Moheet Agrawal
15th April, 6.30 a.m.
I unlock the door to fetch the milk pouch only to tread on a nosegay of white roses. Still puffy from sleep, I knit my brows, as I press it to my nostrils wondering how the bouquet landed up at my doorstep!
I ponder the matter before concluding it’s for my neighbour who is single and enchantingly attractive.
“These flowers from your secret admirer got accidently delivered to my doorstep.”
I hand it over to the beautiful woman who looks resplendent in the morning light.
“Well, eh, would you like some hibiscus tea, Mrs. Bajaj?” she asks deferentially.
“Some other time,” I wink at her.
She colours up to the ears.
16th April, 6.30 a.m.
I unlock the door to fetch the milk pouch only to tread on a nosegay of yellow roses. I half smile, press it to my nostrils before heading next door.
“Yesterday’s were white,
Today’s are yellow,
Tomorrow’s would be crimson,
roses from the endearing fellow!”
I give a hearty guffaw as I tease her.
“Bulbul aunty, you’re too much,” she squirms. “I can’t figure out this secret admirer. Are you sure the roses are for me?” she sheepishly glances around.
“Duh, obviously you. Who would care to rouse a crotchety menopausal housewife?”
17th April, 6.30 a.m.
I unlock the door to fetch the milk pouch and expectedly discover the nosegay of red roses. I look at it disconsolately, press it to my nostrils before barging into my neighbour’s home.
“I have more reverence for flowers than anything else. Getting pampered with flowers is one of the little joys of life. I don’t think there is a more intimate way to tell someone you love them. I’d rather have flowers on my table than diamonds dangling from my neck. It is the small things in life that keep us from going crazy. Savour the small joys and find beauty in the mundane,” I preach priggishly to her about cherishing life’s small joys and pleasures.
“Well, they are magnificent,” she caresses the red roses affectionately.
18th April, 6.30 a.m.
I unlock the door to fetch the milk pouch only to find a massive bouquet of hippy psychedelic roses. Today a lovely handwritten note accompanies the flowers. I cannot help my curiosity:
“Happy birthday to my ever-gracious, ever-charming wife, Bulbul. Thank you for all you do. You have exactly one hour to pack up for Keukenhof. Yours, Badri.”
Truly, love has a way of blossoming at the most unpredictable hour.
I bawl my eyes out.
About the author