The Lone Rose

I was on the train, on my way to CST–forgive me, CSMT–they added the Maharaj for extra respect. I'd bought a bunch of roses from a little girl a few stations back, for the friends I was meeting. It wasn't an occasion... or perhaps it was, in my head. I had crawled out of my head after a long time to meet my patient friends, who should be tired of me. Was it a grand gesture or an apology? I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to replace a memory of the last time I'd bought a rose for someone. Or maybe I thought this would give them some joy. I had intended to buy it for one particular friend, a comrade who shared my pain. But since the girl was only selling them in bunches, I decided to get roses for the whole group.

I was reading a book–something I hadn't done in a while–and we were on the final leg of the journey. The sign outside said Sandhurst road as I looked up to check, when I saw a girl sitting a row ahead of me staring in my direction. A little Muslim girl with fair skin and a purple head scarf. She wasn't conventionally beautiful, but there was something about her soft features and inquisitive stare that set her apart. She was on a seat facing the opposite direction, and yet had turned around to stare my way. At first, I thought she was checking the station like me, or looking for someone she knew. But even as I tried to go back to my reading, I felt her gaze on me. I looked up again, meeting her eyes. Our little dance of looking up and away continued, and then I stopped, raising my brows at her with a smile. She smiled back without hesitation. Her smile filled me with such pleasure, it made me want to protect her, or give her something. She had an innocence about her, yet I seemed to recognise a yearning that mirrored my heart. I thought of gifting her a rose, and tried prising it from the bunch. It wouldn't come off. Then I remembered, if I gave away this rose to her, there won't be enough for my other friends... so I stopped. I was vexed, debating whether I should just give it away regardless. But I didn't want to let any of my friends down either, so I went back to my book.

When we were almost there, I packed my things and stood near the doorway, ready to alight. The train pulled into the station, and I looked back at her seat. There she was, still looking at me. I felt a pang of guilt, but I just smiled and waved goodbye to her. She smiled her beautiful smile again and waved back. We parted ways. My heart heavy, I didn't look back.

I met my friends for drinks, and had a lovely time. We laughed, we cried, and comforted each other. They were all pleasantly surprised by the flowers and suitably appreciative of the gesture. I drowned another pang of guilt with alcohol and laughter. The party ran late, and it was half past eleven when we finally paid the bill and got up to leave. As I was getting out of my seat, my glance fell under the table. In the dark, among the cigarette butts, lay a lone rose, pining for its real owner.