Flower….
Based on a true story….
#RhituparnaChakraborty
Disclaimer: This is an original piece of work by Rhituparna Chakraborty. This work is not intended to hurt or rebuke anyone or any profession. This is a work of art created with some true elements. There is no intention to hurt or harm anyone. This work cannot be copied, published or reproduced elsewhere, without the consent of the author Rhituparna Chakraborty.
She strolled gracefully into the garden, her footsteps as delicate as the petals of a fragile bloom, and gently drew two long wisps of smoke from her hand-rolled cigarette. A secret, enchanting smile graced her lips as she whispered to herself, “Now, this is what I call heaven….” With an air of contentment, she took two more contemplative puffs, and with a wistful sigh, she murmured, “Ah, this flavor….”
While savoring the myriad nuances of the tobacco nestled within her handcrafted cigarette, she was interrupted by the arrival of her cousin Mitali. Mitali, wearing an expression of concern, gently chided her, “What is this, Phoo? You know smoking is detrimental to your health. Your persistent coughing attests to that. Why don’t you consider quitting, my dear?” Phoo chuckled, dismissing Mitali’s worries, “Oh, Mitali, it’s just a breath of air. What harm can a little breeze inside my body do?” Mitali retorted with frustration, “That’s no reason to persist in this harmful habit!” Phoo responded with a nonchalant shrug, “Come on, Mitali, you know that to quit this addiction, I’d need another to replace it. What other addiction could I possibly embrace?” Mitali sighed, “You and your excuses.” Phoo’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she retorted, “Food can never enslave me, nor dresses, nor….”
Before Phoo could complete her thought, her gaze was drawn to a striking young man approaching the gate of her residence. Mitali caught Phoo’s stolen glances and playfully remarked, “Alright, I’ll leave you to your musings.” Phoo glanced at Mitali, who winked conspiratorially and added, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
The young man stood by the gate, casting a warm smile toward Phoo. He patiently waited for her to approach, a ritual she rarely indulged. She maintained her distance, never venturing closer to the gate to engage him, and he, too, never ventured inside. And so, before neighbors or Phoo’s family could notice his presence, he would quietly depart.
Phoo couldn’t help but blush each time she spotted Shiva. Shiva resided several lanes away from Phoo’s abode, and, each morning, he would ostensibly embark on a stroll, ultimately arriving to catch a glimpse of Phoo. For this precious stolen moment, Phoo would awaken early, ensuring she could sneak in a smoke before her family stirred and, of course, take in the sight of Shiva.
Once the rest of the household awoke, Phoo would immerse herself in her customary duties. Her family consisted of her parents, two uncles, aunts, elder brothers, their wives, cousins, and more in a sprawling joint family. She was served meals in her room. She had a room of her own, where, in her leisure hours, she engaged in painting, often crafting exquisite artworks of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati. As she created each painting, she would gaze at it, a fond smile tugging at her lips, her thoughts drifting to Shiva.
Yes, she loved Shiva, and she knew that Shiva loved her too. This was not a recent revelation; their bond had flourished over the years. While ruminating on Shiva, she would reach for her favored fragrant tobacco, meticulously rolling it into a cigarette, and she would smoke it within the confines of her room. There were instances when her eldest brother’s wife caught her in the act, yet Phoo would earnestly implore her not to divulge this secret to anyone. Her sister-in-law would exasperatingly comment, “I can’t conceal this from your brother for long. Every time I come here to serve your meals, I discover you smoking. Why, Phoo?” Phoo would offer a soft plea, “Please understand, I am not fond of anything else other than this. What other addiction could I possibly have?” Her sister-in-law would leave her room with a disgruntled huff.
One day, while Phoo was indulging in her customary garden smoke, the idea of conversing with Shiva crossed her mind. When she spotted Shiva, she summoned the courage to approach the gate. It was the break of dawn, and the world slumbered, leaving the two alone in their clandestine rendezvous. Shiva greeted her with a gentle, “How are you?” Phoo blushed and replied, “I’m well, thank you. And you?” Shiva responded with a smile, “I’m fine, but there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” Phoo encouraged him, “Please, go ahead.” Shiva hesitated briefly before broaching the delicate topic, “If I were to invite you to my wedding, would you come?” Phoo’s smile wavered, and she inquired, “Can you extend that invitation?” Shiva shook his head, a hint of sadness in his eyes, “No.” Phoo chuckled softly, “Then why ask, my dear?” Shiva’s response was laced with hope, “I suppose I cling to a sliver of hope that I might be able to invite you and that you would accept.” Phoo gently shook her head, “Hope is for things that lie within the realm of possibility. For the impossible, it’s about acceptance. Accept that you can never invite me. Accept that I can never attend your wedding.” Shiva acknowledged, “I accepted that reality long ago, but hope, well, it’s a persistent thing, isn’t it?” Phoo’s parting words were filled with warmth, “I wish you a lifetime of happiness in your marriage, but do not cease to pass by this way.” Shiva smiled, assuring her, “I won’t.”
Years flowed by, and one fateful day, Phoo began complaining of a persistent throat pain. Her family suggested warm water to alleviate the discomfort, but her coughing only worsened. The family summoned a local physician, who, upon examination, delivered the grim prognosis that her condition was dire, and her time was running out. Phoo’s health deteriorated rapidly, and, eventually, she became bedridden, ultimately departing from this world at the age of 45.
Neighbours reflected on her life with sorrow, and said, “What an unfortunate young woman she was. She became a widow at the tender age of 11, never even having the chance to meet her husband. On the day she was to be sent to her husband’s home upon reaching puberty, he passed away at the age of 30. Despite her deep affection for fish and other non-vegetarian foods, widowhood meant she was prohibited from indulging in such fare, along with onion, garlic, and other food items like urad dal. Her aunts would sometimes catch her attempting to enjoy these forbidden delicacies covertly, deeming it disgraceful and improper. Such foods were deemed unsuitable for her. She also longed for long hair, wanted to tie pretty bun out of those long locks of hair and colorful attire at times. Could a widow be permitted to have flowing locks or wear vibrant garments? It took time for her to adjust, but eventually she was comfortable with the plain white saree, supershort hair and cool vegetarian food without oil or onion or garlic.
Also that boy Shiva, he was from such a down trodden caste. Thankfully he never had the courage to barge the gate. Imagine the shame and disgrace this man would have brought to Phoo’s life. She was a widow and that too of such an upper caste. How dare he even think of coming close to the gate and look at her. We would see that sometimes, but, as neighbours if we say something, we will be blamed of gossiping, so we kept quiet. Her name was rightly kept ‘Phool’ meaning flower. But she was a flower who withered away without blooming’
