The reason I have to get up early, at six, almost every single day is because I have to catch the roses. I hate to wake up early, especially if I have been watching The Derry Girls all night on Netflix, or the astoundingly hilarious and heart warming Veep in Hotstar, but the rose visit is essential. As essential as breathing. This is because the roses in the park where I live, can only be walked around between six and eight every morning. After eight, the security guards start screeching and shouting like thugs from The Game of Thrones and throw you out.
The roses do for me what boric powder does to shrug off the roaches invading my life, as they slowly crunch upon me to feed themselves. Another thing about roses and roaches is that they tell me in their sweet, solemn, silent talk which they seem to have learnt from the smartest angel in God’s Palace (wherever it is) that it is okay to take time off even from getting rid of the roaches that have suddenly invaded my kitchen cabinets! They need to be dealt with, by putting balls made of boric powder and sugar, or baking soda, and putting them around holes and corners where roaches congregate. But the roses whisper to me as I walk around them in that large rose garden in
Hyderabad, that it is okay to take the day off, watching West World on Hotstar, with the amazing Ed Harris and Anthony Hopkins wrapping you up with the magic tricks of their trade, and letting the roaches do their rotting inside the cabinets. For one day, each vessel you take out for cooking, can be washed off with soap, and used, so the roaches having trundled all over them, won’t be a problem.
Another thing those scented, red, pink, orange or yellow roses do for me is that they turn over the pages of a day that has dragged me towards dread, and left me hanging, by letting me see the leftovers of hope or calm still there. They coax out the sensible side of me without even asking them! They began to make me buy up the fresh corn and jawar being sold by beseeching farmers there. I found that the corn was one tenth the price of the cornflakes sold in the shops, and more fresh and tasty too. So was the jawar pawwa fried to make a delicious snack.
Roses ignite in me that spark of finding those endless do-it- yourself tricks to happiness of the everyday sort: an extra cup of very hot coffee praising a little grey kitten amazingly gobbling up beans and carrots, finding a forgotten gem of a mystery novel in a very grubby second hand outlet, called Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow by Peter Hoeg, gobbling up salads all day long, dreaming of chocolate cake but not baking one, etc.
So this is the reason why on dark and doleful mornings when my dreams haven’t talked comfortingly to me, or told me how to deal with dread, I have to wake up at six for my date with the roses which will always send their silent poetry to peace to come and visit me…..