The Rose

Selma glanced up at the small sliver of evening sky that she could see through the kitchen window. What time was it? Only half past eight, another three hours to go before she could knock off and then the long bus ride home to her little flat. She was tired but more than that, she suffered a fatigue of the mind. Life was an endless, monotonous routine. Wake up, eat. Clean the house, get ready, go to study, eat go to work. Work, work and more work. Then back to bed and start the entire process all over again. This was not how she had envisaged her life to be at twenty-five in a strange and alien country. She looked at the two stars that she could see and wondered for a brief moment what life – if there was any – was like on the countless planets that surrounded them. Were there people like her working like she was, looking back and wondering the same. Did they feel, hope, suffer and love as she did?

Before she had the opportunity to think about it the chef called her. “Table eight ready to go!”

---

Dave extracted himself from his book to smile at the waiter who had come to take his order. “Do you know what you would like, sir?” he asked.

Dave picked up the menu again. “I fancy a vegetarian dish tonight, but I am struggling to choose. What is good?”

“Oh sir, they are all good,” replied the man who, Dave considered, was probably the proprietor and no mere waiter. “The Mutter Paneer is very popular – that is a cheese dish – or there is this one, Chole Bha Tura which is chickpeas with spongy bread. That is very popular also.”

“Which would you choose if you were eating?” Dave asked.

“Personally, I like anything with paneer, but I would go for the Chole Bha Tura.”

Dave noticed, wordlessly, that this was also the most expensive option, but the boss was paying, so who cared? “Ok, Chole Bha Tura it is,” he replied with a smile before turning again to his book.

---

He had read two full chapters when a waitress approached with his dish. “The Chole Bha Tura, sir?” she asked.

“Thank you,” he replied, resting his book on the table.

A moment of confidence seized Selma. “Excuse me sir, but what book are you reading?”

Dave looked up, rather surprised. She was a smiling, cheery-looking girl with a South Indian look to her. “It is by an author from Turkey. It is about a woman in America who has forgotten what love is.”

“It is a romantic novel then?”

Dave’s eyes darted to the book. It was entitled ‘The Forty Rules of Love’ and the cover had an almost Mughal look to it. He reflected that that was what had probably drawn her attention, being from that part of the world and all.

“Perhaps it is, perhaps not. To tell you the truth, I have only read fifty pages of it so far, so I cannot say. But this woman in the story, she read a book about a man, named Shams of Tabriz who lived hundreds of years ago.” He looked at her again. “Are you Hindu or Muslim?”

She blushed. “I am Hindu, sir.”

“Hmm, well this Shams, he was a kind of Muslim, a Sufi. They are like the mystical ones.”

“I know them. We have them in India. There is a famous shrine to one in Delhi.”

Dave knew this because he’d been there, but he didn’t mention the fact. “Well, this Sufi inspires her to think about love again. But that is as far as I’ve got I’m afraid.”

The conversation naturally trailed off there. “Well, enjoy your meal, sir,” she said, before walking off.

---

Sitting and eating his Chole Bha Tura – which was delicious – Dave mulled over the conversation. Why had she asked him about his book? No one ever had before, and he always had one with him? Why this book and in this place? He realised that he hadn’t spoken to a single other person for hours save to complete a business transaction. He realised that her conversation had brightened his day and that pleased him. But it was all one way. He should have reciprocated.

He finished his musing, took a few more bites and then read another chapter.

---

When he had finished, Selma came to clear the plates away. This time she did not make conversation, so Dave plucked up the courage instead. “Do you like reading books?” he asked.

“Oh yes, very much,” she replied. Although not conventionally pretty, Dave realised she had an exceptionally warm smile.

“And what sorts?”

“Romantic novels particularly.”

“Do you study them?”

“No. I did at school but now I am studying psychology. However, I still love to read. When I read stories like that, I am transported to a different world. What books do you most like to read?”

“Oh, all sorts, but I do like romantic stories, especially tragedies. I write books also.”

“Do you? I should love to do that! Is writing your job?”

“No, I wish it was, but it is only a hobby. My job involves a lot of meetings. That is why I am in Nottingham tonight. I have a meeting here tomorrow. I travel a lot with work, and I always bring a book with me to read on the journey and in the hotel room I write my stories.”

Selma’s eyes had a faraway look in them, as if she were still staring at those distant stars. “Oh, I should love a job like that, to travel to so many exciting places!”

Dave was about to reply that Nottingham, Hull and Liverpool were not really exciting or exotic destinations, but he stopped himself. When he was a child, he’d thought of them as she did now, full of awe and wonder. Only familiarity had turned them bland. Perhaps he was luckier than he realised to have the chance to experience them? “Yes, it is nice I suppose,” he replied.

Again the conversation trailed off.

---

After his meal, Dave went to the pub. He usually went straight back to the hotel when on a business trip, but Nottingham was blessed with a number of ancient pubs that he found atmospheric. He chose one called ‘Ye Olde Salutation Inn’ which, according to the sign, dated from 1240. The name, he also learned, came from the greeting given to the Virgin Mary by the Angel Gabriel. He liked that since, in a way, that waitress had been like meeting an angel to him; an angel who had reminded him what was good about his life and had infused him with human warmth. He ordered a pint and sat down in a low-ceilinged room heavy with oak beams.

His encounter with that nameless waitress had affected him somehow. That simple human interaction, a shared interest and smile had been profoundly moving and he wanted to say thank you to her somehow. He’d left a tip already (something he very rarely did) but that was impersonal and insufficient. But what could he do?

The idea that came into his mind was to buy her a book and then post it through the door of the restaurant the following day. True, her boss might think it a little weird, but so what? Yes, that was it: he would purchase a copy of the greatest love story for her to read.

But what story was that?

‘Romeo & Juliet’ was a favourite of his, but it was too cheesy as a gesture and, besides, that was not the kind of love he had in mind. They were teenagers and it was all too intense and tragic. His next favourite was Pushkin’s ‘Yevgeny Onegin’ but that too somehow did not seem right. It was unrequited for one, also tragic and somehow not what he was after. He needed something to express the brief joy of sharing the warmth of another human being before moving on in life. The one that came to his mind was the story of Radha and Krishna dancing on the banks of the Yamuna but then that was just too hackneyed, her being Hindu and all. No, try as he might, nothing suitable would come.

He read another chapter of his book.

Then, in the middle of a page, it came to him: the perfect story to send would be the one that was most personal! He finished his pint and returned to the hotel.

To the Psychologist who likes to read love stories,

The most beautiful, powerful and tragic tale of love that I know, happened to a young man in a city not unlike this one around twenty years ago. He was an impressionable, romantic person, who one daydreamed of meeting the perfect girl whom he would love with all his heart and who would return that love. They would live happily ever after, dying in one another’s arms on a stony beach with the waves crashing against the shore when they were both very old.

And one day he met this girl. She had dark eyes, long brown hair and a captivating smile. He befriended her and then later confessed his love to her. They walked hand-in-hand along sea fronts and cooked tasty meals for one another. He was headlong in love with her and thanked God daily for his happiness.

But then, one day, without warning, she disappeared. He looked everywhere for her, but she had gone. Worried, he returned to his home to find a note had been posted through the door. In this letter she told him that she had found another and, even though she did not wish to hurt him, it was better this way.

He found out where she was and went to her and pleaded with her to change her mind, tears filling his eyes. But, even though her own eyes were not dry, she did not veer from her new course and instead married her new lover after a courtship of only a few months.

Dejected, the young man fell into a deep pit of despair. All the days seemed dark and all his thoughts darker. There was no reason to live and, without her, all joy had been sucked from his existence. In his despair he prayed to God, but God cruelly ignored him.

Or did he? Initially it seemed so, but then, after many weeks, tiny shoots of light seemed to appear. The boy slowly began to realise that he needed a new purpose and new goal in life now that his love was gone and married to another. It was then that he remembered his childhood and the dreams that he had harboured then. When the teacher had asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he’d replied an author.

Yet here he was now, grown up and the same person but having never written a book. And so, he wrote one and it comforted him and distracted him, and he even enjoyed it and so, when it was finished, he wrote another and another and another.

And now, twenty years later, he is still writing them and they fill his heart with joy and life more than anything else for in writing those books he learned the most important lesson of all that the greatest love of all is that described by all the world’s religions: the love of your neighbour, of a stranger, of the entire world. That brief contact when two pilgrims on the road of life meet and smile at one another, it is as if Radha and Krishna are dancing together on the banks of the Yamuna to the sound of his flute.

And so, for that brief dance over a book, I thank you.

DP

The following day Dave put the story in an envelope addressed to ‘The Waitress who reads books’ and posted it through the letterbox. He never heard from her or saw her again but then he didn’t expect to. After all, they didn’t even know each other’s names.

Nor did they need to, for a rose regardless of what name it bears, smells just as sweet.

Written Nottingham, UK, 17/02/20

Copyright © 2020, Matthew E. Pointon