“Snip! Snip!” went Jamul’s rusted scissors as he sat precariously perched on a tattered wooden stool which seemed to have been painted one time too many and refused to hold any extra layer of paint upon it’s fragile and wobbling frame. He mechanically sized up the delicate bunch of white rose buds to fit symmetrically into a dirty plastic mug which seemed to rob the virgin buds of all their beauty but Jamul did not seem to care the least. The roses were not meant for him, as were all other flowers in his humble florist shop. The place was actually an excuse for a shop- it was rather a box filled with flowers with a helpless man trapped in between. He tried not to love those flowers and probably never even wanted to because then the pain of parting with them would become more unbearable. Breaking all emotional bridges, he confined himself to cutting them, dressing them and refreshing them occasionally with a spray of cool water- a much needed respite during the cruel summer of the north-Indian plains. The indifference was gradually becoming more and more difficult to execute because the blooms were his only company- the only solace in his lonely and dull existence. The only living beings he met outside of them were the occasional lovelorn teenager who came for the best red rose to woo the object of his puppy-love, the middle aged corporate wanting a white lily to make peace with his estranged wife and the flashy car en route to a wedding, stopping momentarily to collect the fanciest bouquet available. They came and went and came again – only to take a part of his solace away from him. Today for some reason, the relationship between his thoughts and actions seemed incoherent- his mind went awry and a flood of images and memories gushed through it interspersed with a few twigs of worry and apprehension.

The evening sun signaled the end of the day as it sunk gracefully behind the Bada Imambada. The nakedness of the sky only served to accentuate its symmetry and fiery power. The dusty road that hitherto lay barren with only the frequent gusts of scorching loo seemed to have come to life with the screeching of cars, rude blows of horns and a sea of pedestrians –all in a hurry to reach home after a long day of work. Jamul winded up his shop, thanking Allah for the meager earning he had made that day and spent it all on jalebis and samosas on the way home.

Still engrossed in his mental commotion, he walked down the dingy alley in Old Lucknow packed untidily with shabby houses, cycle-rickshaws, open drains and street urchins playing gully cricket oblivious to the obstruction they were causing to the already snail-paced traffic. Walking amidst the swarm of people and cars, he felt all the more lonely and helpless, in a way that he had never felt before. His vision was not fixated on the pathway but somewhere in oblivion- he knew not where he was heading. He was abruptly snapped out of his delirious state when he heard a voice call out for him- “Abu!” He looked over his shoulder to find his pretty daughter Samara hasting up her stride to catch up with her middle-aged father. From a distance she looked exactly like her mother or was his ageing vision playing games with his imagination? It had been over twenty years, since he had lost his wife who had left behind a set of beautiful twin girls as a token of their love- a love that he missed the most today. This was one of the rare occasions that the self-confessed misanthrope longed for someone to unload his burdened heart and ease the knots within. The girls were physical facsimiles of one other with a peach and cream complexion, hair the color of burnt sienna that fell in soft curls over their shoulders and expressive greenish- brown eyes that were remnants of their mother’s Afghani lineage. With their tall stature and elegant poise, they appeared much above the society they were a part of and much above their father too. Despite being mirror images, their temperaments stood apart like lion and lamb. Sarah, the elder one by a few minutes, was the “lamb”- the mild and delicate one who spoke like a nightingale. Her intelligence seemed to be well camouflaged behind her demure outlook and as if to strike a balance, Samara stood out as a fiery and intimidating young woman of twenty- two- strongly opinionated, dynamic and given to frequent outburst of temper.

Jamul walked into his humble abode with his daughter and found the other one busy dusting the house and laying out the best linen and crockery. The house was small with cracks in the wall; the furniture was old and creaky but freshly painted. Special efforts to deck up the drawing room were evident by the display of hand-embroidered wall- hangings and cushions made by the girls and the fragrance of incense sticks that filled up the room creating an ambience for an auspicious moment. Clearly, the family was expecting some visitors for tea and Jamul was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and nervous. Just then there was a polite knock on the door. “I’ll get it”, Samara volunteered to answer as Sarah slipped inside the kitchenette. Samara hastily adjusted her stole around her neck and opened the door with a plastered formal smile, There stood two bunches of complete strangers, each as anxious and curious about what was to follow as the other. Yakub, a tall, lean and dusky young man with a pleasing personality, dressed casually in a jeans and a tee-shirt was Sarah’s suitor and was accompanied by his parents and a brother younger to him by a year. The hosts raised their palms and bowed their head graciously for an “Adaab” and gestured the guests to seat themselves on the ancient wooden divan, the shambolic construction of which was cleverly camouflaged by the maroon satin spread bordered with white lace neatly pleated and pinned up around the corners with a few hand embroidered cushions thrown over it in complementing colors of beige and gold. Now it looked fit for a king. Even before he had exchanged pleasantries, Jamul had started scrutinizing the unassuming lad as he were about to elope with his daughter that very moment. As he scanned his prospective son-in-law from head to toe, making mental notes of his clothes, grooming, posture and speech, a plethora of doubts and fears invaded his mind as they had done earlier that day. His unfamiliarity with guests only added to his awkwardness. As soon as the visitors were comfortably seated on the divans, Jamul imagined himself firing a volley of questions like “where do u work and how much do you earn?”; “what educational qualification have you attained?”; “are you ready for marriage?” The hapless boy stammered out the answers even before he could comprehend the questions and that is when Jamul realized that his thoughts had not been voiceless and felt all his blood gushing into his face which had now attained the color of the maroon satin spread. As he wondered about the appropriateness of the eruption, Samara giggled discreetly at her father’s edgy behaviors and trying to identify with the “fatherly” emotion, she excused herself to go and fetch her shy sister who had earlier expressed her desire to marry her college mate Yakub. Dressed in her finest attire and looking more like a newly-wed than a prospective bride-to-be, Sarah alighted from the kitchen carrying tea and snacks in dainty steps for the people with whom she might have to spend the rest of her life with. In spite of the closeness to Yakub and his family, her hands went clammy as she carefully placed the trembling tray on the table and sat on a chair’s edge with a faint smile and downcast eyes. After an hour of friendly chit-chat, Mr. Khan suggested a date for the wedding and requested for Samara’s hand in marriage for his younger son Aamer. After an initial reluctance followed by a consenting nod from Samara, who already knew the boy, Jamul agreed, much to the joy of the two couples. The twin weddings were to take place exactly in a month’s time.

Jamul’s feelings were now an amalgam of pain and pleasure. He was relieved that the rendezvous had been as pleasant as the family but the futuristic visions of shopping, arrangements and a million unimaginable chores that are as important in an Indian wedding as the bride and the groom, unnerved him. That moment onward, the dingy, drab house seemed to have acquired a whole new soul. There was not a single lonely moment owing to the flood of people. There were flowers, there were lights, there were clothes and jewellery and there were ladies wrapping gifts and making sweet-meats. It seemed like the entire neighborhood had come to life and was as enthusiastically involved in the preparations as Jamul himself and he was grateful. The women took care of the cooking, utensils and the presents; the men looked after the outdoor affairs like the tent, the decorations and the seating; and how could the children be left behind? The little ones did there bit by passing the flowers and streamers to the taller ones standing upon stools who taped them onto walls and ceilings. The days passed off in frenzy and before he realized it, the day arrived and in no time he found himself standing amidst a clutter of disposable plates and glasses, paper napkins, flowers, confetti and bits of food that the guests had carelessly walked over. Ironically, the sight was rather comforting. He had performed his parental duty by getting his precious daughters settled with husbands of their choice and on the other hand, something inside was making him giddy with fear. Were these boys going to take his princesses away from him? What if his daughters were not treated well after marriage? What if they were not cared for? What if…?

The girls set off for a new life with their father’s blessings and Jamul found himself standing face to face with a realization that his daughters have left him alone like all daughters do when they step into matrimony. The realization was not new, it had dawned upon him the moment he had held the twins in his arms for the first time and today, it had simply reinforced itself with a new-found strength. That moment on, it had begun defining or rather redefining his relationship with his daughters. It was a constant reminder of the transient nature of this bond and he had started preparing himself for the parting moment even before he had savored the momentary sweetness of fatherhood, thus missing many a memorable moment in his quest for defense against the pain of partition. He was well prepared, or so he wrongly thought because the knot within told him that denial is definitely not the best form of defense. His beady eyes welled up and his throat choked as he wished for the wasted years to return.
The thought distressed him as he felt trapped in the complex web of father-daughter relationship. Memories flooded his mind and he regretted holding back his love all these years. He regretted at the distance he had created between his daughters and himself. He wished he could go back in time and re-live their innocent childhood with them- take them in his arms, tell stories at bedtime, play seemingly senseless games in the verandah and answer all their childish queries.
Time flew into the future like it had flown in the past and the weddings were left a year behind. The sisters would pay frequent visits to their father who found delight in their happiness and love. Their genuine bright smiles and crackling laughter were a source of reassurance that all was well and that he had not erred in his decision. Finally, he was beginning to overcome his fears. His lovely daughters… his white roses…..

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