Arjun had had enough of the corporate world. He was tired of the people – their artificial smiles, the so called assertive communication and constructive feedback; he was tired of the processes – the talk of appraisals, promotions and skip level meetings, weekly team calls and progress sheets and ratings for every month, quarter and year; he was tired of the culture – approvals for anything that he was even about to think, team lunches (deciding the venue of which took a minimum of three meetings) and the routine, the idea that he had to be in the office at a certain time and also go out at a certain time.

In those days, his blood pressure used to be elevated and he experienced anxiety attacks. He was not only sick of what went inside the office but also the outside world, most of which was the daunting experience of travelling in the Delhi Metro from his residence in Shahdara to Gurgaon. During his commute each day he would dutifully wear his earphones, grab hold of the dangling microphone and call his girlfriend. She would mostly talk about herself and her life’s troubles – ‘I asked daddy to buy me the new iPhone and he said “we’ve just got you a car so no”, can you imagine Arjun?’ – Her father owned a major publishing company and she was a South Delhi rich girl. She met Arjun in college and it was obvious that she was with him because he was exceedingly handsome.

Arjun was six foot one, he had an athletic built (sculpted in his dedication to football) and he was fair. He had a deep voice, long fingers and wavy hair. Arjun called himself an agnostic and he wanted to become an author. He was not much about writing in his young age, but the pains of his work life had turned him into a storyteller. It was a good way for him to vent out the aggression, the oppression and the frustration. He was not very good at it in the beginning but with the passing of time his stories had evolved with more interesting plots and meaningful endings.

So it happened one day that Arjun reached office and just as he was about to enter and just as he was about to register his index finger impression on the biometric attendance machine, it dawned to him – ‘What am I doing? Where am I going? When will I do what I am supposed to do? Why am I not going where I want to go?’ – And in that stream of thought, without analyzing or rationalizing his idea, he called his manager and said to her that he wanted to resign right away. In a few days, Arjun was the master of his own life, he was on a fresh path to a new future. He was happy and he felt healthy.

His parents were against his decision though. They wanted him to immediately either rejoin the company he had resigned from or find a new job. They asked him, ‘What’s your plan, haan? You will write a book and that book will sell and then the publishers will pay you and that is how you will earn? How long do you think all this will take?’

‘I don’t know’ he replied almost soundlessly. And when he called his girlfriend, she reacted in the same way. She told him, ‘Baby you know I love you but daddy won’t like me in a relationship with a guy who doesn’t even earn naa. Should we take a break?’ Arjun knew in that moment that he was alone in his decision.

Disappointed and dejected, Arjun went where most men go – to their bro – old friends or cousins whom they do not talk with every day but on days when life seems a bit more demonic than it usually is. Arjun’s bro was a school friend name Shishir, who was a ghost more than man. In school he was an introverted, low-performing, skinny, short-heighted student who had disappeared as soon as school was over. He neither called anyone nor received calls from anyone, Arjun being the only exception. Arjun’s last memory of him was a bro-hug after the final senior secondary exam when Shishir had said, ‘Alright bro, bullshit is over, now its time to make history.'

Shishir’s achievements were only made visible to the world through his Facebook feed. His check-ins included gyms that rich people go to, clubs that hot babes go to and vacations that no one went to. He would post pictures of exceptionally well made sketches that he claimed to have made, A-list celebrities that he claimed to have met and ultra-luxurious hotels where he claimed to have stayed. No one knew the reality of Shishir’s life and perhaps it was this mystery that drew people to him.

When Arjun called Shishir that day he was about to board a flight to Mumbai.

‘Hey bro, kaisa hai?’ Shishir said in a way that constructed his smiling face right before Arjun’s eyes.

‘I’m good, bro.’ Arjun said and asked him what he had been up to and he asked Arjun those same questions.

‘Achha bro’ Arjun said, ‘I want to do some creative work, related to writing. Are you still in touch with Anurag Kashyap or Mahesh Bhatt? Can I do some writing for them?’

‘Haan bhai, I am connected to them, but the thing is that I don’t reach out to them,’ Shishir paused as if to take a sip of something he was drinking. ‘They reach out to me if and when they need help. Samjha?’ he said casually.

‘Right bro. Yaar I was tired of my job so I left it and I thought I would write something, but people at my home are so demotivating that I can’t even type one word before someone bullies me.’

Shishir laughed as soon as Arjun paused and then said, ‘Tell me how can I help you?’

‘Bro, I need some motivation, I need some work. Give me a writing job!’ Arjun expressed, raising his voice.

Shishir laughed some more. ‘Imtiaz called me. Imtiaz Ali, Rockstar waala. He wants a love story. Likhega?’

‘Haan bro, of course!’ Arjun said, excitedly.

‘Theek, I am sending you the number of a guy who knows a guy with the most amazing story. You listen to him and you write it like a movie. Okay?’ Shishir said, chewing something.

‘Yes bro, thank you!’

‘Chal, I’ll talk to you later, they’re calling my name. I’m flying First Class.’ There was laughter and some noise of traffic and then the call ended.

Arjun immediately called the number Shishir had given and the call opened with laughter and some noise of traffic and then it became silent before he heard a heavy, ‘Hello’. Arjun introduced himself and told the person about his conversation with Shishir. The person encouraged the conversation by providing verbal nods. Once Arjun had given the prelude, he asked, ‘So please tell me Sir, how can we take this forward?’ The person gave another verbal nod as he was eating something and spoke after swallowing it.

‘I’m sending you an address, you go there. There is an old man who has a farm of white roses and he claims that his flowers are magical in nature.’ He paused to take a bite of food. ‘You listen to him and you write it like a film, theek hai?’

‘Okay Sir, sure. Thank you. May I ask where is this old man located?’ Arjun spoke a bit formally. He was a bit put off by the unusual manner of Shishir’s friend.

‘He is in Jaipur, theek hai? I will send you the address after this call. Okay?’

Before Arjun could respond he heard some laughter and the abusive word ‘chootiya’ and the call ended. As assured by the man, Arjun received the address immediately after the call.

At first, Arjun felt unsure of whether to go or not but then he convinced himself to take this step. He thought he is at least at a better situation from where he was twenty minutes back. He now had a project, a motivation and an opportunity to write a story that could possibly be made into a movie. He looked at the text message Shishir’s friend had sent, it did not have a name or phone number, only an address.

Arjun booked a bus ticket to Jaipur, and a hotel room for two nights and told his family that he is travelling to Jaipur for some job interviews. He had started lying about his actions as that was the only way to give satisfactory responses. He had found lies to be much better than truths. He said the truth is finite and lies are infinite. God is infinite.

It was a hot afternoon when Arjun reached Jaipur. He went to the hotel, showered, changed clothes and ate. By the time he left to go to the address Shishir’s friend had sent, it was evening. Although it was outside the main city, the address was not difficult to find. It was a modest street with farmlands on both sides, plotted with brick walls to denote the territory of ownership. On some of those lands there were buildings, neither elaborate in structure or decoration.

The building of Arjun’s interest was a single storey structure that had freshly painted white walls and a big front lawn, protected by a gate that he pushed open with a touch of his left hand. There was a red sandstone footpath that led him from the main gate to the building. From there, when he turned back and looked around, he found that the lawn did not have any plants or trees, but it did have well maintained grass and the periphery walls looked bigger from the inside. The place looked quite empty and Arjun hesitated before knocking the door.

It wasn’t long before he was face to face with a septuagenarian, groomed and dressed in a very modern and stylish way. He was as tall as Arjun and stood straight unlike most men of his age. He had long white hair that were tied in a man-bun and he had a full beard. He was wearing brown brogue shoes, brown pleated trouser and a white shirt, the cuffs of which were folded to the elbows. He had strong masculine hands and he was wearing a leather bracelet in his right hand and an expensive looking watch in his left hand. He took off his spectacles and narrowed his eyes before asking Arjun, ‘Yes?’

‘Hello Sir, I am Arjun,’ and gave him a brief account of events that brought him there.

The man processed the information for a moment and then said, ‘Do you drink scotch?’

‘I, yes I do.’ Arjun replied, internally confused at that question.

‘Come on in. You can call me Mr Sethi.’

Arjun followed Mr Sethi to a big rectangular room that appeared to him as Mr Sethi’s study. It had tall walls that were almost entirely covered with wooden bookshelves loaded with books. There were two casement windows along the length of the room that opened to the rear side of the house and framed the sight of some tall rose bushes after a brief backyard. The floor of the room was covered with a thick soft carpet, in the centre of which sat four comfortable lounge chairs and a round wooden table. On the table, there was a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

‘Please sit down.’ Mr Sethi said, pointing at a chair.

Arjun sat down and Mr Sethi put a third glass on the table and poured some scotch in it. He then sat in the chair opposite Arjun and took a sip from his glass. Arjun mirrored his host.

‘Do you smoke?’ Mr Sethi asked.

‘Not as a habit.’ Arjun nodded.

Mr Sethi took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Arjun.

‘So, you are an author.’ Mr Sethi stated.

‘I don’t have any published works yet, but I am committed to writing. I see that you are fond of reading.’ Arjun said gesturing at the bookshelves.

‘Yes, my wife and I, we like to read.’ Mr Sethi lit his cigarette and extended his hand so Arjun could light his cigarette from the same flame.

‘It’s good to have someone who shares your interests, isn’t it?’ Arjun said, breathing in the smoke.

‘Yes, even the rose farm is because of my wife.’

‘It is rare to have a partner who supports you so much. She must really love you.’

‘Yes, she does.’ Mr Sethi smiled. ‘Are you married?’

The smoke from both cigarettes appeared as swaying tendrils before merging in a cloud that vanished in the air.

‘No Sir, I’m not.’ Arjun said, and trying to avoid any possibility of talking about his love life, he added, ‘It would be delightful if Mrs Sethi could also take out some time to interact, I think she could lend some very interesting perspectives to the story.’

‘She would lend a great perspective. She’s resting now, you should come back tomorrow morning if you want her to be a part of this conversation.’ Mr Sethi drank his scotch like a medicine, all in one go.

‘Sounds right, Sir. I will see you tomorrow morning then.’ Arjun said standing up. ‘And thank you for the drink.’

Mr Sethi came to the door to see Arjun off. Arjun smiled and nodded at him. Mr Sethi’s phone rang and he answered the call as he shut the door close, ‘Yes, he will come tomorrow now.’ Arjun heard him say

Arjun reached his hotel late in the night and fell asleep soon after hitting the bed. He dreamt of his girlfriend – ‘Swati’ he mumbled as he saw her approaching him, ‘I have missed you’, he held her delicate fair hand and kissed it; he looked in her eyes and they reflected the sun, ‘The sun lives in your eyes,’ he whispered; suddenly everything started to lose colour, except Swati’s satin red gown, and the sky was covered with dark clouds before it began to rain; Swati turned back and started walking away from Arjun and no matter how much he wanted to move, he couldn’t; he helplessly stood there as the rain drenched him. He woke up startled, it was early in the morning, there was an uncapped bottle of water and his t-shirt was wet.

He looked at the clock, it was time to get ready. He quickly had breakfast and changed. He called a cab and headed for the farm. When he reached there, he found it as quiet and empty as it was the previous evening. He knocked on the door and Mr Sethi answered. He was dressed in khakis and a polo t-shirt. ‘Come on in,’ he said and started walking. Mr Sethi walked to the rear entrance and pulled the door open, then he stepped into the backyard and turned right to climb a metallic staircase that led to the roof. Arjun followed Mr Sethi like an obedient pupil.

‘Look,’ Mr Sethi said, gesturing at a large field of white roses, ‘this is the power of love.'

Arjun couldn’t make much of what Mr Sethi said so he smiled and admiringly surveyed the fertile field in front of him that stretched from far left to far right and very far straight ahead. Hundreds of thousands of white roses, spread over the patch of land like silver varaq, making it more presentable than it already was.

‘It’s a little over hundred acres,’ Mr Sethi spoke, lighting his cigarette, ‘I keep buying more land as the demand increases.’

‘It’s dreamlike,’ Arjun appreciated.

‘It all seems like a dream.’ Mr Sethi wiped sweat off his forehead. ‘Let’s go to my study and talk, it’s too hot here.’ He looked at the sun.

Once they were in the study, Arjun made himself comfortable on the same chair he sat on before. There was a white rose on the table and Mr Sethi lovingly smiled at it, before he sat down.

‘Tell me about these roses, Sir. I have heard they have magical properties.’ Arjun initiated the conversation.

‘I have never used that word to describe my flowers. I have called them hopeful on some occasions. Fable has it that these flowers bring lost lovers back. The roses will keep the hope alive, even if all else dies.’

‘The hope to meet your lost love?’ Arjun leaned forward.

‘Hope for what you want most.’ Mr Sethi said in a way that Arjun sunk in the thought of what was it that he wanted most? In a breath, he thought about Swati, his writing career and his old corporate life.

‘Okay,’ he said after a pause. ‘And when did you start this farm?’

‘It’s been about forty years. Forty three to be precise.’

‘So were you always into farming?’

‘No.’ Mr Sethi smiled, ‘I studied to be an archaeologist and I worked as one for some time too.’

‘Then may I ask, Sir, what inspired you to start a rose farm?’

‘You should ask who.’

‘Was it upon Mrs Sethi’s suggestion?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Sethi looked in the direction of the white rose on the table.

‘Ah, the perspectives!’ Arjun smiled. ‘Tell me more about it Sir.’

‘It’s a long story, I must warn you.’ Mr Sethi stood up from his chair.

‘Alright’. Arjun remarked with a hint of curiosity, ‘I’m listening intently.’

‘In the Kingdom of Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh, there was a man named Shiva. He was a tall and strong soldier, famed for his courageous acts. He was married to a beautiful young woman named Aparna, who loved him very much. They had an honest, happy life and wished for nothing but one – a child. It had been a few years to their marriage and they were still deprived of this blessing.

‘Shiva consulted vaidyas and hakeems and also sought blessings from priests, but nothing worked. As the years passed by, the absence of a child haunted him and his relationship with Aparna began to sever. The social pressure of producing a child was smothering him. Aparna too was equally stressed, she was wounded with insults from family members at dawn and dusk.

‘One afternoon, Shiva came home and excitedly told Aparna that he met a group of celibate priests skilled at physiognomy, who told him why he wasn’t able to father a child. He told Aparna that they merely looked at him and said that he had curses of three hundred mothers upon him. The mothers were women whose sons or husbands were slain in battle by Shiva.

‘He told Aparna that the celibate priests told him that they should pray to God Shiva and Goddess Parvati for two sons and they should promise the deities that they will give one of their sons to the temple of celibate priests after he achieves puberty. They had to worship the God and Goddess in abstinence of all carnal bonds for two lunar cycles before bonding for the desired purpose.

‘And it worked, almost a year later, just before Diwali, Aparna gave birth to twins – two boys that Shiva always said were the shining lights of his life. He organised for the grandest Diwali pooja that year. He decorated the entire house with clay diyas and marigolds, he distributed boondi laddus made with desi ghee and he prepared beds of marigolds in front of Goddess Lakshmi’s idol for the twins.

‘One of them was named Kartik and the other was named Vinayak. As they grew up, Kartik’s appearance was slightly more inclined towards his father and Vinayak’s towards his mother. Kartik followed in his father’s footsteps and trained to become a warrior, while Vinayak was given traditional Hindu education by a Brahmin teacher. One son to serve the king, one to serve God.

‘At the age of fourteen, Vinayak began his education at an ashram, where he was to be inducted into celibacy. The ashram was on the outskirts of Amer and the walk to it was wearing. On the way to the ashram, there was a well where Vinayak and his friend often stopped to drink water. It was an old well, which was living its last days.

‘Each morning and each evening, the well used to be flocked with women from nearby villages. When Vinayak and his friend stopped there for water, the women would whisper into each other’s ears and giggle behind their veils and happily serve water to the attractive young men. Vinayak had his father’s build and his mother’s delicate features. He was tall, lean and muscular. He had long hair, mischievous eyes and perfectly formed lips.

‘The women of the well would have their glances trained on Vinayak, but Vinayak’s eyes would be intrigued by a figure in the distance, engaged in the task of helping her mother fill up the pitchers. She was Riddhi, the daughter of a flower merchant, Jagdish and his wife Saraswati. Before Vinayak could gather sense, he had developed feelings for her that were forbidden for him.

‘Riddhi was about the same age as he was, she was tall and slender, had long hair, thick eyebrows and shapely cheekbones. She was talented too, Vinayak once heard a woman say that Ridhhi does beautiful embroidery on dupattas and he wondered if she had embroidered her own dupatta, which covered her head and had a border of shimmering thread.

‘He would walk up to her and genuflect with his hands cupped at his lips, Saraswati would gesture at Riddhi to offer water to the pupil priest and she would pour water in his hands from her earthen pitcher. Her fingers, at the pitcher’s mouth, embraced each drop of water before Vinayak consumed it. And he felt nourished at the end of each drinking ceremony.

‘With each passing day, for Riddhi, the ritual of quenching the thirst of the pupil priest became more pleasing. The careful steady stream of water that she poured in Vinayak’s hands was more than just punya, a good deed, it was a connection, unbound by time, which one heart was weaving with another. It was fulfilling for both of them.

‘They wrote letters and surreptitiously passed them on to each other at the well, and it was in those letters that Vinayak and Riddhi became familiar with each other. In the beginning they talked about their lives, their childhood and cousins and friends, their favourite foods and their favourite games and the places they had been to, in and around Amer.

‘Then they wrote about their present lives sharing their schedules and discussing on what parts of it were burdensome and what parts were calmest. They told each other about their likes and dislikes and things they were most afraid of. Vinayak would always have some mantras ready for any ghost stories that Riddhi might bring up.

‘They discussed stories of great kings of the past and present. They spoke about the talk of rising population and water scarcity that they had heard from elders. And they wrote about the new capital of Jaipur that was being built a few kilometres from Amer. Their discussions were seemingly endless on the promises of future and the wonders that it would bring to them.

‘The thing about future is that it is secretive and unpredictable. You can have estimations and presumptions about it, but no absolute accuracies. People nonetheless love it, they ardently prepare for it; they plan for it, work for it and fight for it; they always make it hopeful and heroic. But the future is just an uncertainty that turns into reality only when it loses itself to become the present.

‘Vinayak did not know what his future held. He did not know that he would be asked to vow to celibacy and that his hopes for his flourishing love would all be buried under a landslide of religious belief. After a few months of knowing Riddhi, one night he shared with his family that he wanted to marry. He had planned to bring up Riddhi’s name, once the talk of marriage caught on.

‘Life at times does not favour you and so it happened with Vinayak. Shiva and Aparna froze at the sound of that word – marriage. They knew that their son had grown up to develop feelings of affection for someone. They looked at each other and exchanged a non-verbal dialogue, it was time for them to tell Vinayak about the parts of his life he was unaware of – his past and his future.

‘They told Vinayak the entire story that preceded his birth; the struggle, the celibate priests and the worship of God Shiva and Goddess Parvati. They then told Vinayak that it was no less than a miracle that they had received two sons as a blessing. They made Vinayak understand that breaking the covenant with the celibate priests would be similar to breaking the covenant with the God and Goddess.

‘Vinayak quietly listened to all that his parents had to say and then silently agreed. He had no choice but to honour their promise. He had no idea what consequences might befall if he chose to digress from the path that was paved for him even before he was born. Isn’t this what always happens? We are all born with a set of responsibilities we are expected to execute.

‘What Vinayak did not know was that there would be consequences even if he would follow the path that was pre-designed for him. That’s the thing with life, no matter what you do, there will always be consequences. All actions have outcomes and there is no action that will give you a single positive or negative outcome. You will always get a mixed bag.

‘I feel it is better to pave your own way rather than walking on pre-designed paths. And I feel it is better to act upon your decision of choice instead of acting upon the decision of pressure. At least, then you would own the consequences. I don’t know all what Vinayak thought but he took some decisions that night that had outcomes he did not own.

‘He had a pen in his hand, a blank sheet of paper on his lap and a burning lamp in front of him. It was raining and the wind was strong. There was a storm outside the house and inside his heart and he found it difficult to write the faintest word to Riddhi. He sat frozen through the night, till the early hours of the morning when the lamp flickered and died.

‘For three days, Vinayak did not go to the ashram. He was searching for the courage to tell Riddhi the facts that he had become aware of. Each of those days, Riddhi waited for him, like one waits for an anticipated event of delight. And when he did not come, she dropped a white rose in the well, and prayed to the water God to send Vinayak to him.

‘Her God answered her prayers but not completely, because Vinayak did come to her but only to part. With a lowered gaze, he apologised to her and handed her the letter he had drafted, explaining the entire turn of events. As Riddhi opened the letter and started reading it, her eyes filled with tears. She looked up to find Vinayak but he appeared to be a blurred existence drifting away.

‘Riddhi drowned in pain. She ran home and wrote a letter for Vinayak, she took a big white rose from her father’s flower shop and ran towards the ashram. At the gate of the ashram, an elderly man frowned upon her as she quickly passed him the letter while covering her face. She spoke between sobs “please give this to Vinayak”.

‘The letter said,

“Godman, you are a liar,

You said that you love me most,

But at first you love your God,

Second, you love your parents,

At third, I think, you love me.

I’m giving myself to Him,

That too as a sacrifice.

The flowers will bloom and the

Water will have their perfume –

The breeze will take it to you.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye love.”’

Mr Sethi seemed uncomfortable. He had smoked three cigarettes so far. He stopped narrating the story and looked around the room, until his wandering eyes stopped at the corner where his bottle of scotch was kept. He poured himself a drink and drank it in the same manner as he did before, all in one go. Arjun found his demeanour unsettling but he sat pretending to not notice.

Mr Sethi took the remote of the air-conditioner and brought the temperature down to the lowest. Arjun felt his cold fingertips as Mr Sethi wiped sweat off his forehead. He then walked to the chair he was sitting in, before starting the narration. Once Arjun saw that Mr Sethi was calm, he found appropriate to ask, ‘Where did Riddhi go after giving the letter at the ashram?’

‘Riddhi went to the well at midday when the desert sun was the fiercest. She stood in the scorching heat for some moments before climbing on the boundary of the well. She held the big white rose that she had taken from her father’s shop close to her chest and looked down. The sun was above her and the water was below her, she offered one last prayer to her God and jumped hundred feet into the well.’

‘She jumped!’ Arjun exclaimed, holding his jaw.

‘Yes.’ Mr Sethi sombrely replied.

‘And what happened to Vinayak?’

‘I don’t know what happened to him, but we have assumed he would have either moved to Jaipur along with the rest of the city at the beginning of the second quarter of the eighteenth century or he would have embarked on some travels along with a group of celibate priests. We know nothing about his thoughts or his pain that he would have felt upon losing Riddhi.’

The room was silent for a moment as Arjun was bent over his notebook writing something. He then stopped for a moment and asked Mr Sethi, ‘Is this story true?’

‘What do you mean? Of course, it is!’ Mr Sethi said in a stern way.

‘Alright.’ Arjun said scratching his forehead, ‘So it is this story that inspired you to start the rose farm?’

‘In a way, yes.’ Mr Sethi nodded.

‘And let me guess, this story was told to you by Mrs Sethi.’ Arjun crossed his legs and leaned back.

‘Yes, you are right.’ Mr Sethi agreed, lighting another cigarette between his lips.

Arjun thought of asking for Mrs Sethi as he wanted the different perspectives he so eagerly awaited, but he refrained on account of the thought that it would be weird asking for a man’s wife again and again. Therefore he changed his question, ‘So when did she tell you this story?’

Mr Sethi turned his face away from Arjun and exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘It was on our first meeting.’

‘The first meeting?’ Arjun sat upright, ‘Tell me how both of you met.’

‘I studied archaeology at Oxford University, and one day, during a lecture on Indian History and Culture, I realized how little I knew of my birthplace. I was born here but my family moved to England soon after my birth. And we rarely came back. I thought about generations of my family that dwelled in Rajasthan and developed the curiosity to know their stories. I decided that after graduating I would go to India and work.

‘And so I did. In the winter of 1971, after a few short, small projects, I received the opportunity to work in the area I wanted to – Amer, Rajasthan. We had long days filled with field work and evenings with wine and cheese or chai and pakodas, depending on how the day went. Most nights, we would come back to our hotel in Jaipur and some nights we used to spend at the site.

‘It was one of those chai evenings after which I was setting up my tent. All of my companions had left for the city and I had chosen to stay. The afterglow had turned the fort in the distance and other dwarfed structures around it to silhouettes. There was a gentle breeze which had a fragrance that reminded me of a sign my English neighbour had put in front of his overhanging rose bush – stop to smell the roses, but don’t pluck them, for they too have hearts that break.

‘The night was dark and the sky was clear and full of stars. I lit a small fire outside my tent and started reading a book. It had not been long before I felt a presence behind me. I quickly turned back to find a woman, standing next to my tent. I stood up in surprise and accidentally stepped on the fire, burning my foot and extinguishing the source of light.

“Hello” I said.

‘She stood silent and still. I picked up my matchbox from the floor and lit a match to illuminate my face.

“Are you okay miss?” I enquired.

‘She came a few steps closer to me and the dim light of the match put a glow to her delightful form. Her eyes were deep and she looked at me like she had known me from another time. The match burnt out.

‘I lit another match and noticed that her eyes had filled with tears. Her lips quivered and she buried her face in her dupatta to empty a well of tears. Some of her loose tresses dangled free in front of her collarbone and she looked charmingly fragile and affectingly beautiful. The match burnt out.

“Miss, would you like some water?” I asked, offering her my bottle.

She took the bottle from my hand and I lit another match.

“Thank you.” She said, “I am okay now.” And hugged me.

‘I dropped the matchstick and separated her body from mine. “I’m sorry miss, what are you doing? I don’t even know you.”

“I am Riddhi and you are my Vinayak.” She said, “I have waited more than two centuries for you.”

‘I withdrew in the fear that she was not of a sound mind.

“I prayed to my God” she said “don’t pluck me from this world until I become one with Vinayak.” She gave a pause and said, “My bhakti has kept me in this world and my bhakti has brought you back to me".'

Arjun looked puzzled. ‘What are you saying Mr Sethi?’

Mr Sethi coughed. ‘I had the same look as you. I refused to believe her. But then she narrated the story of Shiva and Aparna and the celibate priests to me.

‘And you believed her?’

‘She took me to the place where she said there was once an ashram and there were remains of it later found on excavation. She took me to the well, where she had met Vinayak, and there actually was a well, although in a ruinous state. It was half covered with a stone slab, which I pushed to reveal some more of the well. I’m telling you Arjun, the perfume of roses emanating from the well was overpowering, and when I looked inside, it was almost full with white roses and they gleamed like the full moon. A well of white roses!’ Mr Sethi animatedly spoke. ‘She took my hand and asked me to pick a rose from the well and wish for her to be mine. She said, “This would make me alive, but only for you. For all other past, present and future life forms, I will be dead".’

‘What did you do?’

‘I picked a rose from the well, looked into Riddhi’s honest eyes and wished for her to be mine. A flash of light ran through the ground around us with the well as its epicentre and I felt the stars shifted a little. All roses from the well turned to dust, except the one in my hand. We then walked to the camp, relit the small fire and took pheras around it at the crack of dawn. The sun God was our witness.

‘Oh man!’ Arjun whispered, touching his forehead with his thumb and following fingers. ‘You got married the same night?’

‘Yes! And marrying Riddhi came as a great advantage to me. She helped me uncover many lost mysteries in and around Amer. I won awards because of her!’

Arjun gazed at him in wonderment. ‘For some of us,’ he thought, ‘it’s difficult to find true love in simple sorted circumstances and some people like Mr Sethi defeat the boundaries of possibility.’

‘It all went well for a few years’ Mr Sethi spoke, ‘and then the government wanted me to go work down south, but I did not want to leave this place so I left my job and bought a small patch of land and started farming roses.’

‘Roses.’ Arjun exhaled. ‘Do you still have that rose from the well?

‘It lies in a small well, at the centre of my rose farm. All roses bloom in its image.’

Arjun gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m sorry Sir, but it’s all too much for me to grasp. Mrs Sethi is the three hundred year old Riddhi, you are the reincarnation of Vinayak and a rose gives life to a farm.’

‘It’s okay, we all find refuge in denial when we encounter realities that we have not encountered before.’ Mr Sethi retorted.

‘Perhaps.’ Arjun sighed. ‘Can I meet Mrs Sethi?’ he requested.

‘Well,’ Mr Sethi glanced at the white rose on the table, ‘She has been sitting next to you all this while.’

A wave of horripilation swept through Arjun. He gripped the arms of his chair and expressionlessly stared at Mr Sethi. The room was cold and silent. It was difficult for him to comprehend what Mr Sethi had just said.

‘Arjun...’ Mr Sethi broke the silence, ‘Riddhi says hello to you.’

Arjun turned in the direction of the chair where according to Mr Sethi, Mrs Sethi was sitting. He forced a smile on his face and said, ‘Hello.'

Mr Sethi smiled and clapped his hand once. He looked calm as he stood up from his chair. ‘There you have it,’ he said, ‘your story’.

‘Yes, Sir’ Arjun spoke, in a tone of voice that was very conscious of a third presence in the room, ‘But I must say, it was way out of my belief system.’

‘A writer is not one person, he is many characters, many personalities and many belief systems. Let’s see how good of a writer you are.’ Mr Sethi said, hurriedly smoking a cigarette. ‘Now if you will please excuse me, there’s somebody here to meet me.’

‘Right Sir, thank you.’ Arjun then turned to Mrs Sethi’s chair, ‘It was a pleasure.’

Mr Sethi picked up the rose from the table and gave it to Arjun, ‘Riddhi wants you to have this, it will bring you close to what you want most.’

Arjun took a deep breath as he came out of Mr Sethi’s house. It was evening and he was hungry. He took a cab back to his hotel and returned home the next day.

Soon after reaching home he called Shishir to let him know that he had the story.

‘Hmmm, good.’ Shishir said, sounding preoccupied.

‘So, how do we go about it? Are we going to meet Imtiaz or should I send this to you?

‘No, no, that would not be required.’

‘Okay. Then?’ Arjun scratched his cheek.

‘Listen bro, Imtiaz has got a story.’ Shishir said, ‘He’s making a movie with Shahrukh.’

‘So what about this story now?’ Arjun asked, agitatedly.

‘I don’t know. Listen, I’m really busy right now, I’ll call you later.’ Shishir hung up.

Arjun was disappointed after the conversation but he did not lose hope. He began working on the story nonetheless. He faced disapproval from his family too, but he drew inspiration from Riddhi’s story and its evidence, the white rose that Mr Sethi had given him. He took a month’s time to prepare the first draft of the story.

He emailed chapter outlines and sample chapters to publishers and as per norm no one responded. Arjun felt anxious and angry but he pushed on. And it worked! A few weeks into the process, he received an email from a publishing company that he had not even written to. At first he thought they were one of those publishers who ask money to publish your writing but later he received a call from them and they told him how serious they were.

They called Arjun for a meeting and the next day he went to their office. It was decorated with items that you get at expensive shops and had a luxurious odour. He introduced himself at the reception and the lady escorted him to a meeting room that had a big wooden table with posh leather chairs around it. ‘Please sit down Sir, Ma’am will meet you shortly.’ The lady said.

Arjun sat waiting as he thought of Mr Sethi’s incredible story. What he found even astonishing was the fact that after all these months of leaving his job, he was finally sitting in a publisher’s office, moments before signing his first book deal. ‘The rose has finally united me with what I want most.’ There was a knock on the door and a lady walked in. Her name was Shama and she told Arjun that she is the editor who read and recommended his story for publishing.

The meeting went well and Arjun came out as a working author. The publishers took three full months to edit and publish the book. They called it, A Well of White Roses. They organised a book launch event for him and asked him if he wanted to invite certain people. He thought of Swati, Shishir and Mr Sethi, but said he only wanted to invite his parents.

On the day of the book launch, Arjun dressed his best and reached the venue. A small crowd had gathered there, which had book lovers, new authors and people from the media – print and online. In the small crowd, Arjun instantly spotted a familiar face, the hair had changed a bit, but the rest of her was similar. It was Swati, as young and beautiful as she ever was.

She smiled and walked up to him. ‘Hello my handsome friend, how are you?’

Arjun stopped all expressions of happiness on his face. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I am a fan of your writing.’

‘Oh really? Since when?’

‘Well, since my company has published your book.’

‘What are you saying, this is your company?!’

‘Yes.’

‘Why have you published my book? Is this some kind of remorse for your actions?’

‘My editor seemed to like your work, I only referred it to her.’

‘The editor who met me?’

‘Yes. Believe me, you have got this totally on your merit.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t worry Arjun, because I know.’

Arjun looked at her eyes. He missed registering kisses on them.

‘Listen,’ Swati said, ‘Let’s talk this over at dinner tonight.’

Arjun hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘Okay.'

They called him in front of the crowd and introduced him and his book. They gave him a wrapped copy of it, which he unwrapped as his eyes swept through the audience. His parents applauded with teary eyes and Swati cheered for him. He was officially a published author. His eyes fell upon a few empty seats towards the back of the room and he regretted not inviting Shishir and his friend who had introduced him to Mr Sethi. He imagined Mr Sethi on one of those seats and his beloved white rose next to him. ‘I will give them a phone call,’ he thought to himself. He drew in a breath filled with the aroma of roses. He had found what he wanted most.