Black Rose

She sits in a corner, her head buried in the desktop, and her hands busy clicking the mouse.

"Rose, we are going to a movie, will you join?"

"I have work."

"We have an outing this weekend."

"I have plans."

She never mixes with anyone. She portrays herself as a spooky introvert. She always wears shades of black, light black, dark black, blackish black and black black.

What attracts me is her stillness, her calmness. A grim look suspends on her face throughout. She never smiles.

I tried several times to talk to her, but she is not the type of girl who is hungry for compliments. She is the type of girl who works from morning 10 to evening 5 and rushes to the metro station to catch the 5.22 p.m. train. The lover in me wants to stalk her and find out where she lives. I desperately want to know whether she has a boyfriend? But I know it is not right to stalk her.

So, I pass my days watching her, silently admiring her. I give her smiles when she randomly looks at me, but she never smiles back. She peers back into the computer as if I don't exist.

My friends say she is spooky and egoistic. Few people in her department say she that is an introvert and does not like mixing with people. I say she is my beautiful black rose.

I resolve to cut the ice in the week of Christmas. Like every year, the Secret Santa game is back. She does not participate. The day before Christmas, as she leaves to catch her 5.22 p.m. train, I follow her. As soon as we are a little away from the office, I offer her a black rose.

I say, "I know how you don't like the regular things and so I painted it black."

She smiles at me (the first time I see her smile), "Thanks, but I can't accept it."

I insist, "Please, I have made this one for you. This is edible - made of milk sugar and cream. Tastes yummy. Try it."

She hesitates and takes a small bite that I break from the stem of the rose. She likes it and finally accepts the gift. I walk her to the station. I tell Rose that I am a Halwaii and work at my brother's sweet shop during weekends. I also tell her that I specialize in custom-made sweets like the black rose I gave her. She hears intently but does not speak much. The lover in me rejoices on this small triumph. I wave her as the 5.22 p.m. train departs the platform. She waves me back.

From that day, Rose smiles back at me. She speaks to me though she maintains her reserve. One day she asks my help on a powerpoint presentation. I feel that the barren land is kissed by the first drop of rain after years of waiting for the rain. My friends call me crazy. Some of them tease me that love is blind, and I have become blind. I don't care. I am happy. Girls in my group ask me how can you even fall in love with her? I reply how can you not fall in love with her? I tell them there is a stillness in her face that attracts me, a strange calmness that magnetizes me.

The next day I am puzzled to see the corner seat empty. She did not turn to work. Hundreds of questions arise in my mind. I shoo them all away and curse myself for my unnecessary anxiety. I assure myself that she is not well or maybe she has some personal work.

Three days in a row now. She has not reported to work. Everywhere, people are talking about her termination. But no one knew the reason behind it. I don't have her phone number. I don't know where she stays. The feeling that I will never meet her kills me.

A close friend of mine works in the HR department. He is reluctant to share anything about Rose. But I have to know. After a lot of persistence, I come to know the reason for her termination.

Next day I set on to her house from the information I could lay my hands on, from HR. I find her apartment, and I knock at her door. She is shocked to see me. Her eyes are full of pain.

She asks, "why are you here?"

I calmly say, "I know."

Her eyebrows narrow and her face flushes. She asks me to go away and tries to close the door on me. I hold the door with my right hand trying to stop it from closing. I plead my case through the narrow opening, "Let me help you get your job back."

She reluctantly opens the door with her head down. The words of the HR Executive echo in my ear, "She is a criminal. She killed two people and spent her childhood in a juvenile jail. We can't allow her to work here. If we had known at the time of the joining, we would have not hired her at all. It is good that we found out now, and we terminated her immediately."

Her bags are neatly packed. She is leaving town. She is controlling her tears.

I say, "Look you can't run away like this."

"My reputation reaches first before me." She buries her face in her hands and cries.

"They can't label you as a criminal forever." I comfort her with my words. "You have completed your jail term. That part is over."

She wipes her tears, blows her nose on the sleeve of her black shirt and asks me innocently, "you don't think bad of me?"

"I think you should fight for your job," I reply her.

I understand now why she kept herself away from people. I tell her that a black rose also stands for death and mourning. Kill the old Rose who runs town to town. Let a new Rose be born - a fighter rose who is not afraid of her past, not afraid to stand for herself.

Sometimes, people need a kick-start in life. And that's what Rose wanted too. I want my black rose to transform into a colourful rose: yellow, pink, red, white or a multicoloured rose with every petal dipped in a different hue. And I will always be with her in this transformation.