AUTHOR'S POV
"Arey chacha, phir se snake plant mein zyada paani daal diya kya?"
(Uncle, did you overwater the snake plant again?)
The playful sparkle in her eyes betrayed Chhavi Sharma's mock annoyance. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at the old gardener of the institute as if she was about to write him up for plant abuse.
"Arey beta, galti ho gayi. Agli baar dhyaan rakhenge."
(Sorry, dear. It was a mistake. I'll be careful next time.)
He replied, chuckling as he hobbled over to her with slow, careful steps.
His back was bent with age. The sun shone on the brown stains of his shabby kurta which was drenched in his sweat. He had crossed the age where most men retire and rest but he still reported every morning with the same ragged towel dangling on his left shoulder to tend the garden with the same passion he started with thirty years ago.
He had no children. No pension. No one to earn for him or his frail wife. Just his two hands and the will to keep moving.
Chhavi often felt a pinch in her chest watching him. Professors came from different parts of the world and retired back home with scarce energy but this man- he never stopped coming. This man hadn't uttered one complaint in over thirty years of service, never ever. Not about the salary he received, the number of hours he had to work, the number of plants he hand to plant and take care of.
When he finally reached her, taking a little more time than anyone else would, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the edge of his faded towel and offered a sheepish smile.
"Umar ke saath-saath sab kuch bhoolta jaa raha hoon, beta. Kal se dhyaan rakhenge."
(With age, I'm starting to forget everything, beta. I'll be more mindful starting tomorrow.)
"Koi baat nahi. Aaram se, Chacha ji."
(No worries. Take it easy, Uncle.)
Chhavi smiled gently.
She patted his shoulder and then, gently tugged him toward a nearby bench. He knew he had no room to protest and gladly gave in.
Once she made him sit on a nearby bench, she undid the cap of her bottle and passed it over to him.
He shook his head but her single glare made him take the bottle from her and chug the water down, drop after drop, like an obedient kid.
She smiled looking at his taut face relax just a little. But once he emptied the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked down and a familiar, quiet sadness washed over his expression.
To cheer him up, Chhavi began swinging her legs and chirped.
"Aap ek kaam kijiye, chacha. aap na neel gulaab lagaiye. Neel-gulab!"
(You do one thing, uncle. You should plant a blue rose. A blue rose!)
His brows furrowed as he looked up.
"Neel gulaab?"
(Blue rose?)
"Haan!" She nodded enthusiastically. "Kehte hain... jo neel-gulaab ugate hain, unki har khwaish poori hoti hai."
(Yes! They say...those who grow blue roses, all their wishes come true.)
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, half teasing, half meaning it.
He chuckled weakly.
"Par beta, iss mausam mein kahan milta hai..."
(But beta, where would we find it in this climate...)
"Haan haan...mai to mazaak kar rahi thi, Chacha ji! Iss mausam mein kya...agar chappa chappa chhaan maaro tab bhi mushkil hai dhoondhna."
(Yes, yes...I was just joking, Uncle! In this climate, forget it.. even if we search every corner, it'd still be difficult to find.)
"Tab to mehenga hoga!"
(Then it must be expensive.)
She nodded with exaggerated seriousness.He went quiet for a second.
"Arre Chacha ji! Aap toh serious ho gaye!"
(Oh uncle! You've become serious!)
She teased, elbowing him lightly.
He smiled back, wearily.
She laughed and waved her hand, brushing off the moment.
But what she didn't know is just a few blocks away, someone had heard it.
He hadn't meant to listen. Not initially. But her voice made me halt his steps and listen back. After all, it was the voice of the woman who was all over his mind since the moment his eyes met hers.
He stood under the shade of a rusted shed, his hands running over the strips of the backpack he carried to his college, thinking about those blue roses he mentioned.
"Jo neel-gulaab ugate hain... unki har khwaish poori hoti hai."
(Those who grow blue roses, all their wishes come true.)
She said it so lightly.
She would forget it.
But he wouldn't.
He couldn't.
He repeated it under his breath like an oath.
And later that night, when the town drowned in silence, he turned on his PC to learn about their existence in the internet.
Blue roses. For her.
No matter how many nights it took.
No matter how rare they were.
He would find a way.
He would create them if he had to.
She would laugh if she ever found out. But that didn't matter.
One day, she'd walk into a world built of neel gulaabs and he'd watch her eyes widen, her breath hitch, and her smile...ah, that smile...he would capture it forever and die in peace.
Because no one else had listened to her wish.
But he did.
And that was enough reason to love her until madness bloomed in his chest.
Coming out of his haze, Drishye leaned back in the wooden chair, exhaling slowly with a confident smile stretching his lips.
He stood up, pushing the chair back with a low scrape against the floor and walked to the tall, arched window. He opened it with one hand and leaned forward to let the evening breeze hit his face, cold and sharp.
Ping.
His phone buzzed on the table behind him.
He walked back and picked it up with idle disinterest until he read the notification.
Lecturer Change Notification
"Due to an unforeseen and shameful incident, Prof. Gupta will no longer be handling your batch. Prof. Sharma will take over as soon as possible. Classes will resume on schedule. Kindly refrain from speculation."
From: Office of the Dean
To: Department of Mathematics
His lips curved slowly, deliberately into a smile. A smile of victory.
On the table beside him were printouts, screenshots, recorded voice notes, evidences, all fabricated with meticulous detail. Hints of inappropriate remarks, doctored student reviews, and screenshots from forged accounts. Dozens of emails sent anonymously to the dean, each building a carefully crafted case.
All it took was one push.
And Professor Gupta was gone. Suspended.
"Let's welcome Prof. Sharma with a blue rose."
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