There was a garden in the front yard. A garden that had grown by itself. In the garden, the flowers bloomed in the evening, when the sun rays hit the ground from a slanting position with much of it caught on the green surfaces of leaves. We called it the 4 o’clock flower. There were a few named after the moment when the clock struck 150 degree too. There were all sorts of colors in them. The only identity that one had from the other was its color. Purple was the pleasant one. Yellow was really happy and remained bright all the time. The magenta and white lived side by side too. And one day, among this family of colors grew a weed. Its birth was neither intentional nor welcomed. The weed was an intruder to their private and almost blissful existence. They hated the weed. But they couldn’t do anything about it. All they could do was to stand impassive and see it grow. Then one day, the little girl saw the weed. This was the girl who used to look at the flowers every evening with ardent admiration. She used to touch them, pluck them and at times, just smell them. She had very gentle hands with long fingers. Yet, the flowers were even more delicate. Even if it was a gentle touch, her touch always left them scarred- scarred for life. On occasions when she plucked them, they were delighted to embark on the adventurous journey with her, to roam around with her; but their subtle delicacy would always lead them to certain death within no time. Neither the gentle hands n nor her affectionate glance would help them survive. But for the little ones, it was a trade off. They could look forward to a silent death sometime in the night or a shorter life with excitement.
This time, the girl saw the weed amongst the purples and the yellows and the whites. Her look told the little ones that she was not very happy with it either. They saw the hesitation last only a moment. The gentle hands were stretched determinedly, tightened around the neck of the weed and pulled back with a jerk. It was uprooted. The weed is gone. The little ones were contended at the quick end of their nuisance.
A few meters ahead, almost outside the small garden space, was another weed growing. No one had yet noticed it. As long as a weed did not disturb the visual treat the little ones provided through their colors, no one would bother about the weed. And this one was lucky. It grew older in time and finally one day- it bloomed. The weed flowered too- with a rich orange and red color. And it bloomed in plenty; one could only see the orange and red flowers. No one could see the dusty old weed leaves under it. Soon one day, our little ones saw it too. They were slowly nodding heads with the rhythm of the wind. Their eyes were wandering aimlessly. And then they saw it too.. Another one of the same weed clan whom they detested so badly has flowered and colored.
Only this is so much that I know, but I am tempted to form the opinion that the little ones would have regretted the demise of the former weed. If the former weed was not killed, even that would have been a flowering plant right in their midst adding richness to their already colorful assortment.
P.S: There might or might not be Scene2, Scene 3 etc to follow
One of ur best writings indeed!!!!!
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