Plant with Thorns

Rehan Sheikh, Class 9, South Point High School, Kolkata

I have a particular likeness for flowering plants.

I have been able to offer a small, unworthy accommodation to a rose plant which I could not resist myself to bring home. The plant has been given a little pot in the veranda to grow and flower. My veranda, fortunately, receives a good fare of sunshine and wind. It is an enclosed place securing my little, callow roses from any intruders and from rain and storm. Just the day when I was looking at the little flowers which had adorned the little plant, I remembered all my hard work that went into it. A journey of a little plant- so fascinating! The day it came home as a juvenile it had only a few flowers on it but soon all of them shed off. I was disappointed.

After a few months, I discovered that the soil was lacking the necessary nutrition. “Give it some dried tea leaves!”, suggested my aunt and I did so only to find that the plant was growing two times faster! It began spreading its thorny, attenuate, crooked branches and started producing bright pink, blushing florets. I have never picked any one of them anticipating that they would grow bigger and bigger like Alice but it would wither, fall to grow again.

I can gaze and stare at them for hours without losing patience. An ordinary person would pay no heed to my genial roses for he may not have the ability to adore the flowers and only to fathom out the thorns of life. I look at them and get pleasant thoughts. My spirit is enlivened and cheered. My mind is gladdened and thoughts pour in. Roses, I feel, can bring some vivacity- some tenacity to your spiritual flow.

Great writers like Shakespeare and Antoine have appreciated the beauty of these little beings. It is indeed remarkable how these generous shrubs have the gift of literary supremacy.

Shakespeare metaphorically compared even love and war with these bright, loving roses. In Juliet’s lament on love and the woebegone time, Shakespeare perfectly used roses-
‘Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boist’rous, and it pricks like thorn.’

Perhaps, he was right. But in case of my roses, I shall always adore them….


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