"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," says Shakespeare's most romantic heroine, Juliet. This testimony of hers quoted umpteen times is some proof of the innate power of the flower. This flower power comes from the beauty of the rose. Be it the bud, the bloom or the blown stage, a rose is a rose is a rose.
Circa the Valentine day, or rather the entire week, roses are the pride of the market. Personally, I do not exactly like those cut roses. I prefer the Indian or the desi variety more, given its light pink colour, its gentle sweet smell, its baby soft texture. The entire ensemble in its supreme simplicity is more appealing than the plastic perfection of the cut roses. They are, moreover, easy to grow, they bloom year long on the delicate vine, and when they have almost run the course of their brief life, you can very easily make them last forever as the gulkand.
You may wonder at this paean dedicated to the much loved flower. Well, the occasion behind this panegyric is the fact that September 22 was the World Rose Day. With a motto "Love Care Concern", it is observed the world over to cajole all the cancer patients that the dreaded disease is not the end of the world. Rather, it is possible to face it with spirit and strong will power. In other words, this logo provides succour to the patients, and raises awareness about it among the populace. Given the severity of the disease, what a beautiful thought indeed! Hats off to whosoever thought of such flower power!
Cancer, as I realised while researching for my articles in the New Indian Express, Hyderabad, is indeed a dragon when it hits children. Two incidents have permanently lodged themselves in my memory. The first one was with a six year old Sikh kid who was playing away to glory, absolutely unfettered by the cruel cancer. His brave family was also letting him be even when they knew that the inevitable would be just round the corner. Though I marvelled at their courage while I interviewed them, in my stomach, there was a pit of the size and ancestry of the Lonar lake .
The only other time I have felt so helpless as a freelance journalist was when an autistic girl held my hand with tremendous love and without any guile whatsoever. That article, too, stayed with me much much longer than its publication. Yet another such disturbing research etched on my mind was when I visited the government mental hospital to write two articles on `psychiatry and women'. That site/sight worse than any hell and the teary eyes of an old relative haunt me still. Nor can I forget the old guard requesting me not even to see the horrific terror, warning me to be very careful.
Let me end the blog today with the second incident about children and cancer. Well, I write each one of my articles with lot of responsible research. I had to hence meet an oncologist at Apollo. I was waiting at the foyer of her office for my appointment. There was this mother whose six month old baby was diagnosed with ocular/eye cancer. The couple, obviously from a rural poor family, was ill at ease with the glossy surroundings. I tried with my broken Telugu to put the young mother at ease. Mostly, I used the language of smiles. Well, I had gone there after a morning full of my Ph. D. studies. I had to travel in a packed to capacity bus to the other end of the city. May be, I must have looked real tired. The young mother of the ailing baby was absolutely convinced that I am a late stage cancer patient as well. Why and how would she know journalism and its woes? So she would steal at me a glance full of pity and concern, her eyes would fill with tears. While I was trying to commiserate with her, what filled me with wonder was her empathy for a young girl her age whom she thought to be a lonely cancer patient. May be, extremities bring out the best at least in some because this uneducated simple poor rural woman was facing the adversity much much better than other richie-rich grumbling adults whose own life style excesses most probably would have landed them in the cancer swoop.
Given such searing memories, I admire the Rose logo much more than any `Anand' or ` Mili', and pray yet again for the well-being of all the brave ones who do not at all deserve the pain and who brave it with a smile lovelier than any rose.
pratima @ pain is less mightier when penned!
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