The Day of the Red Rose

It was the summer of 1994 in Kagaz Town, a modest locality where the streets smelled of tamarind trees and fresh ink from the paper mills nearby. Life moved slowly there. School bells rang louder than the town clock, and every child’s day was ruled by that tinny clang from a rusting iron bell tied to a wooden pole.

Sishu Parivar Primary School stood like a relic from the past. Before it became a school, it had been a post office during British times—high ceilings, arched doorways, thick brick walls that stayed cool in the heat, and a big iron gate that creaked whenever it opened. Behind it stretched a playground so big it seemed endless to the small children who ran through its dusty patches. One half belonged to the high school students with their cricket pitches and football games; the other was for the primary kids, where skipping ropes slapped the ground and marbles rolled into sandy pits.

In Class IV, among the sixty-four noisy little souls, was Kavish — a quiet, chubby boy weighing 35 kilos, with a round face that made him look both innocent and older than his age. A Brahmin by birth, he carried the discipline and gentleness his parents instilled in him. His shyness was most noticeable around girls — his voice would get quieter, his gaze darting to the floor, and his palms sweating whenever one addressed him.

Kavish’s lunchbox was famous among his close friends. Every morning, his mother packed it tightly with steaming white rice, thick yellow daal, and a rotating mix of curries — golden turmeric potatoes, soft brinjal slices cooked in tangy tamarind, crunchy stir-fried ivy gourd, or the ever-popular okra with mustard seeds. His mother believed food was love, and love meant a full stomach. She never allowed him to return home with leftovers, so Kavish always ate more than his fill. Over time, that love found a permanent home in his cheeks and belly.

Among his classmates was Lolita, the daughter of the Social Studies teacher. She was just as round-faced and chubby as Kavish, with skin so fair that the sunlight seemed to linger on it, and eyes that sparkled like a mischievous secret. They were not close friends, but there was a quiet understanding between them — the kind that doesn’t need words. She often smiled at him during class, and while Kavish never admitted it, his heartbeat would speed up in those moments.

But in every story of innocence, there’s a mischief-maker. Enter Rajiv — the boy whose sole ambition seemed to be teasing, poking, and provoking others. He was thin, wiry, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and a grin that warned you he was always planning his next prank. No one escaped his teasing, though some enjoyed it in a friendly way. Others, like Kavish, would rather avoid him. Rajiv had a habit of pushing boundaries—not in small ways, but with a flair that made teachers sigh and shake their heads.

It was during the quarterly exams that the seed of mischief was sown. Kavish, known for his sharp mind in Mathematics, sat bent over his paper, his pencil moving quickly and confidently. Rajiv sat right behind him, his own answer sheet looking alarmingly blank.

“Pssst… Kavish! Show me your answers,” Rajiv whispered urgently, leaning forward.

Kavish froze. The thought of helping in an exam — and worse, getting caught — sent a shiver down his spine. He shook his head nervously, without even looking back.

“Come on, man! Just a few,” Rajiv hissed again.

Kavish’s hand trembled slightly, but his resolve held. “No… I can’t.”

That refusal planted a dangerous thought in Rajiv’s mind. It wasn’t just about not getting the answers — it was about his bruised ego. And Rajiv never let such things go.

From that moment, Rajiv’s expression darkened. He muttered under his breath, “Alright, big man. Let’s see.” And though the exam ended without incident, Kavish felt the weight of those words.

A few days later, on a warm afternoon, the school was buzzing with post-lunch energy. Kavish sat under the huge banyan tree on the edge of the playground, sharing space with his closest friends. He opened his lunchbox to reveal a generous heap of rice with fragrant daal pooling on one side and stir-fried okra on the other, glistening with oil and mustard seeds. The smell was enough to make nearby kids glance over.

His friends teased him good-naturedly.

“Your mom’s cooking is better than the hotel food,” said Sameer, trying to steal a piece of okra.

Kavish laughed softly, pulling the box closer. “Eat from yours. Mine is for survival.”

As they ate, a group of giggling girls approached, holding something behind their backs. Kavish noticed Lolita among them, her expression half-curious, half-embarrassed.

One of the girls — Anitha — stepped forward dramatically, her voice carrying far enough for others nearby to hear.

“Kavish… we found this in Lolita’s notebook.”

She pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper with a single red rose tucked into it. The girls erupted into a chorus of ooohs.

Anitha opened the letter and began to read aloud:

To, Dear Lolita,

           My heart gets palpitations when I see you. Your charming beauty makes me restless day by day. You are the reincarnation of a goddess or angel who was born for me. Please accept my love, darling. My life has no meaning if I can’t win your heart.

Your Love,

Kavish.

Kavish’s eyes widened. The daal-rice in his mouth turned dry as sand. His friends stared at him in shock, a few boys snickering, others looking impressed.

“I… I didn’t…” he stammered, his face turning crimson.

Lolita stood silent, her fingers clutching the edge of her skirt. Her eyes met his for a brief moment — calm, unreadable. If she was hurt, she didn’t show it. If she was pleased, she hid it well.

Before Kavish could defend himself, a teacher’s voice cut through the crowd.

“Kavish! To my desk. Now.”

Inside the classroom, the Social Studies teacher — Lolita’s mother — sat with the letter in hand, her brows knitted.

“Is this your handwriting?” she asked.

Kavish’s lips trembled. “It… it looks like mine, but I didn’t write it. I swear.”

Her eyes softened a little, but rules were rules. “We will find the truth. For now, you will sit quietly and not speak.”

The rest of the day dragged like a nightmare. Every whisper, every giggle felt like a dagger. Rajiv’s smirk from across the room was the only clue Kavish needed — but who would believe him?

It wasn’t until the next day that salvation arrived. One of the girls, Priya, mustered the courage to speak up. She had seen Rajiv slipping the letter into Lolita’s notebook during recess.

The teacher turned on Rajiv, who looked suddenly smaller than usual. Under the weight of the stares, he broke. “Fine… I wrote it! I copied his handwriting from his notebook. He wouldn’t help me in the maths exam, so… I thought it’d be funny.”

The room erupted in whispers. The teacher’s voice cut them short. “Funny? You’ve embarrassed two of your classmates and disrupted the whole class for your petty revenge.”

Rajiv was ordered to the front of the room and made to do sit-ups until his face turned crimson. Some children giggled; others simply watched. Kavish stood there, still shaken but relieved. Lolita’s eyes met his for a moment, and there was the faintest smile — not of mockery, but of understanding.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. After the final bell, as the students poured out of the gates, Kavish felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found Lolita standing there, the red rose in her hand.

“I know you didn’t write it,” she said softly. “But… if you had, maybe I wouldn’t have minded.”

For a second, Kavish forgot how to breathe. She handed him the rose, smiled, and walked away toward her mother, who was waiting near the staff room.

Kavish stood there, the fading sunlight painting the school walls golden, the rose warm in his palm. The neem tree swayed gently in the breeze, and somewhere deep inside, he felt something new — not just relief, but the beginning of a feeling he couldn’t yet name.

Years later, when life had moved him far from Kagaz Town, he would still remember that day — the laughter, the tears, the injustice, the redemption — and the way one girl’s words had turned a moment of humiliation into a memory worth keeping.

It had been, after all, the day of the red rose.