In “The Pārijāts will Bloom,” the structure – the story within the story – creates a dynamic tension between the young editor’s quotidian life and the rebel’s anguish. Pārijāt flowers as a symbol of lost childhood innocence is also woven nicely into the themes of disconnections and divisions.

– Samrat Upadhyay, judge

The Pārijāts Will Bloom

Aahana takes in the smell the rain has left the city with. It reminds her of something that’s long gone, something she can’t put a pin on. Somehow, the day seems clearer, like she’s seeing everything in high definition. The grass looks greener and the sky seems a little brighter. Rain is rare in October, she thinks, there are no love songs about October rain.

The coffee pot pings and she collects her thoughts. She pours some of the coffee into her mug, takes it to her desk and lights a smoke as she sits down. She pulls out the stack of papers and starts looking into them. She pulls out the one on top and starts reading.

I wake up to hushed voices, I try to open my eyes but they seem to be glued shut, I rub them and try again. I look around and see two figures standing near the edge of where we are camped, I’m alert now, ready to strike. I grab the rifle next to me and slowly move forward. I walk on tiptoe, careful to not step on the dried leaves on the ground, the wind howls softly and I feel it gush against the frame of my body. I can make out the faces now, I lower my guard, but don’t relax, not yet. It’s just comrades Badal and Surya. I walk towards them, they turn around, breathe a sigh of relief.

“Lālsalām, Comrade,” they say.

“Lālsalām. You should sleep, I’ll stay.”

“In a while.”

Our conversations are always short, our bodies always rigid, vigilant, as if we are waiting for something to go off any second. They wait till the sun rises. They don’t trust me, not the girl. I’m weak, they think, ready, exposed.

It is a few hours later and we are walking towards the village, guns in hand, ready for a battle if it should come. My stomach hurts, not just from the hunger. I just want to sit down, rest for a minute, but I know I can’t. I know I shouldn’t. The police might be here soon. We have to be fast, hurried.

I can see the houses now. Light reflects off the zinc roofs, occasionally blinding us.  A few more minutes, I tell myself. A few more minutes and you can change, you can shower.

I look around to distract myself and see pārijāt flowers scattered in the grass.  They look so beautiful, the white and orange against the deep green of the fields, so delicate, like they would be easily crushed with just the slightest touch of my hand.

A memory teases the back of my mind. I see myself, not more than five, with pārijāt flowers in my hand, asking my mother why I don’t see them in the evening.

“Pārijāt only blooms at night,” Ama tells me.

“No it doesn’t,” I giggle in disbelief.

“Have you ever seen it bloom?” Ama asks.

I remember thinking about it, being confused.

“But how does it know when it’s night time?” I ask her.

She just laughs. In my memory, the gentle sound is carried by the wind.

I remember my naivety, thinking she was laughing at me, I remember her telling me she loved me and that she was sorry. I remember suddenly being elated, looking at my suddenly upset mother, and somehow understanding that she loved me.

Now, as I look up, I see a woman in a red sari and a small tikā, a scarf tied around her head and tiny crinkles in the corners of her eyes. As I look at her, I can almost see my own mother staring back at me. I want to hug her, talk to her about my life but I sense fear in her eyes, in the way she guards her son. I want to tell her that I won’t hurt her child or her but I can’t.

She makes some plain dāl-bhāt for us, not once looking at our faces. The taste once again reminds me of home, and I wish with all I have to see my mother one more time. But I know that’s not possible. I keep telling myself to focus on what’s important. I need to fight, this is all for the greater good.

I keep telling myself that when Comrade Badal talks to the woman. I keep telling myself that when he raises his voice, I keep telling myself that when we drag her son with us, the pārijāt flowers crushed by our feet. I keep telling myself that when we give him a gun, when we teach him to shoot, to starve, to make the country a better place. I keep repeating it over and over again in my head till I actually start believing in it.

I believe it when I plant the bombs by the side of the road, when I kill ten people. I believe it when my acquaintances drop, one by one. I believe it when they arrest me, with my hands on my back and cold metal cuffs around them. I believe it when people spit at me, when they beat me.

I believe it when they finally release me, years later, eyes full of hope. As I walk the streets, now different to me, I believe I have created a better place. Our voices have been heard, we will rise.  I look at the pārijāt flowers lying, on the ground, so beautiful, so delicate and I believe, one day, I will see them bloom.

 Aahana looks out of the window and the busy city looks back at her. Outside, people are hurrying, hurrying to get to their offices, schools, hurrying to go meet their friends. People are starting to settle down at their desks too. 

“Good morning,” some of them say.

Aahana just nods. The coffee is gone and so is her cigarette. She feels irritated. The noise is unbearable. She has to edit and publish two articles by tomorrow. Her head starts thumping. She gets up to get more coffee. Looking outside the window once more, she sees pārijāt flowers on the ground. They seem brown and wilted, mushed by the heavy rain. She scrunches the paper she’s holding and tosses it into the bin by her desk. No one wants to read about failure, anyway.