It was the morning of winter. The day was Sunday. The time was around six. I was still in deep sleep. The baby Sun was just up in the sky, kissing me with his warm beams through the window of the bedroom. My wife came running to my bed and woke me up quite hurriedly. Jolted out of the pleasant morning sleep, I rose from my bed. I was immensely surprised to find my spouse bursting with unique joy. “I have a very pleasant news to tell you,” she cried like a child with tremendous excitement.
“What’s it?” I asked curiously. “You know our rose plant at the threshold of our house,” she stopped overcome by her emotions. “Yes, we have a rose plant at the threshold. What has happened to it?” I enquired. “The rose plant in the pot bears a tiny bud this morning. The bud is very tender and cute. Oh! It’s really fantastic. You must come and see the bud yourself. I’m sure you will be thrilled,” she besought and cajoled me.
Though reluctant to stir out of my bed, I gathered my indolent limbs and shuffled off to the threshold and in the midst of a chain of yawning, I cast a dull and careless glance on the rose plant. “Lo! there stands the rose plant so majestically with a tiny, red bud swaying gently in the morning breeze. The bud is still unopened with its delicate, wondrous beauty wrapped up in a veil of mystery. It looks like a newborn baby yet to open its eyes, yet to stretch out its puny tender limbs.”
I wondered, widening my eyes and kept staring at the rose bud. I noticed that around the bud were a couple of butterflies flitting. My heart started bouncing on waves of joy hitherto unfamiliar to me. Under the hypnotic spell of the beautiful bud, I fell into a reverie and sat there, gazing at it with my eyes open. Sensing my meditative mood, my wife handed me sheets of paper and a pen. After sometime when I emerged out of my reverie, I found in my hands, a poem of thirty lines on the rose bud.
This poem was later published under title “The Mystery of Beauty”in the International anthology of English poetry (World Poetry 1993) brought out by the World Poetry Society, Chennai. When I received a copy of this poetry-anthology, holding it aloft proudly like a flag of victory, I showed my poem to my better half. Sharing my bliss, my spouse said, “The rose bud is no more. However, its beauty still stays on. Am I correct?” “Yes, dear, you are absolutely correct. The beauty of the rose bud ever stays on in my poem and delights the lovers of beauty,” I answered, recalling John Keats’s immortal poetic lines, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
Dr Venugopala Rao Kaki
Email: kakivenugopalarao@gmail.com