The Burning Rose

A MAHABHARATA RETELLING

~~~

All the other flowers in the garden were brought up to envy the rose. Maybe shun it even. And admire it, too.

Unusual ways. Too-red petals, too-sharp thorns, too-sweet fragrance.

If only each flower did not have a mind of its own. If only stories were truly what one hand wrote them to be. If only the blood on every thorn was the fault of the rose and not that of the hunter.

~~~

Her breathing had suddenly halted as her eyes had accidentally landed on a piece of paper carelessly tucked under the lampholder on the bedside table.

It looked like the work of a royal servant who had accidentally come across it while cleaning the room and then picked it up and tucked it away.

She had carefully sat up and reached for it.

The hot metal of the lampholder - like the one she had seen Draupadi seamlessly remove from a counter - had almost seared her palm, as she had hurriedly but carefully pushed it aside and retrieved the folded piece of what seemed like pearlescent paper. Touching it had felt like a grave invasion of privacy, but the curiosity that had suddenly roared and raced within her like a great river breaking free off a cliff.

She had hurriedly unfolded the paper and had been greeted by a not-so-perfect handwriting and a volley of letters. It was a letter. A letter that looked like someone had ripped their heart out and presented it to someone on a piece of pearlescent paper.

~~~

WARNINGS: Scenes of intimacy and violence, possible hints of self-harm or similar intentions