By Swati Moheet Agrawal

It was a chilly January evening and as the moon came up between two deodars, I saw that patches of snow still lay on the roads of Dalhousie.

I was enraptured by the sight of windowpanes encrusted with icicles, people huddled up in thick blankets, toasty homes fired up and the delicious aroma of rasam wafting through the air. I, too, would have been comfortably ensconced in my cozy bed had I not promised to visit Mr. and Mrs. Jalan.

I put on two woolen sweaters and a fancy fur coat and set off the starlit road. I was told it was a one-mile walk from my guest house.

I was midway through when I chanced upon an attractive young woman – she had long, slender legs, porcelain skin, almond-shaped eyes, scarlet lips, her lustrous black curls fell to her tiny waist and there was a naughty glint in her eyes. I could see curls of steam oozing out of her beautiful mouth. Oddly enough, she only had on a flimsy green shawl over a polo-neck midi dress on a frosty January evening.

I instinctively offered my fur coat which she accepted without hesitation.

“Do you know where the Jalans live? I’ve lost my way,”

“I’m familiar with every nook and corner. I’ll walk you to their residence,” she happily offered to escort me.

She told me her name was Doreen and she lived in the jade-tiled roof house down the hill. She spoke reverentially about her penchant for music and dance and her plans to enroll at the Conservatoire de Paris. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke about her love of scented flowers – jasmine and honeysuckle, delicately perfumed petunias and sweetpeas, and bright orange marigold. She was fond of making nosegays, she said and didn’t wait for special occasions to gift it to the people she loved.

“What’s your favourite flower?” Doreen lovingly inquired.

“Pink gerberas,” I replied rather sheepishly.

Young and sprightly, Doreen’s horizons seemed to be limitless. She escorted me to the house while talking nineteen to the dozen.

“Thank you. You have been amazing company,” I said as we reached the Jalan House. “Keep the coat on. I’ll collect it tomorrow evening.”

She nodded and disappeared without a word.

I landed up at the jade-tiled roof house down the hill the next evening. I waited in vain until a passerby told me the house was deserted ever since the owner’s daughter Doreen passed away. He told me her grave was in the cemetery a few blocks away from Clovers Inn.

I slumped into the rickety wicker chair on the porch. A pall of gloom hung over the place. I was frightened and forlorn all at once.

All my hopes of a newfound friendship were squashed.

Early next evening I walked down to the cemetery. Doreen’s grave was at the far end of it. Under the faint moonlight, her tombstone seemed to radiate an aura of its own. Her epitaph read:

Doreen D’Mello
1983-99
If we had a flower for every time we thought of her
We could walk through a garden forever

A drop of grief welled up in my eyes, as if it were a personal loss. As I began to leave, I glimpsed something familiar behind the tombstone.

Neatly folded on the grass was my fur coat and a nosegay made of pink gerberas.

About the Author:

Swati Moheet Agrawal is a writer based in Mumbai, India. Her work is forthcoming in Thimble Lit Mag, Cafe Dissensus, Spillwords, Nailpolish Stories and The Pangolin Review. Follow her on Instagram @ swatiwhowrites.