A Pink Flower Called Hope

Click.

“Chin up,” commanded the photographer. Rani confidently raised her slender, recently-threaded chin.

Click.

“Okay, now do this,” ordered the photographer. He set his camera aside and contorted himself into a probably-elegant pose that did not seem so elegant on him. Rani raised an obsidian brow but obeyed whilst the photographer rushed over to adjust the rise of her shoulders, modify the tilt of her chin, and raised a finger to guide her eyes. After all, she did not have the same authority she once had. Old Rani could choose the poses. New Rani succumbed. Rani’s eyes, the sepia hue of polished leather, followed his finger. A corpulent man leant over and dusted her face with powder.

Her countenance was sharp and poised. The dip of her Cupid’s bow shone in the harsh lighting of the studio. Her shoulders sloped elegantly. Her night-sky hair fell softly against her bony back, like licorice. The perfect model. Rani would not call herself arrogant, but she certainly did not mind being the cynosure of the scene.

Click.

“Fierce. Right, let us all take a breather. Shoo.” The photographer waved his hands.

Rani got up from her plush stool, the seat upholstered with luscious fabric in a soft peach colour. It was Peach Fuzz, the colour that won Pantone Colour of the Year in 2024. It was trendy, sure, but Rani found it unbecoming. She knew darker colours looked “rad” against her bronze skin. Then again, she was not in a position to argue anymore.

She was strutting towards her possessions in her Louboutin heels when she spotted a newspaper lazily tossed on a table. “Sex Offender Hrishi Babu’s Girlfriend Rani Patnaik: 10 Things to Know,” the front page proclaimed. She blanched, then glanced around clandestinely. Grabbing the cursed newspaper, she stuffed it in her purse.

It had only been ten days since Hrishi was sent to prison for his crimes but Rani already longed for her life before. Not her life with Hrishi, of course. No, she longed for the days people unquestioningly loved her. She was still appalled that she was played like that. She saw now that she was a bird, and he was a bird catcher.

Rani had toiled to be here today. She stacked brick after brick with shaking hands, cementing them with tears and anger, to build the pedestal she sat on now. Well, not now, not anymore. She knew what it was like to be exploited. She was mortified by her being with him.

Not that her remorse helped. The populace wore Vantablack blindfolds. Nobody saw her plight. Nobody wanted to see her plight. It was just too easy to make the rich and famous culpable. Now her modelling career rested on shaky ground. Without this career, she would be penniless and anonymous. She could not bear that again. She hungered for fame, for the security it brought. When she walked runways, she could almost taste the thick admiration and envy of the elite audience, hanging off them in waves. Those waves carried currency and respect. Now, the waves were quelled.

Musing like this, lost in her head, she half-heartedly watched as her agent worked out the financial logistics of the photoshoot, impatiently waiting to leave. She wanted to sink into her lovely sofa, back home, and shut out the world. She sighed.

*****

Rani slid out of the stark black Mercedes-Benz. Poised in her stilettos, she padded towards her 6000-square-foot house.

“Rani!” called an ebullient voice behind her. Rani swivelled, her hair swishing, to see her old neighbour standing on her home’s porch. Mrs. Bhatia. Rani grinned at her half-heartedly and raised a hand in a reluctant wave. To her dismay, Mrs. Bhatia began crossing the road to come over. Rani could feel a headache sprouting behind her eyes. The two women exchanged mundane pleasantries.

Then, Mrs. Bhatia said “you don’t look well. All okay?”

“Yeah, fine, just have a slight headache. Long day today.”

Mrs Bhatia tutted. “Oh no. Rani, you should come over. I will make this wonderful tea that cures everything. Okay? Come. It’s decided, yeah?”

Seeing no way out, Rani followed her grudgingly.

*****

Sitting at the finely sanded oakwood dining table in Mrs. Bhatia’s residence, Rani daintily sipped the tea from a pearlescent teacup. Mrs. Bhatia seemed engrossed in stirring her own tea, immersed in the swirls. Finally, she spoke up.

“Did you really not know?” she asked, her tone an attempt at gentleness.

Rani blinked. “No! Of course I would not have stayed with him had I known!”

“Hm.”

“What? It is true. I cannot believe you are taking advantage of me being here just to poke me about this.”

“Alright, alright. No, I guess I believe you. You do not really seem the type to condone this.”

“I do not?”

“Hm…no. We have been neighbours for a while now, and you do seem pretty grounded. I will give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Rani smiled sadly. “Thanks… but what will one single supporter get me? My name is ruined. I was once looked up to. Now I am used as an example of what not to do. Today’s photoshoot? Probably my last. The worst part is I am a one-trick-pony. Modelling is all I know. I exploited my pretty privilege and it finally ran out. I never got a chance to explore life.”

Mrs. Bhatia thought for a while, staring deeply into her teacup.

“Rani, there is one thing I can do.”

“What?”

“Teach you how to live.”

*****

Rani crossed the road in her Converse shoes. As a child, Rani did not like being in social situations she could not easily escape out of. Being a model made her grow out of this behaviour, but she still retained a small piece of it. Hence, she was apprehensive of whatever Mrs. Bhatia had cooked up for the day.

Mrs. Bhatia’s knocker was gorgeously engraved with floral patterns, and it produced an elegant noise upon Rani’s using it. A beaming face opened the door.

“Rani! Hello! Come in, dear, come in. Let me get that for you.” The old lady slid off Rani’s beige coat and hung it on a wooden coat hanger in the foyer. She led the model into a room on the upper floor that seemed to be an art studio. Canvases hung on the walls, depicting animals, posh ladies, rivers, waterfalls, birds, still life, and more. Cabinets and shelves lined the walls, brimming with various supplies. Gesso, masking tape, acrylic paint sets, palette knives, watercolour pens… Mrs. Bhatia had it all. Rani wanted to run her fingers along every single object in this room.

“I see the sparkle in your eyes. Do you like art?” Mrs. Bhatia asked, smiling.

“I probably would have, if I had the time and resources to indulge in it. As a child, we had to budget our money carefully, so I never had any fancy supplies. Then I went into modelling pretty young.” Rani shrugged.

Mrs. Bhatia deftly hid a bloom of surprise in her eyes, and continued. “Art therapy is a form of psychotherapy, I once read. Lucky you, for I consider myself to be quite the maestro with art. Come, come, grab a stool and some supplies.”

Five minutes later, the two women were sitting at an expansive lacquered desk, with heavyweight paper and Faber-Castell pencils in front of them. Rani stared at her paper blankly and Mrs. Bhatia stared at Rani intently. Rani sighed heavily and pushed her stuff away.

“I am not sure what to do,” she said.

“Okay, let me ask you a few questions,” said the older woman. “When you found out what he did, how did you feel?”

Rani inhaled slowly. “Mad… and… ashamed,” she said quietly.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Well, I feel hesitant to do anything. I feel exploited by him. I feel denial. I do not want to accept that my career may be over. I feel helpless.”

“What colours do you think best represent those emotions?”

“Red, definitely. Some blue. Maybe some black. Perhaps grey for this odd emptiness I am feeling.”

“And what shapes do you think represent those emotions? How would you represent them on paper?”

“I do not know. Random swirls, I guess. Everything is such a hodge-podge right now.”

“So do that. Draw random swirls of colour. Pour out everything you are feeling onto the paper. Bury it with the weight of your conflict. Score the paper with your pencils, with your rage against him. Draw whatever you are feeling right now. Art has no limits and no guidelines.”

Rani nodded slowly and gingerly picked up a Faber-Castell pencil, marked with the words “Deep Scarlet Red”. She drew and drew and drew until her arm grew tired, and then drew some more. She emptied herself onto this paper. She emptied herself of him. From time to time she reached out and grabbed other colours. Apricot, cadmium yellow, obsidian black, blue-grey… Finally, she stopped and leant back in her chair to review.

Rani was mad at him, sure, but she did not realise just how mad until now. Being from the background she was from, Rani felt genuine sympathy for the girls he wronged, deepening her rage. She took a fine black pen and began writing on her drawing. She did not have a particular plan, she just transcribed every random thought that came to her head. Some were words of profanity. Some words translated her anger. Some were indistinguishable scribbles. Some were doodles of little girls. She leant back once more. She wiped away a tear that quivered in the corner of her eye.

Despite everything, she now felt more calm. Yeah, she really would have loved drawing if she could have afforded it back then. Taking a deep breath, she caught Mrs. Bhatia’s eye.

“How do you feel?” the old woman asked. Rani took a moment to think.

“Great.”

*****

Knock knock.

Rani waited on the steps for her neighbour to appear. As before, she was bubbling with curiosity. However, this time she was not so reluctant. Admittedly, she had fun yesterday. More importantly, her rage felt easier to bear. It was more articulate now. It was less obstructive. It had direction.

As usual, Mrs. Bhatia smilingly opened the door and they exchanged some small talk. Then she asked Rani to come inside.

“Rani, now you know how amazing art is. Well, today we will take part in another equally beautiful activity. Cooking!”

Rani blanched. “Auntie, I do not know a thing about cooking. I probably could not tell a teaspoon from a tablespoon.”

“Why fear when I am here? Come, come. Rani, I promise cooking will clear your mind. Besides, cooking is vital for life.”

“But…” She sighed. “Oh well. Just seven days ago, my cook resigned. Might as well learn to do it myself I suppose. Might as well learn everything. I do not know who will resign next.”

“Do not fret, dear. We will figure it out.”

The two women headed into the kitchen. Pristine white tiles made up the backsplash, minimally decorated with Delftware pottery designs. Pretty shelves and polished countertops lined the walls. Dishes, utensils, and all sorts of tools filled them. Rani was apprehensive of this activity for she knew she would definitely make ridiculous errors, but she told herself to shush and pushed herself to take part.

With Mrs. Bhatia giving simple instructions and Rani following as best as she could, the two women fell into a peaceful rhythm. About an hour and a half later, in front of them sat steaming pulihora, dal and rice, and ladyfingers curry.

“Ready to eat?” asked Mrs. Bhatia.

Rani grinned. “Ready.”

*****

The next few weeks fell into a soothing pattern. Mrs. Bhatia taught Rani all sorts of things, and Rani discovered several new things about herself.

For example, she thoroughly enjoyed horse riding. She was surprised Mrs. Bhatia suggested this activity, considering her age, but Mrs. Bhatia appeared to cope well. In fact, she loved it more than Rani. Rani also found out she loved stargazing.

But it was deeper than that. When she looked up at the swirls the stars formed in the purple-black sky, she felt… small. Her troubles felt tiny compared to the vast universe before her. It put things into perspective. She felt like she could handle things. After all, if the universe was capable of forming all this life and beauty and harmony, then surely she could handle clearing her name?

Hope was a lovely thing. Rani’s soul was till now facing a bleak winter, but with Mrs. Bhatia’s help and ebullience, spring began to arrive. A little pink flower made of hope unfurled and bloomed in her chest, eating away all the dark thoughts.

She also discovered that she was more charitable than she thought. Mrs. Bhatia and she had visited orphanages, organisations that fought for domestic violence, women’s reproductive health, and many more pressing matters. She had to admit she did have comfort issues in the small orphanages and government schools. Rani was raised poor, sure, but she grew wealth and fame by herself. Somewhere along the way she developed a strong need for clean, wealthy surroundings. Maybe it was a defence mechanism. Nonetheless, she felt true sympathy for the lower classes and victims. She discovered an itch in her fingertips to help.

Rani rather liked this new version of herself.

*****

As usual, Rani knocked on Mrs. Bhatia’s door and the two women greeted each other, fonder than ever. However, today the old woman surprised Rani with what came next.

“Rani, today we will go to your house.”

“What? Why, auntie?”

Mrs. Bhatia smiled knowingly and strode confidently across the road. A confused Rani followed her. Once inside, Mrs. Bhatia turned around to face Rani with her hands on her hips.

“Today, we will build a pyre. A pyre to cremate every memory of him. Rani, get me a large container will you? Something to build a fire in.”

A short while later, Rani and Mrs. Bhatia were standing in front of a metal fire bowl sitting in Rani’s backyard, a fire dancing in the bowl.

“Rani, dear, let us go inside now. Bring his things. Every photo with him. Every dress he gave you. Every necklace he gifted you.”

Soon, a pile sat on the grass beside the fire. Papers, Polaroids, necklaces, bracelets, shoes, diaries, and more were clumped together. One by one, Rani picked up each item and tossed it in the blazing fire. She watched the fire’s flames lick all the knickknacks, as if tasting them and deciding which to devour first. One by one, each memento burned into a fine crisp, simultaneously burning Rani’s memories of him. Rani threw the objects in faster and faster until at one point she was flinging them in with all her strength, anger guiding her arm. Then, she limply took a few steps back and sat down on the grass, engrossed in the captivating fire. Mrs. Bhatia grabbed a posh stool from somewhere and sat down by her.

“How do you feel?” the old lady asked her, bringing déjà vu.

Rani ignored the question. “Why are you doing this? Why help me?”

Mrs. Bhatia sighed. She remained silent long enough for Rani to give up, but then she spoke.

“Honestly, my reasons began as selfish ones. You reminded me of my daughter, Shivani. The same self-assured nature. The same eyes. I thought befriending you and helping you would ease my heartache. Besides, Shivani would have been proud to see me being charitable to others. Such a kind soul she was.”

Rani swallowed. “What happened to her?” she asked tentatively.

Mrs. Bhatia was quiet for a minute. “Car crash. Some idiot drunk driver.”

“Oh… auntie, I did not know. I am sorry, I really am.”

“Thanks, dear. What happened has happened. Nothing to do now but honour her memory. Though, I still see red when I see or hear about drunk drivers. Anyway, what is your mother doing, Rani? I realise I never asked.”

Rani looked away. “I never knew her. They say she died in childbirth. There were times I felt guilty, times I mourned for all the days I never had with her. Then I became a model. Sure, I was admired, but it was not the love I wanted. Then I met Hrishi and thought I would finally experience the love I longed for.” Rani chuckled bitterly. “But look how it turned out instead.”

Mrs. Bhatia placed a gentle hand on Rani’s shoulder. “I know. I, too, long for more time with Shivani. My husband and I parted decades ago so Shivani and I just had each other. Yet, life was merciless enough to split us apart forever. When it was fresh, some days I would wake up hoping it was all a big mistake. I dreamt that Shivani was alive somewhere underground and I had to rescue her. If I am being honest, Rani, you have helped me so much more than you realise. I am healing.”

“That is nice to hear, auntie.”

The two women were silent for a bit. Rani had a question burning away at her tongue, but she was afraid to ask. She looked down and realised her hands were shaking, almost indiscernibly. But she braved herself.

“Auntie, I have a question, if you do not mind.”

“Rani, we have known each other for a long time. These past few weeks, we have gotten closer than ever. Ask without fear, dear.”

“Can I call you Amma?”

Mrs. Bhatia blinked. Her surprise appeared to have silenced her. She stared at Rani for a minute and looked away. A single tear rolled down the old lady’s cheek. Mrs. Bhatia placed her hand along Rani’s cheek. It was tender. It was all Rani ever wanted. Looking straight into Rani’s eyes, her eyes glistening, she spoke.

“Yes, beta.”