For whom the flower blooms

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A birthday gift


It was for you, my wife told me as I came down the hall to receive the call. Someone has come to meet you, the gateman rang up, she finished. I wondered aloud, at this time in the morning—who can it be! In a quick analysis I concluded, chances are very slim for anyone to visit me now. Anyhow I waited and the doorbell chimed in due time. I opened the door with just a speck of curiosity. The man, a bearer in ordinary clothes, stood straight, stiffly holding a costly flower bouquet, an expectant smile hanging on his face. I took the bouquet from him, looked at the two slips attached to it. One announced, 'Happy birthday'. The other was precise, 'Arunava Choudhury'. I am Chowdhury, but not Arunava and my birthday had long gone. Amused I turned round to meet the eye of my son reading his morning news. I asked him jokingly, should I keep it? This is a happy birthday gift. He laughed.
What was the address you were given, I asked the man. He answered apologetically. By now he got the hang of it. He was approximately 75 metres off his target address.
I looked at the flowers, bright colours, fresh but dead, cut off from the plants. Through what tortuous path at last these reached me! Nobody had sent me any flower on my birthday. Ever. Now I got it. At the end of the day.
After going out of the gate, go left and then take right, and ask for your address, I told the man. Returning him the bouquet, I softly closed the door.

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