The Blood of the Rose
Not much greenery was left anymore, but whatever remained had to be preserved. That’s why he was holding the water pipe, directing a steady stream onto the plant in the corner of the lawn, where the garden’s only rose had barely bloomed today.
After taking off his round cap and placing it on the chair, his smooth, fair, moon-like bald head gleamed in the soft sunlight. He had rolled up the hems of his salwar slightly. Below his ankles, his pristine white feet—now slightly damp—looked freshly cleansed, matching his immaculate white beard.
In such a large mansion, not even a bird flapped its wings at this hour. Anyway, most of the mansion had already been rented out, with access limited to the back gate. He was left with just the front sitting room, the attached veranda, a bathroom, and the kitchen. What more space did he need?
The days of nobility were long gone.
Remembering those times now was like setting fire to his own heart. When both his wives and all his children had left him and settled abroad, who remained with him in the mansion?
Only an old housekeeper and the son of an elderly gardener came by morning and evening to take care of his essential needs.
Before leaving, the younger wife had even bitterly remarked— "You deserve this! Stay with them!"
What could one do if Allah granted a long life? And so, the days kept passing.
But who could control the mind? Every now and then, some memory from the past found its way back.
Forget the whole mansion—back in the days of nobility, even this vast garden had a small army of workers dedicated just to watering it. Sprinklers would shower the finest imported plants with delicate mist.
Dozens of servants were always on hand to attend to his needs.
When the Nawab was left alone, the early days were the hardest. After breakfast, he would go for a short walk, hoping to run into someone to pass the time. But who had the leisure anymore? This was the capital city, after all.
One such day, his old carriage driver visited him while on a trip to Lucknow. The driver had a couple of free hours, so reminiscing about the past, he took the Nawab for a stroll in Company Bagh.
As the Nawab walked through the garden in his old royal manner, he came across him.
The young man, caught in dire straits, stood leaning against a lamppost, one leg bent, reading a newspaper, as if shaking off his misfortune. The place was deserted. The Nawab approached him and struck up a conversation.
He learned that the young man was highly educated and serious-minded. He had come to Lucknow for some work but had lost his wallet near a college entrance. Now he was penniless, having fasted all day, and was looking for a way to arrange some money to eat and catch a train out of the city.
And in such a moment, he crossed paths with the Nawab—God’s own messenger.
The Nawab embraced him warmly, as if meeting a long-lost friend.
The carriage driver took them both home.
For the young man, the Nawab’s remaining vestiges of grandeur felt nothing short of paradise.
At home, the Nawab treated him to a lavish meal, gave him some money, and invited him to stay the night, suggesting he leave the next morning.
The young man agreed.
The day passed in lively cheer.
After dinner, they sat down for a game of chess.
As soon as the board was set, the Nawab realized that although the young man was of a tender age, he was a formidable player. It had been years since the Nawab had played such an engaging match. He was delighted.
The young man tucked a cushion between his knees and swiftly moved his pawn two squares forward. The Nawab laughed—
"Slow down, my friend! You charge ahead like a warhorse. Do you mean to slay me outright?"
Seeing the young man’s skill, the Nawab also braced himself—
"There you go. Now, what will you do?"
"That’s nothing. My bishop is standing guard," the young man replied.
"Oh, my dear fellow, I shall grip your bishop’s neck so tight that it will writhe in agony! I won’t let go until it sheds tears!"
"You stay entangled with my bishop while I trap your king!"
The young man launched a two-pronged attack on the king.
"Don’t be mistaken, dear sir! You won’t lay a finger on my king. But save your rook if you can!"
The Nawab moved his king back, putting the young man’s rook at risk.
"My rook is safe. Now, let’s see what you do," the young man pulled his rook back.
The Nawab’s knight immediately pounced on the rook—
"Where will you escape now? I shall drag your rook down to my dungeon!"
The Nawab stared into the young man’s eyes as he plotted his next move.
But the young man masterfully sacrificed his knight to capture the Nawab’s queen.
The Nawab was aghast—
"How dare you? You’ve left my queen defenseless! But no worries, now save your king!"
"Oh, don’t think I play with toy soldiers, sir! I’ll chew through your army like it’s nothing!"
But the young man skillfully maneuvered, reversing the entire game.
The match lasted long, but in the end, the young man triumphed. He had beaten the Nawab decisively.
"You play superbly!" the Nawab admitted, embarrassed.
"I’m my college champion! But you really made me sweat," the young man said.
"Really? Then I deserve some credit too—go on, pat my back!"
The Nawab chuckled.
After spending the night, the young man left the next morning after breakfast.
It had been a delightful time.
Barely two weeks later, one morning, the Nawab read in the newspaper that a film was being shot in the city. The film’s name was— "Shatranj Ke Khiladi" (The Chess Players).
The title sent a shiver down his spine. Could this film be based on his own story?
He muttered— "Oh no! Was that young man a writer? Is this film based on his story? Will my humiliating defeat be showcased on the big screen? Will the whole city know what happened that night?"
A strange, sweet discomfort gripped him. He felt flustered. Had he unknowingly hosted a renowned writer that night? That young man was a hidden genius!
Had he spent an entire night with him and failed to recognize him?
Would his disgraceful loss become public knowledge?
Feeling ashamed, the Nawab stayed indoors for two whole days.
On the third day, he finally learned that the young man had no connection to the film. It was based on a story by another famous writer. Big actors had come from Mumbai.
Relieved, the Nawab finally stepped out of his house again.
Remembering that night’s events after so many years, his face turned red once more. He was so lost in thought that he failed to notice how long he had been showering water onto the delicate rose. The poor flower trembled, on the verge of falling, as if bleeding under the intoxicating spray!
He thought to himself— Ah, the grandeur of nobility! Whether in darkness or light, it remains ever majestic.
