Remembering the Roses

" See Jehane...I remembered the roses."

 These poignant words form an abiding part of my childhood memories. It is not as if I have always remembered this line or the story it came from. But,sometimes, like a ray of glimmering sunlight through dark clouds,or like the melody of a long-forgotten song, it used to come back me to me,crystal clear. It still does...

It was in the early '90s. My elder sister was in standard ten, preparing for her public exams. Her English curriculum comprised of this book called 'A Treasury of Short Stories'. I was probably in standard three or four, and devouring her English books counted as one of my favorite occupations.This story was featured last in that book.

The name 'Remember the Roses' immediately struck a cord in my heart. I found something very beautiful,yet heartbreaking, very close yet intangible in this name. What added a touch of mystery and enigma to this alluring title was the fact that information on the author, Avery Taylor, was unavailable.

I read the story, or to use an oft-used cliche, I 'lost myself in it'. I started off as any curious reader but ended up having the experience of a lifetime. It was a perfect example of how something seemingly insignificant can be of such profound influence. The story left such an indelible image on my psyche that more than a decade later, it continues to spellbind me.

I will not narrate the story here for it would be akin to robbing you of a magical experience. All I can say is that the story reminds us, that time and again, human virtues shine through the darkness and miasma of hatred and violence. That love and compassion can alone lead us to salvation. That an indomitable spirit, enlightened by truth and courage, can never be broken. It reinstates the eternal truth that true heroism and valor do not lie in mindlessly decimating the lives of innocents,but it can be achieved only by honoring God's greatest gift - Life.

The symbolic use of Joan of Arc lends this story an indescribable aura, a touch of purity,a sense of timelessness, a halo of divinity.

I had first read about Joan as a child, it was an abridged and vernacular account of her heroic yet tragic life. The journey of a simple peasant girl from the obscure French village of Domremy to becoming the leader the French masses looked up to, is unparalleled in the annals of history. Refusing to abandon her beliefs and steadfast in her aim to free her motherland from the tyranny of foreign rule, she had moved ahead undeterred in her path,valiant and triumphant. Listening to none but the divine voices that had spurred her on this legendary and heroic quest.

The short story 'Remember the Roses' seamlessly mingles Joan's story to an incident in the Second World War and creates an amazing narrative which will continue to haunt the reader long after the last page has been turned.

As I have already mentioned, the first time I read this story was more than a decade ago. The book got misplaced and it was only recently that I rediscovered it on the Internet. When I read it again, it was as if the years had never passed. I was once again that precocious girl who had abandoned her own books in a corner of the room to read her elder sister's books instead. A habit that made me discover this gem of a story, a habit that, in retrospect, I'm eternally grateful to.

Only this time have I endeavored to document my feelings - how, years back, on a long summer afternoon,I had chanced upon this story, how it had evoked in me a sense of wonder and awe, how it had brought a vignette of history alive before me.

Of the myriad images that rush before my eyes, two are most special.
A young girl on horseback, galloping ahead fearlessly. An ethereal glow on her tender, beautiful face, a divine flame gleaming in her eyes. Inspiring hundreds to rise as one against a regime of cruelty and oppression. A young maiden whose indomitable spirit rose higher than the ravaging flames at the stake.
A young soldier, noble and courageous,stands in solemn silence before the stone figure of a Maid. A soft,tender,almost saintly glow on her face. He feels a silver crucifix between his fingers,trying in vain to reach out for something or someone. At the feet of the statue he lovingly places a bouquet of vibrant red English roses, as he honors a promise made to someone he once knew.
And the fragrant,balmy spring air softly echoes his words as he whispers,with a wistful look to the stone figurine..." See Jehane...I remembered the roses.."