Roje ki baat

Wet and weary night. Slightly frustrating auto ride looking for an address I can't find. The auto driver, a 50 something north Indian, hard of hearing can barely follow my instructions. Finally, after some texting and calling, I manage to obtain detailed directions. Relief. My mind turns to other important things -- like buying something for my hosts; a task I have left, as always, to the very last moment!@#$%^&!

I spot a wayside flower shop. Eureka. "Rokiye, rokiye" I shout practically into my auto driver's ear. He, somewhat reluctantly, halts the vehicle. In deference to my leg in plaster and crutches, the young boy manning the flower shop comes up to me. A couple of quick questions, some nifty bargaining in Bengali (I cannily latch on to the boy's accent) and he returns to make my bouquet. A moment passes and then the auto driver turns to me, points to a bunch of vivid purple orchids in the shop display and asks, "Madam, woh roje hai kya?" "Nahi, usko orchid boltey hain," I reply, not surprised that he doesn't recognise a videsi phool. Right then comes his googly, "Phir roje kaunsa hai, Madam? Humney kabhi deykha nahi."

Now my eyes pop! I'm trying to figure if this guy really means what he's saying. Realise he is for real. So I point out a bucketful of red roses to him. The guy steps out of his auto, walks up to the shop, picks a rose and actually buries his nose in it. Then he walks right back. My bouquet is ready. I pay. The auto driver revs up the engine, and before shooting off Schumi style, turns to me and grins, "Pehli baar roje sunkhaa Madam. Bahot khoobsurat hai."