Every evening, as the sun begins to lose its edge and the garden finally exhales the heat of the day, I find myself on the narrow stone path behind my house. There’s a specific kind of magic in that light. The jasmine creepers seem to whisper secrets, the hibiscus heads droop as if they’re just exhausted from being so vibrant all day, and the old neem tree stands there like a silent grandfather who’s seen too many seasons come and go.
It was on one of these quiet evening that I noticed the rose plant standing at the far corner of the garden, where sunlight arrived late and left early, yet still managed to grow into something remarkably beautiful. Its stem was sturdy, its leaves were a deep, healthy green, and at its tip sat a bloom so perfect it felt almost unreal, with petals as soft as silk and a shade of crimson so rich that even the sunset looked pale beside it.
There was, however, something unusual about this rose. It had grown without a single thorn.
The rose, in its innocence, had decided that beauty alone would be enough to win the world’s kindness. Without sharp edges or any form of defence, it believed people would admire it gently, perhaps even leave it undisturbed so it could enjoy the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the breeze, and the quiet conversations of the garden at dusk.
At first, people did notice it, but not in the way the rose had hoped. They came, not with wonder in their eyes, but with need in their hearts. Some plucked its petals to decorate their homes, others crushed them between their fingers just to breathe in the fragrance, and a few picked the flower simply because it was there and beautiful. No one paused to admire how patiently it had grown, no one thanked it for the joy it gave, and no one cared that each time it was picked, it lost the chance to see another sunrise.
By the time the season ended, the rose had been taken, broken, and used again and again, until all that remained was an empty stem swaying quietly in the evening wind.
The plant felt tired, and for the first time, it also felt deeply sad.
So when the next season arrived, the rose decided to try a different approach. It told itself that if beauty only made people take it away, then perhaps growing in an imperfect, withered form would make them leave it alone. This time, the petals were uneven, the colour was dull, and the shape lacked the elegance it once had. The rose no longer tried to attract attention; it simply existed, hoping that being less beautiful would bring it some peace.
But people still came.
They laughed at its crooked shape, mocked its faded colour, and whispered cruel remarks about how it no longer looked the way a rose should. Yet, despite all their comments, they continued to pluck it, not for its appearance, but for the fragrance it still carried. They did not care how it looked as long as it could give them what they wanted.
The rose felt even more exhausted than before. It had sacrificed its beauty, yet nothing had changed. It was still being used, still being taken, and still being left behind.
When the third season arrived, the rose made a bold decision. It chose to grow only thorns, covering its stem in sharp, protective spikes while letting go of both its soft petals and gentle fragrance. Without anything pleasant to offer, it hoped people would finally leave it alone.
This time, they did.
No one came close. No one touched it. No one mocked it or needed it. The rose finally had the quiet it had longed for, standing alone in its corner of the garden, safe from the hands that had once taken so much from it.
Yet, as the days passed, the rose began to realise that while it was protected, it had also hidden itself from everything that made life beautiful. The sunlight felt distant, the breeze passed by without carrying its scent, and the simple joy of blooming had disappeared.
“Why should I destroy myself for people who never cared?” the rose seemed to ask the silent garden.
So when the next season arrived, the rose made its wisest choice yet. It allowed itself to bloom once more with rich colour and gentle fragrance, but this time it kept its thorns, letting them stand guard along its stem as quiet protectors of its peace. Anyone who wished to admire it could do so from a distance, and anyone who tried to take from it carelessly would feel the sharp reminder that some things deserve respect.
Now, the rose could watch the sunrise without fear, feel the rain on its petals without worry, and sway with the wind without wondering when it would be taken away again. It no longer existed to please others or fulfil their needs; it existed simply to be what it was meant to be.
As I stood there, watching the rose glow softly in the evening light, I understood what it had been trying to teach all along. You can never make everyone happy. If you are kind, some will walk over you, and if you protect yourself, others will call you cruel.
So, bloom as bright as you want. Just make sure you keep your thorns, not to hurt anyone, but to make sure you’re still there to see the next sunrise.
For more dispatches from the heart of the garden, follow my page at Her Campus at MUJ.