Inkling 2023 - Flipbook - Page 4
Favourite
by Sunaina Bal
My face is tilted up to the sky, the
Sun shining brilliantly upon my plain
green and yellow body. In this glass
pavilion, I am far from alone; others
just like me are lined up, waiting for
someone to pick them, for someone
to fall in love with the colour of their
petals, or the shape of their leaves.
In my short life, this need to compete
against others and get chosen is all
I’ve ever known.
The most beautiful of us are placed
at the front so that people will flock
around them and surely bring one
home. The more simpler of us are
placed at the back. We don’t have a
common radiance to us; no colourful
petals as dazzling as the rainbow,
with cool shades of blue and indigo
or fiery shades of red and orange;
no long flowing leaves or perfectly
symmetrical bodies; no features to
make us a shining jewel. Every day
the hope in our heart wanes like the
moon we see each night after another
day without love. We can only hope
someone ventures far back out here
to bring us home, before we become
nothing more than food for the Earth.
One mild spring evening, an elderly
human comes perusing to the back.
Surely she’s gotten lost in search of
my more beautiful siblings. But no -
she stands close to my neighbours
and looks on at the yellow pansies
who have been here longer than me.
“Ah! Amidst all the gorgeous roses
and dahlias of my garden, these plain
ones will do.”
I trembled in the immoveable
prison that was my body. If I had
hands and legs, if I had control of
my body, perhaps I would have a
way to express my anger. If only I
had a mouth, a voice, then my rage
could come screaming out instead of
suppressed in my helplessness. Why
did they get to decide the difference
between plain and pretty?
After the loss of my dear pansies, a
young human comes wandering in,
clinging onto his mother in a fit I had
come to learn is called “tantrum.”
His mother ignores his pleas to her.
I wish she would not, because when
his cries remain unnoticed, he’ll
turn his attention to something unable
to resist. Sure enough, something
catches his eye; running to the front,
the human gets his sticky hands on
a crimson carnation and pulls it out
of its bed, roots and petals breaking
with the force. Its mother scolds him
as I watch him carelessly drop the
flower in fright. I knew if the carnation
