The Proposal

Sadness clung to his weary face, like a dewdrop to a rose. The Proposal

Pixabay

Pratik Mainali

Published at : December 1, 2019

Updated at : December 1, 2019 08:20

It was a glorious morning. The hilltops glimmered as the sunlight poured into the vast land, melting the billions of dewdrops trembling upon the millions of trees, romantically rousing the wildlife kindly from their sleep, adding a touch of resplendent joy to the blue misty world. The golden carpet floated along the leafy woods and damp grass.

The birds twittered, the insects droned, the ants scattered. It was the kind of morning where fresh tides of thoughts roll into the brains of the general public, that they wake up keen and alert, stirring them into their days adventure. The scent of the morning air brought a message of hope with it, being sucked into the noble nostrils of the people. It whispered a message into their stiff ears—all was well in the world. The sun heaved up the huddle of hills and folding its arms, beamed down with silent dignity into the sweet valley.

The higher-ranking members of the animal kingdom were rubbing the mist of sleep from their eyes, dragging their languid legs into the Naxal Park for gentle morning exercise. Mr Santulan Gwaymaru, who was almost always nobly cloaked in thought, had actually left that cloak in the third drawer of his bedside desk, and had stepped into the sunlit pavement with relatively ignoble disposition. He was about to dash along the cobbled pavement of the park, when a sad, sober figure arrested his attention. The crouching man sat with crushed sorrow in a cold, sunless seat. Mr Gwaymaru’s stony face softened—his sympathetic spirit got the better of him—he leaned into the crouching figure, with a paternal touch on the shoulder awoke the man from his melancholy repose. The head that craned back and eyes that lifted to meet Mr Gwaymaru’s belonged to that genial fellow, Mr Paribesh Shrestha. Sadness clung to his weary face, like a dewdrop to a rose. It is curious but rarely does humanity peep in to see if nature’s genial offsprings have hidden sorrow beneath their sweet, tender exterior.

Mr Shrestha looked up at Mr Gwaymaru sternly. Mr Gwaymaru looked back awkwardly. A tense silence followed. Mr Gwaymaru wanted to break the silence and lift the man’s spirit from sorrowful resignation and provide him cooling refreshment.

“What ho, Mr Shrestha, you look tired and weary. Anything the matter, my dear fellow?”

These gentle words had a softening influence on Mr Shrestha’s sternness and a faint glimmer of cheerfulness played on the corner of his eyes.

“Nothing really”, he waved his hands in front of his face. “It’s just that...I.”

Mr Gwaymarus now seated gracefully besides Mr Shrestha, spoke the words of encouragement—“Go on, dear fellow, let it out.”

The urge to pour out his sorrow to a sympathetic ear overpowered Mr Shrestha, and from his trembling lips, the words of confession wobbled out. “I say,” said Mr Shreshtha, with a voice choked with pain. “I was hopelessly, miserably, desperately in love with that girl Kriti Sitaula. The one with big, dreamy aqueous eyes, laden with frisk and an expression of beautiful tenderness, with kiss-provoking lips, high cheekbones that flushed rose, perfect nose and dainty chin. I followed her with worshipping eyes. I twisted and turned in my bed dreaming about her. I lost weight. I lost sleep. I walked around with slouched shoulders, dropped head, dragging my legs miserably, with pouches under my eyes."

“That’s dashed unfortunate,” Mr Gwaymaru butted in, stroking his bushy beard. “Pray, proceed”

“I would’ve never got the courage to propose to her, if it hadn’t been for that Complete Works of Lord Byron. I leafed through the mossy pages, flitted through the oily sheets, and by the time I was done with it, I felt gallant and suave. I looked in the mirror; a fine limbed, dapper gentleman looked back. It was with my confidence shooting up my hat, that I entered Gahana Pokhari, and seeing the angel in human form absorbed in her thick book. I coughed softly. As soon as her eyes lifted up, I gave her a warm affectionate look, which no doubt strummed her tender heartstrings,” relented the sullen man.

“I say, my dear girl. You see, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, and after serious deliberation, I’ve decided to ask you to marry me. Say, fling your arms around me, and give me a warm, soft kiss, will you?”

“I said it under one breathe, and it no doubt took some time for it to sink in her pretty little head. Her expression shifted from mild surprise, to extreme confusion, to a flat stare of horror.”

“You insect,” she snapped. “You worm that wriggles around the hills of garbage. You slinking reptile, you raise your hopes so high. You shall be responsible when they crash down and crush your soft brain.”

“I felt bad, but hope lingered in,” he told Mr Gwaymaru, before continuing in his account. He told the woman, “Don’t drift away from the topic, angel in human form, tell me yes or no.”

At this point, she frothed, turned red like a tomato and swelled with rage. She boomed at Mr Shrestha: “No, you fiend in human shape. I shall never sink so low as to marry you. Blast away.”
Mr Shrestha looked at Mr Gwaymaru, but didn’t find the sympathetic eyes he was searching for. The eyes were cold, and unforgiving.

Mr Gwaymaru, who had left the cloak of nobility in the third drawer of his bedside desk, naturally said the ignoble thing “You should’ve never have gone out of your little league, you ugly little worm. It serves you right. I hope you die alone in your cold, hard bed, you blighter.” He turned sharply, and exited Naxal Park with furiously offended strides.
Naxal Park was brimming with cheerful spirit. The sun had poured down on the smooth lawn like honey. The pavement was warm and pleasing to walk on. The atmosphere was filled with golden sunshine and chirping of birds, but in Mr Shrestha’s heart there was a darkness of sombre melancholy.