Ashes of the rose, p.1
Ashes of the Rose, page 1
Ashes Of The Rose
A Destiny Forged Through Fire
SANGEETA KATHURIA
ASR Publishers
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright by Sangeeta Kathuria
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author
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Front cover design credit: Eleanor Lloyd-Jones
https://showerofschmidtdesigns.com
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
I. The Beginning–2011
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
II. 2015–The Present
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
III. 2011–The Beginning
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
IV. The Present–2015
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
EPILOGUE
DAMON
KRISH
MINA
Afterword
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to my family who continue to push me beyond boundaries. Always love you Atin, Rizul and Rishaan.
Thank you to my wonderful parents who never fail to encourage me to do my best.
Thank you to the silent well wishers who convince me that I’m doing a good job even when I have my doubts.
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I would like to thank my editor Sheena Billett for taking me up on my second book, proving to be a great source of support I needed to transform my manuscript into a book worthy of a read.
Prologue
MANY YEARS AGO
‘Mama, I am hungry. Is there no more rice left from dinner? I don’t know if I can sleep with my tummy hurting.’ I wailed as my mother lay me down beside her on the mat that was rolled out on the floor.
‘There isn’t any more, Mina my dear. But how about a story to help you go to sleep?’ Mama offered as an alternative, lightening up my mood and diverting any attention from my growling stomach.
‘Tell me that story again, Mama. About the rose and the princess,’ I begged in my tiny five-year-old voice, pulling at my mother’s arm persistently as she lay by my side on the floor.
‘How many times will you listen to that story Mina? I don’t know why you like it so much,’ Mama moaned, shaking her head.
‘It’s my favourite, Mama. I promise I’ll go to sleep when you tell me it.’ I pulled her hand into mine, eager to listen.
‘There was once a beautiful princess who lived in a big grand palace. Her father, the Maharaja, gave her everything her heart desired. But the one thing she loved the most were roses. All colours of roses but red roses the most. Roses shared their fragrance with the world, and their beauty to please the eyes of those that admired them. Her garden in the palace was especially made up for her with only roses. There were hundreds of them planted in the ground and well looked after by the gardeners every day.’
I closed my eyes as I willed myself to be the princess in my thoughts. I too loved roses. But they were far too expensive for people like us to have. Sometimes, when Mama knew her madamji wasn’t looking, she would sneak one out of their vase and bring it home for me. And I would look at it for hours, trying to draw it with my pencils in the special sketchpad Mama had given me for my birthday.
‘But one day, an evil enemy who wanted to bring destruction to the kingdom, set fire to the palace. The servants and helpers were able to put out the fire in time in the palace, but not the gardens. And all the roses burned down, leaving only ashes to float in the wind. A handsome young working man, who had been strolling by, noticed the ash in the sky and followed it to the source. He arrived to find a scene blackened with dark grey, gritty soot, replacing what had once been an exquisite garden. And in the ruins, amongst the ashes, he found the stunning princess, crying her eyes out, heartbroken at the sight of her precious garden. On asking the princess why she was so sad, she informed him of her rose garden and how fond she had been of the colourful blooms. And now that they had burned to the ground, she had no hope to ever see them again, or of smelling their scent. The man smiled, and walked over to the ravaged land. Looking hard, he finally discovered one last tiny stem that had proved to be resilient to the wrath of the fire. Digging it out from the ground, he brought it over to the princess and asked for a pot. With his caring hands, the stranger replanted the stem with its intact roots into the clay flower pot and bade the princess goodbye, after obtaining her promise to water the plant every day. The princess made it her daily resolution to look after her plant and in a few weeks, the rose had grown and bloomed into the most surreal ruby red rose with the most velveteen petals she had ever seen. The princess thanked the stranger from the bottom of her heart for not allowing her to lose hope, and she guarded the rose until the day she died.’ Mama’s voice was always so demure and soothing when she told me this story. It was hard not to fall asleep.
‘I am not so hungry now, Mama.’ I smiled lazily up to her somewhat sombre face as sleep started to invade my eyes.
‘You’re like that rose, my Mina. As beautiful and as pleasing to the eye. Spreading your fragrance of love to the world. Remember, Mina, the burning ashes in your life don’t define you. If you find the right person, he will also pull you up from the ashes, and re-plant you in a better place, where you can bloom and share the beauty of your love and fragrance with the world. We must all rise from the ashes and live to see another day.’ Mama finished the tale as my eyes grew heavier by the second. I should never have underestimated the force behind Mama’s words that were to be the driving force which would get me over the hurdles that were going to erupt in my life.
Part I
The Beginning–2011

Chapter 1
The humidity was intense. Swatting a dizzy mosquito angrily against my threadbare skirt, I flicked the lifeless body with my stained fingers before getting back to preparing dinner for the family. The earthy smell of rain was in the air. Monsoon was on its way as the beginning of June forewarned me of the washout that was to come.
‘Come here Jai’ I called to my three-year-old brother, offering him a piece of dry unbuttered roti that I had prepared earlier, still warm from the pile. Smiling, he waddled over to me and sat himself in my lap as I tore a piece and put it in his sweet hungry mouth. Hugging him closer to my chest I smiled, relishing the feel of his soft hair tickling my chin.
‘Mina Di loves you soooo much.’ I smiled at the hungry way he attacked his food and a waft of the delicious aroma of burning roti reminded me of my own fervent hunger. ‘Maybe I can have a piece too before everyone else comes in.’
‘More, Didi.’ He pointed to the sparse food that lay ready to be eaten in the pots I had set aside for the rest of the family. It was close to eight. Mama would be home shortly with the other children in tow, twelve-year-old Abhay and eleven-year-old Shanti. They had been visiting Lord Ganesha’s temple that evening, praying for Baba’s new job in the leather factory, where he hoped to be making shoes. A little prasad to bribe the Gods wouldn’t do any harm.
‘Not too much Jai. We have to share with everyone else. There is barely enough.’ I regarded the vessels with a frown. It was getting more and more difficult to get enough food to share with the family. I had used the last of the potatoes to make a potato and lentil curry to eat with the chapattis, but knew that it was not going to be enough for us all. Another evening where Mama would sacrifice her meagre portion with her younger children and survive on a glass of milk – if there was any left after Jai had his share. Sighing with a heavy heart, I lifted my brother and walked over to other side of our home in three steps. The flimsy front door suddenly burst open as my best friend Lata rushed in, eyes wide in a frenzy.
‘Guess who is shooting their movie close to our house tomorrow? One. Simple. Guess!’ Lata gushed dramatically, trying to steady her breath.
‘No ways. Krish Kapoor? Are you serious, Lata?’ I felt my heart race at the mere mention of the name of my all-time favourite Bollywood movie star. Living in the heart of Mumbai, I had grown up like many others with an idol or hero to worship, and mine had been Krish since I had been old enough to know anything about movies. I had been over the moon when Mama had allowed me to keep a small, glossy photo of him in the bedroom I shared with my brothers and sister. Every night I would look into his chocolate brown eyes and hope that he would visit me in my dreams – probably like every other girl in the country. All my local friends, neighbours and teachers were aware of my crush. Every movie, every song, every piece of gossip was an indelible piece information safely stored in a Krish-sectioned part of my mind.
‘I’ve run from the local fish market where I heard two ladies talking about it. They looked quite important. Maybe from the film industry? They were discussing his new movie and that he wi
ll be shooting here, in Dharavi, tomorrow. He’s doing the role of a cop or something.’ Lata came up to me, pulling me round and round in a circle.
‘Oh my God. I have to go see him. I must. We’ll go together. Do you know what time it will be happening?’ I asked.
‘In the early morning so there is no rush. Near Mahalakshmi Station. It’s an action sequence I think. We can go early morning, at dawn.’
‘I’ve never seen him in real life. I must go. I must I must I must.’ I chanted jumping up and down like a child who had been given the key to a toy shop. Jai laughed at my behaviour, aping my moves in his own childish way as he pranced around with us.
‘I’ll come around five in the morning. Be ready. We’ll go before school,’ Lata announced before running out of the house as quickly as she had run in.
Picking Jai in my arms, I started to dance in excitement around my living room and kitchen, humming the tune of a favourite Hindi song.
‘What is all the excitement for?’ I turned around to the sound of Mama’s voice.
‘Oh Mama. It’s the best news ever. Guess who I’m going to see tomorrow. My most favourite person in the world. After my sweet Jai of course,’ I swooned.
‘Yes, yes, we heard. I wondered how long it would be before the news would get to you.’ Abhay laughed shaking his head. ‘No one is going to get any sleep tonight if you’ll be this hyper until morning’
‘Nirmala Mausi already told us on the way home,’ Shanti added, referring to Lata’s aunt.
‘Mama I can go, can’t I? Please, please, please?’ I went over to embrace my exhausted-looking mother in a fierce hug.
‘Oh goodness let me take a breath first, Mina.’ She laughed along with the children. ‘I need to sit down. My legs are hurting.’
I watched my mother with a sense of pity, and for a moment, I overlooked my personal excitement to focus on her. She did look very tired and worn out – more so than usual that evening. Her hair, which was normally tied back in a clean bun was unkempt with stray strands frizzing around her face in a crazy way. A tiny woman, Mama was barely five feet tall yet her frame looked even smaller than that of a child. At thirty-six, the age lines of a fifty-year-old were etched onto her face, blotting out her youth – evidence of a difficult life.
‘Come on everyone, let’s have dinner first. You must all be hungry I’m sure.’ I clapped my hands, averting attention away from myself toward the evening meal.
‘I’m very hungry.’ Abhay nodded his head and went over to the kitchen section of our house, seating himself on the floor ready to be served his dinner. His siblings followed in tow as I sat down to ladle the food onto plates. I felt Mama’s eyes on my back and turned to meet them. The question was clear in her eyes. Was there enough for them all? I looked away and proceeded to feed Jai, allowing Mama some time to herself before Baba came home.
It was a ritual in our house. Being the eldest, at seventeen, I would sort out the dinner for my brothers and sister each evening after school and feed myself too, leaving Mama to finish off with Baba. Mama insisted for it to be this way to ensure her children would never sleep on an empty stomach. I would then go upstairs to our shared room and get them all off to sleep before I too, followed suit. The space in the room above was too tiny and barely enough for us children to sleep. Mama and Baba slept in the room on the ground floor on the rolled out straw mats in a room that was a kitchen, common room, bedroom all rolled into one. They had allowed the only double bed in the house to be used by us, while Jai slept in a make shift swing hanging from the ceiling.
I had known no other life than the one I had been living since I had been thrust forth into the world, crying uncontrolledly, Mama liked to tell me, with tiny hands balled up into fists as though ready to fight. Mama had looked down with immense love at her first born while Baba had slapped his forehand with the flat of his hand, cursing his fates at being burdened with a daughter as a first child. But then Abhay had brought the long overdue smile to his face and his chest had swelled with pride. Shanti had been of similar insignificance to the family as Baba had been content with showering his love and attention to his only son. Until, that was, the very late arrival of little Jai who had become the apple of everyone’s eye the minute he had been born. From an early age, I had accepted a sense of unimportance in Baba’s eyes, as he chose to only acknowledge me when food needed serving, water needed fetching or clothes needed washing. It was Abhay who had been proudly paraded on Baba’s shoulders as he ran through the small alleyways of our home; Abhay who was given the extra portions of dessert whenever any was brought home as a treat; and Abhay who was showered with love and hugs at every given moment in time. It was something that both us sisters had made peace with and we didn’t feel anything different needed to be done.
Baba had been working in the garment factory since my birth but had recently been laid off due to the owner’s bankruptcy and subsequent closure of the business. Things had already been exceedingly hard in our home but were now even more so. Mama herself was not educated and had been working tirelessly for a wealthy family – cooking, cleaning and sometimes even looking after their children. Her meagre wages had been the only sustenance for our family’s needs for many months, but now there did appear to be a light at the end of the tunnel for Baba had been recommended for a job in another factory, making shoes. Hopefully that evening the news would be positive when he arrived.
‘Mina, leave whatever is left in the pots for Baba and I, and take the children up to bed. I’ll wait and eat with him,’ Mama instructed, tidying away the children’s school bags into their proper places.
‘Of course, Mama.’ I nodded.
‘And yes, you can go in the morning with Lata. Just make sure you’re not late for school. Watch the film shooting and go straight to class. I’ll take Jai to work with me if Baba has a job to go to.’ Mama shared a smile with me, a subdued smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
‘I really hope Baba gets the job,’ I whispered under my breath as I put the dirty dishes aside to wash. ‘Will you let me know Mama? Wake me up if I am asleep. Please,’ I urged.
‘Story time, Didi. Can we hear the story of hare and tortoise?’ Jai asked pulling at my skirt.
‘Not again. I am so sick of the hare and tortoise story. I don’t know why he likes it so much,’ Shanti moaned, mopping up the last of the curry from her empty steel plate before making her way up to their room to change into her night clothes.
‘Always the same story. Jai we are going to listen to something else tonight. Even I am sick of this story.’ Abhay looked at his little brother crossly. Jai looked up into my eyes questioningly.
‘I’ll whisper the story to you. Don’t worry my little Jai,’ I promised before he turned on the waterworks. That appeared to have momentarily appeased him as he obediently followed his brother and sister up to their room. Jai loved the story of the hare and the tortoise. Or maybe, more than anything he loved the way I told him the story. He would wait with anxiety in his eyes and clenched up fists while the hare was winning, wanting so much for the tortoise to win the race. And when the tortoise did pass the finish line first, he would shout in glee, cheering on the tiny animal – delighting in the fact that no matter how slow, he was the winner over the arrogant hare. It was a favourite for the both of us, but a bore for Shanti and Abhay who preferred to read their own books – borrowed from the school library – until their eyes would grow heavy with sleep. We were fond of books in our home as reading allowed us to escape to the worlds we knew we may never have a chance to visit. We had grown to acknowledge our limits and kept our expectations within those boundaries to avoid disappointment.
