THE first time I saw and touched a rose flower was in 1960 when I was seven and had just started Primary 1 in our village’s mission school. The solitary bush that introduced me to the beauty of roses was tucked in the corner of a house compound that belonged to a reclusive family.
Back then, I didn’t know anything about roses, except that they were unlike any flower I’d ever seen — delicate, vibrant, and mysterious. Where they originated from was far beyond my grasp as a little boy. What I did understand, however, was that roses were prickly and had a peculiar way of sticking to memory.
That memory was kindled by a woman named Rosa. She lived in a modest wooden home surrounded by an untamed yard.
Rosa was perhaps in her early twenties when I first noticed her and was nothing more than a passing figure to me then. She had a quiet elegance, but her demeanour turned sharp whenever Tomi, her next-door neighbour, came around.
Tomi was a burly, outspoken man whose bluntness often left people bristling. He had a habit of speaking his mind in ways that left little room for diplomacy. Rosa, for reasons I couldn’t quite understand then, wanted nothing to do with him. She thought of him as crude, and his attempts at courting her only seemed to deepen her distaste.
But my role in Rosa’s story began by accident during one of my childhood adventures. I often roamed the village with my cousins, fishing in streams and running carefree through the dirt paths. On one excursion, I wandered past the reclusive family’s yard and noticed the solitary rose bush. The blooms were too tempting to ignore. Without much thought, I snapped off a branch and carried it with me as I trudged back home. Passing by Rosa’s house, I tossed the branch onto her verandah, thinking nothing of it.
The Start of Something Unintentional
Weeks passed, and I forgot all about the rose branch. My world revolved around school, football matches, and the innocent joys of childhood. One evening, as I passed Rosa’s house, I saw a small rose plant at the edge of her yard thriving against all odds.
Several months later, the plant had grown into a proper bush, with vibrant blooms that transformed Rosa’s once-plain yard into something striking. My cousins and I often stopped to admire it, inhaling its sweet scent as we headed to our evening football matches. One day, Rosa came out of her house as we lingered near the bush.
“That rose bush,” she said, soft but firm, “came from a branch someone threw on my verandah.”
I blinked, surprised. “I didn’t know it would grow.”
She smiled faintly. “Neither did I. But it did.”
That was the end of our conversation. At nine, I was more interested in the game waiting for me in the field than in the Rose and Rosa. But I would learn that the rose bush had become more than just a plant — it was Rosa’s silent shield against the world and Tomi.
A Fence of Roses
By the time I was a boarding Form 2 student at a government secondary school several miles from our village, Rosa’s yard was no longer open and bare. She had carefully cultivated a hedge of rose bushes along the boundary between her compound and Tomi’s. It wasn’t the sort of fence one could build with wood or wire, but it served its purpose. The thorns were a natural barrier, and the blooms distracted from their sharpness.
In the flowering season, the hedge was a breathtaking cascade of colours, with red, yellow, and white roses blooming in perfect harmony. Each flower glowed softly in the sunlight, their petals unfurling like delicate whispers of silk. The vibrant reds stood bold and passionate, the yellows warm and cheerful, while the whites exuded pure elegance.
Even as the petals fell, they carpeted the ground in a soft, colourful blanket, inviting the viewer to appreciate the fullness of life in all its stages — from vibrant bloom to graceful decay.
Tomi, undeterred by the hedge, still visited frequently, often lingering near her yard and calling out her name. He would bring gifts — fruits from his trees, fish he’d caught — but Rosa always refused. Her rejection was polite but firm, and Tomi’s persistence became a source of gossip in the village.
A Twist of Fate
Once a month during my weekend trips home from school, my cousins and I began helping Rosa with small tasks around her home. It started one day when she gave us some fried banana fritters, which we gobbled down quickly. We were always ravenous growing up.
In gratitude, we carried water for her from a well behind her house when we saw her struggling with heavy pails. Gradually, I spent more time in her yard during such visits, even helping to prune the roses. I loved the red blooms the most.
Our conversations were simple at first, but over time, she opened up about her life. She told me about her late father, her dreams of leaving the village, and her frustration with Tomi’s relentless advances. I listened, although, at 14, I knew not what to say. However, I sensed that she needed someone to talk to.
One evening, as we worked side by side trimming the rose hedge, Rosa paused and looked at me. “Do you know why I planted these roses?”
“To keep Tomi out?” I guessed.
She laughed softly. “Partly. But it’s more than that. They remind me that beauty can have thorns. Life isn’t always what it seems on the surface.”
Her words stayed with me, though I didn’t fully understand them.
A Change in the Wind
As the years passed, the dynamics in the village began to shift. Tomi’s visits grew less frequent. He had taken up more work and seemed to mellow with age. Instead of complaining about Rosa’s roses, he began pruning his side of the thorny fence.
When Rosa asked him about it, he shrugged.
“The thorns bother me,” he said, his voice quieter than I emembered from childhood. “But the flowers are beautiful, just like their owner.”
Rosa froze, not knowing how to respond. Tomi walked away before she could muster a reply. This wasn’t the Tomi she remembered, the loud, abrasive man who had once pestered her relentlessly. There was something different about him now — a quietness, a patience that wasn’t there before.
Through the Rose Hedge
When I returned to the village as a young man, Rosa’s hedge had transformed into something extraordinary. It was no longer just a wall of protection; it had grown impossibly lush. Each bloom seemed to reflect her quiet strength, and the hedge had become as much a part of the neighbourhood as the gravel streets and the church bell. Its fragrance lingered in the air, a gentle reminder of the passage of time.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and bathed the village in hues of gold, I witnessed something that stopped me in my tracks. Rosa and Tomi stood by the hedge, their figures outlined against the fading light. They spoke softly, their voices barely audible over the gentle rustle of the leaves. Then, she handed him a single red rose. He accepted it with a small, almost shy smile that seemed to hold a world of meaning.
With that interaction, years of distance and unspoken words seemed to dissolve. The barrier of thorns that had once kept them apart had softened, and the roses, once a silent witness to their estrangement, now served as a bridge between them.
I later learned they had begun spending more time together — not as adversaries, but as companions. Their bond wasn’t a grand, sweeping romance that would fill the pages of novels. It was quieter, gentler, built on years of proximity and unspoken understanding. The roses that used to separate them had become a symbol of connection.
As I stood by the hedge that evening, watching their figures fade into the twilight, I couldn’t help but smile. The roses had taught me so much over the years: that beauty often comes with thorns, that life holds more nuance than we can sometimes see, and that even the sharpest barriers can bloom into something extraordinary.
Rosa’s rose bushes had become more than just a hedge. The hedge symbolised the journey of a love that grew slowly and patiently, through the thorns.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at hayhenlin@gmail.com.
