"Ah! Look how beautiful that flower is!"
I said, pausing for a moment while climbing the steep trail
to Tadapani (Ghandruk), pointing at a wildflower growing by the path. Then I
continued walking ahead. They were following behind.
After a while, my friend caught up with me. He had plucked
the flower and stuck it into his walking stick.
"Oh, come on! Why did you pick it? It'll wither now.
What a waste!" I said, a little annoyed.
"What's the big deal? It bloomed for us, didn't it?
Someone else would have picked it if we hadn't. Besides, it would've dried up
on its own in a few days anyway," he replied, wiping the sweat from his
face.
His argument didn't really convince me. But I couldn't find
a better one to continue the debate.
"Well, now that you've picked it, at least keep its
photo on your phone for a year," I declared as his punishment for plucking
the flower.
He stared at me for a moment but said nothing.
Perhaps the flower's fate was to be plucked. Yet the thought
that troubles me still is this: why did I have to be the one who showed it to
him?
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