Lost in her thoughts, Sneha steered her car through the bustling arteries of Model Town Market. The morning sun had just begun to climb, casting long shadows on fruit stalls and rickshaw wheels. Inside her mind, however, the din was louder—faculty meetings, seminar coordination, assignment evaluations. The checklist spun endlessly.

​

Then, like a sudden gust stirring still waters, her smartwatch pulsed a reminder. Sneha gasped. It was Apoorva’s birthday. Her best friend. Her soul-sister. The one who had stood beside her during the darkest storms and brightest dawns.

​

Guilt coiled itself around her heart. Only two days ago she had resolved to buy Apoorva a dress. But now, rushing toward college, she had neither the time nor the gift. She looked around desperately, and the thought of flowers bloomed in her mind—a bouquet, if chosen thoughtfully, could still hold meaning.

​

There were many floral shops—Card Point, The Fern, The Blossoms—but Sneha’s heart was set on one. Not a storefront, but a modest khokha, a rigged-up wooden kiosk by the pavement, manned by a woman she passed each morning. She wasn’t flashy, didn’t even have a nameboard, but the flowers she offered were fresh, bounteous, and full of life. The woman reminded Sneha of springtime itself—quiet, generous, and fragrant with unseen stories.

​

Sneha slowed down near the pavement. The woman was there, bent over buckets brimming with marigolds, lilies, and roses. Her fingers worked nimbly, tying together sprigs with cotton twine as the morning wind teased her dupatta.

​

Sneha approached, her eyes scanning the blooms until they rested on the yellow roses. Perfect. Bright as sunbursts, curled like promises waiting to unfold. She remembered reading once that yellow rose symbolized friendship, loyalty, and warmth—the very essence of Apoorva.

​

“These, please,” Sneha said.

The woman looked up and smiled, her eyes kind. “For someone special?”

Sneha nodded. “My best friend.”

“Then I will tie them with red ribbons,” the woman said. “A touch of celebration.”

​

As she worked, Sneha pulled out her wallet and offered a five-hundred-rupee note. The bouquet had cost only 150.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the woman said gently, “I don’t have change yet. You’re my first customer today.”

​

Sneha frowned. She had no smaller bills, and the woman didn’t accept digital payments. She considered running into a nearby shop to break the note, but college was calling, and she was already behind.

​

“I… I’m not sure what I should do,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing.

The woman looked at her, then at the roses. “You take them,” she said. “You can pay me another day.”

 

Sneha blinked. “But you don’t even know me.”

“That’s alright,” the woman replied, tying the last loop of the ribbon. “I trust you.”

Those three simple words struck Sneha like an unexpected note in a familiar song. No hesitation. No exchange of numbers. No need for proof. Just trust—pure and unguarded.

​

“What’s your name?” Sneha asked, touched and curious.

“Champa,” the woman said, sprinkling water over the petals, her palms moving like a blessing.

​

The name floated into Sneha’s memory like incense smoke curling through a temple window. She was transported to her childhood garden, where her mother would gather Champa flowers at dawn to offer to Lord Shiva. Flowers that bloomed without season, that were woven into wedding garlands in southern rituals. Symbols of beauty, purity, and strength.

​

And now this woman—aptly named—embodied that same quiet radiance. There was something serene in her face, a light that didn’t need embellishment.

​

“But why would you trust a stranger?” Sneha asked softly.

​

Champa looked up and smiled again, this time with a quiet firmness. “Because trust is like planting a seed, Ma’am. You don’t know what it will become, but you hope it’ll bloom.”

​

Sneha felt her heart stir. She accepted the bouquet with both hands, not just as a gift of flowers, but as something far more sacred. As she drove to college, yellow roses on the seat beside her, she kept thinking: In a world ruled by suspicion and second-guessing, this woman had trusted her—without calculation, without fear.

​

At college, Sneha found Apoorva waiting by her office door. Her face lit up at the sight of the bouquet. She inhaled the scent deeply and smiled. “You always pick the best ones.”

​

“They come with a story,” Sneha replied, her voice still full of wonder.

​

Later that evening, once the sun had dipped into dusk and the sky was tinged with burnt orange, Sneha returned to the market—with Apoorva beside her and the pending cash in her purse.

​

Champa was still there, arranging her final bunches of the day. Beneath the streetlamp's gentle glow, she appeared as if woven from moonlight.

​

“I owed you this,” Sneha said, handing over the change.

Champa took it without counting and gave a nod.

“And I owe you something too,” Apoorva said with a grin, then wrapped her arms around her in a warm, spontaneous hug.

Champa laughed, slightly startled. “Did you like the red ribbons?”

“They were my favourite part,” Apoorva said, “after the trust that tied them.”

​

The three women stood for a moment in gentle silence, the kind that follows a prayer or a perfect note. Around them, the world moved on—hawkers called out prices, cars honked impatiently—but within that little space, something timeless had unfolded.

​

As Sneha and Apoorva walked back to the car, Sneha held her friend’s hand tightly.

“That bouquet meant more than any dress would have,” Apoorva whispered.

Sneha nodded. “She didn’t just give me flowers. She gave me faith.”

​

And later that night, long after the city had fallen quiet and the yellow roses had been placed in a crystal vase on Apoorva’s windowsill, Sneha wrote a single sentence in her journal:

“This keepsake of trust, I’ll wrap in memory’s softest silk and tuck away in my soul’s warmest cupboard.”

​

And all night, a line by George Macdonald floated in her thoughts like moonlight on water:

“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”