In Lok’s room, there is a red color, golden stripped plastic flower. Anyone who sees that flower, at first, always thinks it’s a real one. When his mother bought it, Lok was an infant. He was naive, innocuous urchin. He developed tremendous fondness towards it, probably because it was the first flower ever gifted to him. After sometime, there were other flowers in the room too. But other flowers were too complex and were too bland. They were with thorns. His raw brain thought they were for others: the bigger guys, the stronger guys. That flower was his only choice. He had so much affection with that flower. In fact, he never played with other flowers. They were too big, too far. But that flower was always by his side. Always at eight, in the evening, unwanted sound of news used to get into the Lok’s room. That day also, it was the same thing. His infantile ear was hearing phrases like-Maoist has launched their armed struggle, 40 points demands were not met; they are now in jungle and waging guerilla war’. Lok was innocent; he didn’t know what those were all about. Frankly saying, he didn’t care. He was just playing with that plastic flower. Time was rolling as it always does. That flower has slowly become part of Lok’s identity. Everyday he used to spray water on it. But he also had complains to his mother that why that flower is not fragrant and is not blooming at its full. Just to console her child, she used to tell him that it will but later. But for Lok that later never came. After school, when he used to come home, he just used to play with that flower. He didn’t care about anything. Time was just ticking at its gradual pace. Other flowers bloom with odor and one day, eventually wilt. But Lok’s flower was different. It neither blooms nor withers. He never forgets to put water on it, but still it was not flourishing. Where’s the aroma? Frustrations were slowly creeping into him but his heart was still saying, ‘it will bloom one day.’ He had all those conversation within himself. Ed and ego were on constant fights. One used to say that, it is the most beautiful flower in the whole world; he won’t get any better flower than that and other flowers were just for the stronger people, the bigger people. Another rejects that opinion suggesting it will never bloom and never give that transcendental smell, which had always eluded it. Lok didn’t care, simply for the fact, that flower was his only friend. Other flowers were too far, for the bigger people, the stronger people. It was the only thing with which he can share what happened in the sixth period of school or what happened while playing hide n’ seek. But again, he was waiting for it to blossom. The jingle of news at 8 was like an alarm clock for Lok to close his door. Again, one day, unwanted sound got into his room. He quickly rushed to shut the door. The news-reader was saying that Maoist has come to round table with Minister Narayan Singh Pun. He didn’t care. He just locked the door. He sprayed some water in that flower and slept. Now 12 years has passed since his mother bought that flower. That flower is little dusty and worn out. Nowadays he doesn’t even care about real flowers. But again, he complains that why it is not blossoming. Today, he wanted to paint a different color in his flower. He went to a shop and asked for the paint. Some blurred words like ‘constituent assembly’ and ‘republic’ were coming from nearby playground. He didn’t care. He just took that paint from the shopkeeper and started to check, if that is what he wants. In one corner of the package, it was written that ‘to blossom, you need the root; to ripe, you need the core’. He doesn’t know what it is. He simply doesn’t care. He thinks about his flower and murmurs,” That is my flower. Other flowers are for the bigger people, for the stronger people.”