The Onion Flower

Here is the English translation of your story “प्याजी फूल” (“The Onion Flower”) — carefully translated to preserve its poetic tone and emotional depth:

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The Onion Flower

 

Saran Rai 

The Onion Flower is not really the name of a flower. It’s called that because its root resembles that of an onion, and its petals are of the same purplish color as onions.
Why am I talking about the Onion Flower? Because my life story is intertwined with it.
By coincidence—or perhaps by destiny—whenever I have needed a flower, it has always been this Onion Flower that’s been available to me.

My first unspoken, abstract love was also expressed through an Onion Flower.
Though that one-sided love could never be fulfilled, it was still my first attempt to show affection toward a girl—my first effort to express and receive love.
My first desire to make someone my beloved was conveyed through that Onion Flower.
That moment has never faded from my memory—it remains indelibly imprinted upon my mind.

Manrani—I liked her immensely. I thought of her as the queen of my heart, and in my heart, I loved her silently.
Love, perhaps, is only a feeling that arises within the heart. She had entered my eyes, settled within my soul.
If there is a throne in one’s heart, she sat upon mine.
And I, in my imagination, was her King of Hearts.
Without realizing it, I had sunk deep into the boundless depth of love.
Her image lived constantly within me; every moment, I thought of her and wished she were mine.
I was ready to do anything to win her heart—and I was trying.

One day, as she was returning from school, I stopped her and asked,
“Manrani, do you like flowers?”
“Who doesn’t like flowers?” she replied, smiling.

That smile alone was enough to wound my heart sweetly.
I had already become Majnu (the legendary lover).
I looked around—where could I find a flower just then?
On the hillside path, some Onion Flowers were blooming.
Hastily, I plucked one and, handing it to her, said,
“Manrani, this flower...”
But I couldn’t say another word.

“Flower!?” she said, took it in her hand, and walked away.

I had given her the flower, but not the words of my love that were meant to go with it.
All my life I have regretted that.
I wanted to express love—but my youthful awkwardness, my childish hesitation held me back.
I wanted to attract her, to be drenched fully in love, but I couldn’t.
I remained dry earth—never soaked by the rain of affection, a barren life.

Even after that, I tried to win her heart in many ways, but none of those efforts bore fruit.
Hope, however, remained alive within me.
Then came the day of her School Leaving Certificate (SLC) exams—and soon after, she was married to a soldier.
The moon I wanted to touch vanished; my first love turned to dust before it could even bloom.
I fell into a deep emptiness—life seemed hollow, the world meaningless.
I wept in solitude, for there was nothing else I could do.
I tried to forget her—cried until I could forget, and perhaps I did, a little—but never completely.
She remained my dream girl, forever glimmering in my mind.
Never again could I love another girl the same way.
Oh, my foolish heart!
Even when reason tells me there are more beautiful girls than Manrani, my heart refuses to believe it.

After that, I somehow developed an aversion to women.
Though I had many female friends in college, and several of them showed signs of affection toward me—even proposing marriage—I had become like a stone.
My heart had hardened like ice, dried and burnt, until it became lifeless metal.
I could no longer melt in love.
Maybe that’s why I never looked at another girl with desire—never fell in love again.

I threw myself into student politics.
People, revolution, freedom, political ideology—these became my passions.
I read piles of theoretical books and literature too, but always through the lens of politics.
Love stories in literature could not move me anymore.
Love did not tempt me.

My life became one of solitude.
Revolution, sacrifice, struggle—I was wholly consumed by politics.
I worked tirelessly, studied hard, and always passed my exams with distinction.
Then, instead of taking a regular job, I went underground to join the armed revolution.
For ten years—training, discipline, attacks, counterattacks, endless marches, always one bullet away from death—there was no place for love or marriage.

But love isn’t mere physical contact.
It’s not like satisfying hunger when one eats.
Love is a pure, spiritual emotion—an act of surrender, union, and ultimate liberation—something only a few ever truly experience.

Yet, in my heart, Manrani had long settled.
Though she belonged to another man, her place in my heart remained.
No one else could ever occupy that space.
The feeling of love she had stirred in me—no one else could awaken it again.
A flower that fell as a bud never blooms again.

Years later, when my comrade Sulochana died in battle, I laid the same Onion Flower upon her grave.
That night of the attack remains vivid in my mind.
We had surrounded the police post and called for their surrender through loudspeakers.
They refused and opened fire.
We retaliated fiercely.
In the blaze of searchlights and bullets, Sulochana was beside me, firing her weapon.
Suddenly, a bullet struck her chest.
She cried, “Aiya!” and fell.
That bullet would have hit me had she not stepped in front—it pierced her instead of me.
She died saving my life.
Blessed be Sulochana!

Thirty of our comrades died that night, while ninety-eight of the enemy fell.
The survivors surrendered.
We captured the base and all their weapons.
When we buried our dead, I placed an Onion Flower on Sulochana’s grave and said, “Goodbye, Sulochana! Goodbye!”
Her sacrifice taught me how powerful love can be—strong enough to embrace death itself.

Later, I returned home for a short break.
My aged parents were overjoyed to see me—but their joy quickly turned to tears.
“Where were you, my son? How could you forget us?” my mother wept.
“I haven’t forgotten, Mother,” I said. “I’m fighting for the country and the people. When the revolution succeeds, I’ll be by your side.”
But deep inside, I was crying too.

My father was ill and frail.
I wanted to stay and care for them, but I couldn’t.
If the enemy discovered me, not only I but my parents too would suffer torture and death.
So before dawn, I left again for the jungle.

Soon after, I learned that the enemy had come looking for me and tortured my parents brutally.
Unable to bear the pain, both died.
I clenched my fists in rage.
We launched a retaliatory operation and reclaimed the area.
When I found their burial site, I wanted to offer flowers—but all the flowers had been trampled by army boots.
In a nearby forest, I found a few Onion Flowers.
With tears, I placed them upon their graves.

Years passed.
The war ended.
The revolution entered peace.
We joined mainstream politics, and I became a leader, even a minister.
Power, however, brings arrogance.
Slowly, I grew addicted to luxury—wealth accumulated, principles faded.
We, who once fought for the people, had become slaves of capitalism.
Our revolutionary image grew tarnished.

Eventually, we lost the next election.
Defeated and humiliated, my eyes finally opened.
We had strayed far from our ideals.
The dreams we promised the people had crumbled.
When power slipped from my hands, I finally had time—to look back and reflect.

I realized that my life had become hollow through my own stubbornness.
Manrani was never mine.
She was not mine, and never became mine.
But even after losing her, I could never remove her from my heart.
To forget her, I plunged into politics, into revolution, into power and indulgence.
Yet even then, I kept track of her life.

After marrying Sangken, she moved abroad with him.
She had children—two sons and a daughter.
But her husband was a drunkard and abusive.
She never received love—poor soul!
When I met her years later, she looked pale and thin, her eyes lifeless.
She gave me a small “Titus” wristwatch as a gift—perhaps in return for that Onion Flower I had once given her.
She had understood its meaning.

Those who never receive love are unfortunate.
But more unfortunate are those who cannot give love.
I was one of them.
I grew up in a loveless household—my mother, crushed under my father’s authority, could never give us affection.
A loveless child grows up cold-hearted.

I cannot call myself a good man.
One who cannot love others cannot love himself either.
That’s why I could never truly accept any woman’s love.
Had I accepted even one, perhaps my life would have been softer, gentler.
But I didn’t—and I became harsh, cruel, and empty.

As a student leader, I showed cruelty toward opponents.
During the war, I misused my gun and took innocent lives.
As a minister, I oppressed officials, chased power, earned wealth—but never love or respect.
Now, nearing the end of my life, I feel the lack of love burning within me.
I never loved truly, nor was I truly loved.

And Manrani—her life too became miserable.
Her husband died from drinking; one son became an addict and died young; another was henpecked and neglected her.
Her daughter is married and gone.
She lives alone now—poor, lonely woman.

I still love her, perhaps.
Even at this age, I long to taste love once before I die.
So I went to her and said,
“Manrani, once in this lifetime, let’s taste love. Let’s share what we never could.”

She agreed.
Now, though we are both old, we are becoming husband and wife—not by ceremony, but by mutual will.

For our union, I wanted to give her a flower.
It was dry season—no colorful blossoms anywhere.
Only one flower bloomed: the Onion Flower.
I picked it and gave it to my bride as my gift of love.
She smiled—a faint, golden, wrinkled smile—and in that smile, I saw a world of divine beauty.

Together, we wish to live out our remaining days in that world of love—
To taste love at last, to fulfill the heart’s unfinished longing.

Life is a beautiful dream!
Even now, it feels like I am dreaming.
A dream may not be real—but dreaming is a natural gift of being human.
And yes—
We must be allowed to dream.

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 https://youtu.be/gOjCUDu4kVM