Every lovely blossom is a custom made job, the perfumed mascots of Caprice, created by Nature on her day off, probably after a glass or two of honey mead. So, when we say we love roses, what we really mean is we like being sent roses, reflects Ratna Rajaiah

“The more, the better, has always been my motto.” - Elizabeth Taylor

I admit it. I am a sucker for roses. (And my bet is that most women are.) I know. It’s a bit like saying I love French fries or money, but there’s something about the damn things that is irresistible. Now, I don’t want to throw history at you and defend myself by saying that some of the most gorgeous women that the world has had the pleasure to know and see wouldn’t leave home without their roses. Cleo (Cleopatra to you) used to routinely spray the sails of her barge with rose water and as one story goes, when she was in the process of seducing Mark Antony, she had her palace floors carpeted and her room filled two feet deep with red rose petals. And we all know what happened to Mark….

So women have surrounded themselves with roses in one way or another for centuries. To seduce and be seduced. But what’s the big deal about this relative of the apple? (Yup, members of the rose family number more than 3,400 species of trees, shrubs, and herbs including apples, pears, berries, peaches, apricots, plums, and cherries.) Well, look closely at a rose and you’ll know the answer. Look at the way the petals are arranged in exquisitely complicated whorls; see how even the palest pink or lemon deepens mysteriously inside each whorl, hinting that it is hugging some enchanting secret. And at the centre, even when the rose is in full bloom, there is a core that never unfurls completely, tantalising you with the promise that there might be something more gorgeous inside. Something, the petals coyly whisper in their velvety tongues, that will have to be wooed and flattered (not to mention wined and dined) out into the open and even then, you may or may not get the full story. And no two roses are alike. So no rules, please, expect only the unexpected, each rose choosing for itself how many petals to have, how to arrange them and in what manner to bloom and blush. In other words, every lovely blossom a custom made job – the fragrant mascots of Caprice, created by Nature on her day off, probably after a glass or two of honey mead.

Er, did somebody mutter, “Just like a woman…?” Absolutely. Just like a woman – a heady, beautiful bafflement that got Adam kicked out of Eden, destroyed the tapasya of even the mighty Vishwamitra, sunk poor Paris’ ships – all 1,000 of them, toppled empires and has generally been the reason for managing to squeeze in both Hell and Heaven right here on Earth. Which means that when a man sends a woman roses, that’s roughly what he is telling her. That she is this gorgeous, irresistible, enchanting, elusive, sexy goddess-siren-nymph-babe whom he will follow to the end of the world, walk on hot coals for and will her his millions. You get my drift? So, when we say we love roses, what we really mean is we like being sent roses. As an attention grabber, (and we admit that we are easily distracted) it’s foolproof. So fellas, never mind if your idea of an inspired opening line is a grunt that roughly sounds like, “Er, how about it?” or “Wanna hit the sack?” Never mind if your idea of romance is tinkering around together under the hot, stinky, greasy bonnet of your car, swilling beer. Never mind if you think that poetry is for chaps who tweeze their eyebrows and wear lavender coloured underwear. (Yeah, yeah, you’ve heard all about the Metrosexual Male but you’re not falling into that sissy-trap) And never mind if she’s a dead ringer for Liz Hurley (oh, alright, Heidi Klum, if you must quibble) and the chauffeur of the guy she’s dating probably makes in a week’s overtime what your six months’ salary totals up to. Don’t despair. Just send her a few dozen red roses – long-stemmed, naturally. (With roses, I’m afraid it has to be in dozens.) And then see if you don’t get into her little black book, so what if it’s in the “Call only in Emergency” section.

A word of caution. If you are planning to send her anything more than two dozen, (anything less than that and you might send her a plastic fly swatter) check to see if they don’t tot up to a number that’s roughly her age. Because even though it’s the Age of the Older Woman – Liz Hurley is 38, Aishwarya Rai is 30, Naomi Campbell is 33 – you don’t want to look like you’re pointing fingers at something that she might be sensitive about. If it is, then just double the dozens. So the three dozen you were planning on, become six and so on and so forth. That way, you’re nowhere near her age (unless of course it’s the other Liz that you had in mind who’s now a lovely 72) and no woman is going to pass up a man who sends her six dozen roses without at least a second cup of coffee.

I know what you’re thinking. You’ve heard the whispers. About diamonds. Girl’s best friend, Marilyn, breathlessly cooed (and she should know a thing or two), Liz notched up at least 150 carats of them over seven husbands (eight if you count the second walk down the aisle with Richard Burton), Oprah wears them all the time and you’re trying not to notice the way your ol’ lady pointedly clears her throat every time those pesky De Beers and Nakshatra ads come on. (Five thousand bucks for that tiny speck of coal, just because they polished it up?!) We know what you’re asking. If you send her 60 roses (she’s 35 …or thereabouts) on that dratted anniversary-birthday-who-the-heck-knows-what that’s creeping up on you, will it pass muster? Let me put it this way. She won’t be displeased and it will definitely not be the night when she’ll have a headache. But.

Roses are roses. And as eternal a paean to our inner goddess they will remain, here’s the thing. Roses wilt. Diamonds, on the other hand, are kinda forever and we women are partial to this ‘forever’ business, especially since men aren’t. Which means, we love men and can’t imagine life without them but we trust them only when they put their mouth where their money is. So roses are lovely but when it comes to the crunch, I guess it will have to be what Dorothy Parker has to say on the subject…