Why Do Red Roses Give Me the Ick?

A few days back, I was coming back from work in an auto. It stopped at the Moolchand flyover, and a thin young boy, with his face smeared in gray dust, walked up to me selling a red rose—and it gave me an ick. The boy was cute; it was the red rose he was selling that was the problem.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I love flowers; almost every woman does. In fact, there’s an old saying that goes something like, “Flowers are to women what cars are to men; a forehead kiss is to women what cricket is to men.” and there is definitely some truth to that, lol.

So, then I asked myself, “Why am I so strongly repulsed and icked out by red roses despite being a perpetrator of old-school romance myself?”

Now, to some, it might seem pointless—why am I even writing a piece about a question I casually asked myself at a red light? But I want to. I want to gather, structure, and put my thoughts down on it. I feel that the more we attempt to verbalize and outline a vague emotion, the better we get at it. And the muscle of articulation is the most important yet the weakest in most of us.

The biggest tool available to human beings is language—the ability to talk and express ourselves. No other being on the planet can share what is on their mind with someone else; only we can. So we owe it to ourselves to sharpen this ability as much as we can. If we can’t even express what we are thinking and feeling to our fellow beings, then what is the difference between us and other animals? None. Exactly. 

The more we practice articulation on trivial things proactively, the better we get at it, so when it’s needed for the real stuff—the things that actually matter—we are well trained. You don’t start learning how to wield a sword on the battlefield when the enemy is staring you down; you do it long before, in a safe training ground. Right?

So this, right here, is a training ground where words will wrestle an ick; try to get a hold of it and pin it down.

Welcome to the arena, folks. Let’s begin.

To unspool the thread from its very first twist, we begin with the first-ever reference. In Greek mythology, Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty, and passion, is often depicted surrounded by roses. According to one myth, the red rose was originally white but turned red due to Aphrodite’s deep love and sorrow for her mortal lover, Adonis. The story goes that when Adonis was mortally wounded by a wild boar during a hunt, Aphrodite rushed to his side, pricking herself on thorns along the way. Her blood mixed with white roses, staining them red and creating the first red roses, symbolizing love, passion, and sacrifice.

The Romans then adopted Greek myths and associated the red rose with Venus, their goddess of love, and similar stories are found in their culture too.

Moving forward in time, in the medieval period (5th–15th century), red roses made their way into literature. Even Shakespeare referenced roses in his plays, notably in Romeo and Juliet: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Upon reading and listening to such plays and stories, men of those times, particularly knights, began using a red rose as a token to express longing, passion, and feelings without words (partially because they had no time or lacked the communication skills to express emotions—duh, men, the historically weaker section in emotional expression).

Further, in the Victorian era (19th century), when open expressions of love were often frowned upon, especially in high society, Victorians (to express love discreetly) created the “language of flowers” (floriography), where each flower had a specific meaning. This established the image of a red rose as a beacon of love and passion. Romanticized depictions of red roses in paintings, love letters, and jewellery further cemented their place as the ultimate love symbol.

This was all history, but I have my own theory on what giving a rose represents (or should ideally represent). In my opinion, a rose represents full acceptance. Giving someone a rose says, I know that you have good parts and bad parts. One part of you is nice & beautiful, like scented velvety petals, and another part of you is inconvenient & ugly, like the thorns, but I accept and love both of them and all of you. William Faulkner, who said, “You don’t love ‘because’, you love ‘despite’,” would also agree with me on this, if he were alive right now.

To simplify, he meant you don’t love someone ‘because’ they have good things to offer (pretty, rich, hot, intelligent, kind, etc.), but you love them ‘despite’ knowing their faults and imperfections. You accept the whole of them, not just the parts that suit you.

Faulkner said, “Not for the virtues, but despite the faults.” I (read: M. Dhariwal) am saying, “Not for the petals, but despite the thorns.” You got the idea, right?

So this is what a rose is—and should represent.

Now, stepping into today’s time, when people are human-shopping and getting roses delivered, all on the apps, that too within 10 minutes. What does a red rose symbolize now, if anything at all? Good question. Let’s unpack.

The red rose has become the universal shorthand for love, which is precisely the problem—it is too universal. Universality eliminates the personal. Love, at its core, is about knowing someone deeply, about seeing and valuing their uniqueness. But with a red rose, you don’t have to ask your partner what flower they like, remember the answer, and then look for it. You don’t need to engage with the process at all.

No one has ever received a red rose and asked, “Why did you choose this?” It’s safe, and therein lies its flaw.

Love is not universal. It is deeply personal, as unique as the people involved in it. When you give a red rose, you’re not saying, “I know you.” You’re saying, “I know what society says I should give you.” Other flowers might require you to take a risk—to ask questions, make an effort to learn something about the person. They might require you to remember their answer and act on it. But the red rose absolves you of all this.

Giving a woman a lily, an orchid, or a daisy would mean knowing what she actually likes. That would require a deeper conversation: asking her about her preferences, remembering her answer, and putting in the effort to find that specific flower. This process demands time, attention, and thought—something that the commodification of love actively discourages. After all, why bother with that when you can simply grab a rose from a stand outside any shop or BlinkIt it in 5 minutes?

By sticking to red roses, we miss the opportunity to make love personal. A flower could tell a unique story—a sunflower for her sunny disposition, a lavender sprig for her calmness, or wildflowers to celebrate her free spirit. But this requires thought and effort—qualities that the red rose, as capitalism’s fail-proof token, has effectively erased from the equation.

To dislike the red rose is not to dislike romance but to challenge the ways in which we’ve let it become hollow—a manufactured, mass-produced token of affection stripped of individuality, effort, and intention.

Like roses, there are also cards. They usually accompany the standard-issue romance package of roses, cards, and chocolates—a neatly prepackaged template designed for convenience. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-cards. In fact, I’m very, very pro-cards, but only if they mean something.

Once, in 2021, I wrote a postcard from the highest post office in the world (Hikkim, Spiti) to a man who was on my mind back then. I was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and biting cold winds. My fingers were numb, and the ink in the pen struggled to flow in those sub-zero temperatures. The postcard was nothing grand. It was a humble piece of paper, and my messy, freezing handwriting spilled out my thoughts as honestly as I felt them. It wasn’t perfect—it was personal. Now, when I look back, I realize that that postcard was also a token of love, not because it said so but because it said, I thought of you in this moment, in this place, and I wanted you to know.

That postcard carried more than words—it carried the weight of my intentions, my emotions. It wasn’t plucked off the shelf of an Archies store, mass-produced on some assembly line, and distributed across the globe. (Archies, by the way, is the epitome of everything wrong with commodified sentiments. Downright disgusting. Fuck you, Archies!)

A true card, like love itself, should be an extension of your emotions—something you create or choose with care, something that reflects you and them—not something you grabbed at the checkout line because it was convenient. It’s the difference between telling someone what you truly feel and reciting a Hallmark poem that could be addressed to just about anyone. Because love isn’t about picking from a catalogue; it’s about creating something that’s uniquely yours to give.

In pre-capitalist societies, love was often expressed as a craft—through handwritten letters, handmade gifts, or deeply personal acts. These weren’t just gestures; they were manifestations of labour, thought, and time.

What made giving a rose romantic in the first place were two things: the thoughts before giving it (“I genuinely have feelings for you; I adore and accept the whole of you; I’d like you to be a part of my life”) and the intentions if it was accepted (“I will sincerely take care of you; I will stand by your side through thick and thin; I will not run away”).

The end product isn’t romantic; the process leading up to it is. Capitalism has trained us to believe that the end product matters more than the process. So now we skip the process and the effort and still get to pat ourselves on the back for being romantic. How can this superficiality not give someone the ick? Tell me.

I remember when a boy in school gave me a red rose every Wednesday because I was born on a Wednesday. There was thought and intention behind it, even if it was a small gesture. I saved one of those roses in a book for years—not because I had feelings for him; I didn’t (a general aversion to the idea of romantic love, conditioned by super strict parents, saw to that), but just because I respected the effort. It deserved that dignity. But will I save the rose I got last week from a man I know for a fact knows nothing substantial about me? No. It lacks the thought, the intention. I gave it away to a random kid a few minutes later. 

I don’t dislike red roses because they’re red or because they’re roses. I dislike them because they’ve become symbols of everything love shouldn’t be—lazy, impersonal, commodified.

Capitalism thrives on the ability to turn intangible experiences into tangible goods. Love, being one of the most universal human experiences, has become a lucrative market. Every romantic gesture now comes with a price tag—whether it’s a designer gift, a candlelit dinner at an overpriced restaurant, or even curated Instagram-worthy “romantic moments.”

Valentine’s Day, which started as a celebration of love and intimacy, has become a global showcase for mass production and consumerism. As the day approaches, everything around us seems to be drenched in red—heart-shaped chocolates, plush toys, greeting cards, and, of course, the quintessential red rose.

Capitalism didn’t just commodify love; it made it indispensable to its survival. Romantic love drives industries—weddings, dating apps, beauty, entertainment, and even tech. We aren’t just sold chocolates and roses; we’re sold the idea that love is incomplete without them. Capitalism has standardized romance in ways that flatten its richness. It provides a pre-approved script: roses, chocolates, candlelight dinners, and neatly packaged “I love you” cards. While convenient, this formula reduces the infinite ways love can be expressed into predictable, monetizable acts.

This uniformity makes love less about individuality and more about compliance. Real love is chaotic, messy, and unique. But chaos doesn’t sell. Standardization, on the other hand, ensures scalable, predictable consumption. Real love, however, is inherently risky—it requires vulnerability, unpredictability, and effort. By reducing love to low-risk, high-reward gestures, capitalism undermines the very qualities that make it meaningful.

In today’s time, we are told to believe that convenience is king and faster is better, so we rush love. We rush everything. If you are in a rush and just desperately want a partner, sure—simultaneously approach 10 women, apply the same template to all of them, and the one who responds is yours. Great! But please don’t tarnish the sanctity of a red rose by making it a part of this template. Keep it out of this. Don’t insult it. It should go from one conscious person to another, with pure intentions (Lord of the Rings, but for a red rose, lol). Otherwise, it shouldn’t be touched at all. Don’t tarnish the dignity of a rose by tossing it out like it is nothing.

A red rose, once a medium to express something one truly felt, is now used to get a foot in the door.

What was once a poetic expression of deep feelings is now just part of a script.

What was once a gesture has now become a tactic.

And that’s exactly what gives me the ick.

Until next time,

Love,

M. Dhariwal