The flower sellers sat at the market from morning until the evening. In their demeanour, there was simplicity and there was quietitude. I was awed by the dexterity of their hands and the kindness of their words as they interacted with their customers, while they continued to string flowers. These were flowers that had come into their lives with the crack of dawn, that would soon be offered at the temple and live there until the next day when their place was taken by another showering of flowers and another beautifully crafted garland.
I remembered these lines from Rabindranath Tagore’s Fireflies :
“April, like a child
writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers
wipes them away and forgets”
wipes them away and forgets”
The flower sellers wove in silence one day same as another, even while their creations were born today and gone tomorrow. It had been a silent encounter that I would remember for a long time.
This post is part of the ‘Lonely Planet Blogsherpa Travel Carnival’ which is posted by Camden Luxford at The Brink of Something Else. Do check it out!! The theme is 'Encounters' - those that have been inspiring, memorable or simply bizarre. This is a carnival hosted every two weeks with contributions by Lonely Planet Bloggers from all over the world.
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1 comment:
Lovely account of the flower seller. In our times, we have all sometime or the other strung flowers together. We had the gardens from which flowers were plucked, women of the house would gather and garlands ( small ones) for the 'gods' were made and some for the women to wear. Under the guidance of the elders, we as young girls were initiated into the art. If ever this is done at home now, it is with a needle and thread! And of course these guys at the market probably run a family profession, handed down to them from generations.
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