At a particular time, each morning, we happened to be in the same place. Both carried on with this routine, irrespective of the weather .Not on speaking terms yet, I simply named him as the flower man.
Why the interest in a flower vendor?
He rode his motor cycle, like a man riding a horse strung with saddle bags. But his saddle bags were filled with flowers packed in sachets for easy distribution. Is that all that held my curiosity, No!
At some of the stops, he added a few or a handful of flowers into the sachet before delivery. To make this observation I had to spend many morning walks or otherwise it would have sent a wrong signal to him that I am following him every day. Is he showing partiality to selected customers? Thus my walking turned into a guessing exercise too.
This led to some funny and near miss incidents –like trying to go through a fence mistaking it for a pathway; the rear view mirror of a speeding motorcyclist almost succeeding to dislocate my elbow joint; getting ankle deep in a puddle of dirty water, which left me feeling foolish and my pants and shoes annoyed.
With hindsight, I felt happy that none of my escapades were noticed by the flower man as he had disappeared into an apartment or was climbing the steps of a shuttered shop.
Days rolled by increasing the number ‘sighting’ of each other and slowly matured into a nodding acquaintance. Even at this point of time no verbal exchange took place. The ice was broken one day when both of us came face to face, instead of the usual passing –by-each other.
On that day both of us had changed sides, on the road, for some inexplicable reason. We managed to exchange a ‘hello’ and a brief smile.
On that day both of us had changed sides, on the road, for some inexplicable reason. We managed to exchange a ‘hello’ and a brief smile.
After a few days of this “wagha gate” ceremony, he stopped me one day to introduce himself. Being a bit shy I had not ventured to do the same, much earlier than this occasion.
Now, the routine was not any more a routine and few more words travelled between us. This was set to change on a particular day, when all of sudden an unannounced downpour caught both of us scurrying for shelter. The nearest hotel, where he delivers a flower sachet, offered us refuge from the rain.
A hot coffee had the effect of loosening my tongue and with a rare camaraderie, I blurted out the question, doing merry-go-rounds in my mind – “why only to some people you deliver additional flowers and that too from a separate bag?”
From his animated talk, I gathered that he owned a flower garden and after his work in the city, goes back to tend the plants. In addition, he has cultivated a nursery and keeps it open in the afternoons for prospective customers.
As the combined sales proceeds helped him to lead a peaceful life, work was the only worship he could manage.
Coming to my question, he answered, “Some get a few more flowers and some a handful of it. The few more flowers are my offerings to the prayers or poojas. The handful goes to senior citizens living in the apartments - a gesture to reassure them, as I bring flowers to their prayers, the prayers will bring them health and happiness.In fact I even don’t know why they are living alone. I am simply following my gut feelings. That is all”
The rain and the words ceased abruptly. In the ensuing silence, his words hung heavily on my conscience.
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