It was a fun-filled evening at Eat Street on the banks of one of the most grandiose lakes you will ever see. It was 9 o'clock and something beautiful caught my eye.
Right outside the long, green coloured Eat Street building, stood a bald-headed man. He was tall, perhaps around 5'11'', wearing a white shirt and dark-coloured trousers. In his hand, he held a long, white garland of flowers. A garland whose aroma reached me a few metres away as if I were holding it in my own hands. For the first time in my life, I was instantly awestruck by flowers. I thought they were the sort of mallepuvvulu (Arabian Jasmine) that I had never seen before. They were fantastically white even in a blinding yellow light. The smell kept grabbing my attention.
The man stood, putting all of his weight on his left leg as if he had waited for a long time. I'm willing to bet that he had been waiting for a customer for a long time. His face, unlike his posture, was still eager and energetic. He had been staring at the exit of Eat Street while I was observing him.
A man so immaculately dressed, wearing those naturally dreamy eyes and holding such fantastically beautiful flowers should have been a girl's dream, quite honestly. It should have. Not a single woman exiting Eat Street bothered to look at him, who was incessantly staring at every person coming out of that building. I remember a time in my childhood when women used to crowd around bandis selling flowers in huge flower basket. I remember when all the women and girls I knew would flock around the flower vendor and buy many many muras. I remember when vendors did not have to worry about their flowers rotting and dying away. Flowers in the fairer sex' hair was as common as men with bikes. I remember early school days when my teachers used to fill the classrooms and corridors with the aroma of fresh flowers, a lively bunch of flowers. I remember my mother filling the house with the aroma of flowers. Flower vendors were guests as frequent as the rising sun.I don't see that anymore. It's all the smell of Tre'Semme and Lo'real and Livon and Dove and Pantene and Sunsilk and all-the-others; an artificial smell that just rests on the hair for a few hours.
All these women who got out of the building went straight into their cars and vrooooom! I looked down at the flower basket the man was keeping his flowers in. It was a towering pyramid. Untouched flowers, not sold, not taken. Untouched. The sort of state that makes vendors worry about their livelihood. Flowers won't stay that fresh for more than a day or two, tops. Letting the flowers this man was selling die would be a sin far too great for mankind.
My mother loves flowers in her hair. Mainly the fresh and lively ones. Mainly the ones with an enchanting aroma. Mainly the ones this man was selling. All this while, the man had just taken me to be a passerby. AFTERAAALLLL, I'm a new-age boy hanging out with other boys. I would, obviously, be the last person he'd expect who would buy flowers. Even as I moved towards him , he didn't look at me as a prospective buyer. Only when I asked him about the rate did he consider me as a buyer. Perhaps to his amusement, I mispronounced the word used for the measurement. I asked, "Oka Mula entha?" (How much does one Mula cost?) He replied, "Oka Mura iravayi rupayilu" (One Mura is 20 rupees). It then struck me that it was 'Mura' and not 'Mula.' He added to his reply, "Rendu Muralu theesesukondi, muppayichchi" (Take 2 Muras for thirty rupees). I wasn't too sure about it. But then, his patient wait for a customer, all the thoughts that ran through my head before planning to buy it and the thought that my mother likes it convinced me that I should buy 2. What am I losing? If anything, he might have lost ten bucks. But then, it's better to sell it than to let all of it rot, isn't it? It is a sin, after all.
As he unfolded the garland to cut the measurements, the smell; no perfume would have been a match to it. It may be right to say that expecting to come across something so amazingly fresh would be foolish in today's world of industry and artificiality. These angelic flowers were beyond anything. He packed them in a polythene cover. I paid him and then, he continued doing whatever he was doing. The polythene was bloating up, as if it found it difficult to contain all the aroma. As I pushed against the bloat, the aroma rushed out and filled the air. I made my way home. I bought a gas balloon on the way. It was heart shaped and danced merrily to a beautiful song at the railway station. I gave it away.
My mother loved the flowers. Perhaps, it was the last thing she expected to receive at 10P.M in the night, from me. Doesn't matter. She was happy. She liked it. Then, she told me that they weren't mallepuvvulu. They were Verajaji (Juhi). If I am obsessing so much over flowers, I am sure they are some of the most beautiful creations.
The day has ended with an aroma of joy.
Right outside the long, green coloured Eat Street building, stood a bald-headed man. He was tall, perhaps around 5'11'', wearing a white shirt and dark-coloured trousers. In his hand, he held a long, white garland of flowers. A garland whose aroma reached me a few metres away as if I were holding it in my own hands. For the first time in my life, I was instantly awestruck by flowers. I thought they were the sort of mallepuvvulu (Arabian Jasmine) that I had never seen before. They were fantastically white even in a blinding yellow light. The smell kept grabbing my attention.
The man stood, putting all of his weight on his left leg as if he had waited for a long time. I'm willing to bet that he had been waiting for a customer for a long time. His face, unlike his posture, was still eager and energetic. He had been staring at the exit of Eat Street while I was observing him.
A man so immaculately dressed, wearing those naturally dreamy eyes and holding such fantastically beautiful flowers should have been a girl's dream, quite honestly. It should have. Not a single woman exiting Eat Street bothered to look at him, who was incessantly staring at every person coming out of that building. I remember a time in my childhood when women used to crowd around bandis selling flowers in huge flower basket. I remember when all the women and girls I knew would flock around the flower vendor and buy many many muras. I remember when vendors did not have to worry about their flowers rotting and dying away. Flowers in the fairer sex' hair was as common as men with bikes. I remember early school days when my teachers used to fill the classrooms and corridors with the aroma of fresh flowers, a lively bunch of flowers. I remember my mother filling the house with the aroma of flowers. Flower vendors were guests as frequent as the rising sun.I don't see that anymore. It's all the smell of Tre'Semme and Lo'real and Livon and Dove and Pantene and Sunsilk and all-the-others; an artificial smell that just rests on the hair for a few hours.
All these women who got out of the building went straight into their cars and vrooooom! I looked down at the flower basket the man was keeping his flowers in. It was a towering pyramid. Untouched flowers, not sold, not taken. Untouched. The sort of state that makes vendors worry about their livelihood. Flowers won't stay that fresh for more than a day or two, tops. Letting the flowers this man was selling die would be a sin far too great for mankind.
My mother loves flowers in her hair. Mainly the fresh and lively ones. Mainly the ones with an enchanting aroma. Mainly the ones this man was selling. All this while, the man had just taken me to be a passerby. AFTERAAALLLL, I'm a new-age boy hanging out with other boys. I would, obviously, be the last person he'd expect who would buy flowers. Even as I moved towards him , he didn't look at me as a prospective buyer. Only when I asked him about the rate did he consider me as a buyer. Perhaps to his amusement, I mispronounced the word used for the measurement. I asked, "Oka Mula entha?" (How much does one Mula cost?) He replied, "Oka Mura iravayi rupayilu" (One Mura is 20 rupees). It then struck me that it was 'Mura' and not 'Mula.' He added to his reply, "Rendu Muralu theesesukondi, muppayichchi" (Take 2 Muras for thirty rupees). I wasn't too sure about it. But then, his patient wait for a customer, all the thoughts that ran through my head before planning to buy it and the thought that my mother likes it convinced me that I should buy 2. What am I losing? If anything, he might have lost ten bucks. But then, it's better to sell it than to let all of it rot, isn't it? It is a sin, after all.
As he unfolded the garland to cut the measurements, the smell; no perfume would have been a match to it. It may be right to say that expecting to come across something so amazingly fresh would be foolish in today's world of industry and artificiality. These angelic flowers were beyond anything. He packed them in a polythene cover. I paid him and then, he continued doing whatever he was doing. The polythene was bloating up, as if it found it difficult to contain all the aroma. As I pushed against the bloat, the aroma rushed out and filled the air. I made my way home. I bought a gas balloon on the way. It was heart shaped and danced merrily to a beautiful song at the railway station. I gave it away.
My mother loved the flowers. Perhaps, it was the last thing she expected to receive at 10P.M in the night, from me. Doesn't matter. She was happy. She liked it. Then, she told me that they weren't mallepuvvulu. They were Verajaji (Juhi). If I am obsessing so much over flowers, I am sure they are some of the most beautiful creations.
The day has ended with an aroma of joy.
