Five years ago I wrote about the Dadar Flower Market, in Mumbai. It is tucked under the bridge next to the Dadar train Station, and like alien slime, oozes into adjoining alleys and walkways, filling every doorway and cranny. So jam-packed, my cousin cautioned, “don’t put your hand in your pocket, coz it will go in someone else’s pocket!” Aaargh! Only in Mumbai!
See my other Flower Seller posts:
But it IS an experience! Not just for colorful flowers, but to see up close how the poor make a living. And be bothered! Yes, I get bothered seeing young girls selling flowers for a living, when they should be in school! Politicians mouth big speeches about expensive projects to eradicate poverty. The money ends up in their Swiss accounts, while the poor fester near open sewers.
I want to be bothered! It is far easier, NOT to go; NOT to see. Stay home, play with Meera, take a nap, go to a nice restaurant for frothy coffee. You and I; we need to be nudged from our comfort zones; we need to wade through muck and see how the poor work and live. We need to be offended; get mad at impotent politicians. We need to be bothered. YOU need to be bothered.
As I edge my way through the crowds; my heart races and I’m in a zone. The din of the market is white noise, sharpening my thoughts and focus; I ignore the rotten ooze creeping in my sandals and in between my toes, impervious to odors of rot, the shoves and jostling. I don’t hear the screams and curses; I don’t feel the feet stepping on mine; of sweat soaked bodies pressed to mine as they slither ahead; a wet elbow crazes my cheek. I resist the temptation to pull my handkerchief and wipe my face. I smile.
I am mesmerized by the beauty here! See this beautiful girl above selling roses. She’s not more than 12 years old, but dressed in a saree and tending this stall, while she should be sitting in a class room, in a clean dress, or playing with friends. She’ll never know that luxury.
Admire the beautiful roses. Trapped in this life, waiting to bloom in your nice home.
They are so used to this. THIS is their life. This family was all smiles.
The yellow tarp casts an eerie glow.
Marigolds and other flowers sold here by weight.
Champae, super fragrant variant of the plumeria. One of my favorites. These were sold by the number, Rs 5 for each! Champae are Michelia champaca, thanks to Maya and Namrata
This girl had the only Neel kamal (blue lotus) in the market. She stood in the blazing sun, but kept cool under the umbrella, while patiently helping each find the best. Rs 50 for a dozen.
This beautiful woman observed my antics with a piercing gaze. She was too tired to smile.
On neighboring sidewalks this duo realized they were being photographed and the younger was all giggles.
When you work on sidewalks, you live on sidewalks. And that is where you feed the baby. Mumbai Meri Jaan, anyone!
But there is a God! All flowers here are woven with the starting end looped around the big toe. Yes, all flowers which end on the head of God, start the day at the dusty, tired feet of the working poor.
Each garland we brought was woven on the toes of these poor women! At home, we’ll sprinkle a few drops of water and then these flower decorate Ganapati during puja! After puja, we receive a small portion of these garlands as prasad – a sacred gift from the Gods, which we will treasure.
Fitting isn’t it? That which was woven on the feet of the poor, ends up on the most sacred of Gods. There is a God! And you know where to find her.
And see 
