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:

• Flower Sellers at the Ramnathi Temple, Goa
• Flower Sellers at the Mangeshi Temple, Goa; scroll to end
• Dadar Flower Market
• Flower Sellers at Matunga

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.
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