Horns blare incessantly, the vehicle exhaust creates frenzy on the roads at the rush hour. On the road margins, the flower-vendors handle fresh blooms in huge baskets, under a makeshift canopy. The flower-vendor’s hands dance around the thread with fresh jasmines, blue pea, and hues of tangerine and greens along, stringing a Madras Kadhambam.
Sudha sits there with most of her flower stock sold, while the discarded half stays in the sack, taking on hues of brown by dusk. Their lives aren’t so dainty-like. Sudha and Karthi, the couple behind the flower cart on Siva Elango Salai have been in the hustle for eleven years now.
While Karthi slings the marigolds and roses into a garland, Sudha strings jasmines with finesse. However, Sudha reveals that their shop still runs on razor-thin margins, solely focused on making it through each day. And when the monsoon clouds arrive, they bring along the blues for the couple.
“My husband and I go to the Koyambedu market around 3 a.m. to grab the freshest flowers for garlands,” Sudha says. “And, we toil the whole day, but for a brief interval in the afternoon, then rush to the Koyambedu market again to stock up on more jasmines for the evening rush. But when it rains like bricks, we don’t go to the Koyambedu market, and that struggle to get through the day is indescribable,” she says. By then, Sudha has finished double the length of arm’s worth of jasmine string, and with a blush, adds how her husband taught her the art of stringing.
Waiting for festivals
One street away, Latha, another flower-vendor, patiently awaits the festivals when her sales will peak. “It is truly discouraging when people bargain a ₹20 bag of roses down to ₹10. Despite sitting here in the sweltering heat all morning and evening, slinging garlands after garlands, we are not seeing much profit to lead a comfortable life. My children are working for daily wages. But it gives me joy stringing jasmines in the evening and I mostly wait for Deepavali to arrive, and Valentine’s Day, when everyone comes looking for that single rose which sells from ₹80 to ₹100. And that day is the happiest.”
No holidays
Across the street, Amalu, another vendor, has a flower cart. “I head to the Koyambedu market at 5 a.m. with my daughter, but in times of festivals, we go as early as 3 a.m. to purchase baskets of marigold and roses to make garlands. But, after all, I don’t have holidays in this business, or a proper time to sleep. I have been in this place for 20 years, and I have seen it all under the sun, from temple chariots to demolition of old houses and from construction to road accidents.”
The flower-vendors persist, offering the most delicate-looking blooms, despite hardships. Even when you are reluctant, sometimes, they slide an extra paneer rose into your jute bag and some carry spare hairpins, too. Perhaps, the grandeur of the ordinary lingers beyond the passing of the day.
