Sambiah, the flower-seller, set up shop every evening just before sunset. Some years ago he had chosen this location on the footpath, just a few metres from the Siva temple on a nearby hillock. It was a busy road connecting three residential areas and business was guaranteed. Arriving on his two-wheeler with his cellphone glued to his ear, he unpacked large synthetic bags containing his wares – strung flowers and loose flowers. He emptied them on to plastic sheets which he spread on the footpath. Next, he set up some improvised ‘tables’ at the edge of the footpath – just within reach of passing cars and pedestrians. On the two ‘table tops’, barely 3’ x 2’ each, he deftly sprinkled a small heap of the loose flowers – lilies, marigolds, zinnias, roses and jasmines. Adjacent to the flower heap, he gently created coils of strung flowers, like snakes in a basket.
Customers who passed by chose the flowers they wanted and he handed them over in small thin plastic bags. Occasionally, people on two-wheelers, autorickshaws and even large cars, stopped beside the footpath, stretched out their hands and completed their transactions quickly. While all this happened, Sambiah handled calls on his cellphone. Some of the calls were from regular customers. Others were orders for special occasions including festivals and religious ceremonies at home. The orders would be executed almost immediately. He would dart across either on foot or on his two-wheeler to ‘home-deliver’ flowers within the neighbourhood. Quite often, a friend or a neighbouring watchman would guard the stall for the few minutes Sambiah was away. Very rarely, the flowers were left unattended and some customers would wait until he returned. The stall was open from 5.30 to 9 p.m. every day.
One evening on my regular walk, I was approaching the stall with no one attending to it. The flowers in heaps on the makeshift table presented an interesting scene. Three scruffy children, barely six years old, were approaching from the opposite direction holding hands. They were about the height of the flower counters. They stopped in their tracks on reaching them. It seemed irresistible. No one around — and the neatly arranged flowers just at their nose level. Suddenly, each of the children bent slightly forward and by turn smelt each pile of flowers for a few heavenly seconds.
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They did not touch the flowers. Nor did they speak a word. And then they moved on with knowing smiles on their faces and the stolen fragrances in their little hearts! Flowers, they say, should not be smelt before they are offered to God. But these flowers had been smelt by the children of God himself. Perhaps their innocence had even enhanced the fragrance of the flowers.
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