She sells flowers in the street. An easy charm rests about her. She must be twelve-thirteen years old, innocent in her own ways -- despite the hard times she must be living by. True, one can see her family -- father, mother, brother, sister -- around, selling plastic things, paper cones, tissue paper ... This one has chosen flowers as her merchandise. As a family, they seem bound by a natural togetherness -- time and again connecting with one another. All wear clean, ethnic-coloured clothes of somewhat Rajasthani style -- men in turbans -- father and son -- and women with heads covered -- mother and daughters. There is a happy abandon about this family.

 

Yet, in the girl’s eyes, one can sense certain melancholy that her smile and white teeth cannot conceal. She does find a customer or two for her flowers. A passer-by stops to buy flowers for his wife (who blushes pink); a young woman on a moped asks for a few tube-roses, holds those in her hands, inhales the fragrance, pays the girl and starts off. Each time a sale takes place, the girl runs to father and gives him the money. Despite this, there is certain inexplicable sadness that peeps out from her eyes. Is she worrying about future -- so early on in life ? -- one cannot tell. Poetry can often be woven around such a little girl -- painting a bright future. In practical dailiness of life, however, that hopefulness may not make much sense. Will the father/mother be able to give the three kids a decent life ?

 

Or, will ever a Professor Henry Higgins spot an Eliza the flower girl in her and mentor her -- as was so beautifully shown in the iconic 1964 movie ‘My Fair Lady’ ? It is beyond anybody to make any prediction about our protagonist. Yet, seeing her sell flowers in the street, wearing a smile and sporting a rather quiet presence, one does want to indulge in prayers that the promise she holds finds a mentor. One also loves to extend the prayer to every child anywhere in the world so that each one blooms into a happy flower. A practical bore and boor may describe such a prayer as nonsense. Yet, one’s mind darts back to one of William Wordsworth’s Lucy poems: She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the spring of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! -- Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, Oh, The difference to me ! Whether the world cares or not, one cannot avoid agreeing with the poet -- Oh, the difference to me ! n