Hers is no labour of love

I know not where she comes from, I know not where she goes. But I have seen her often, often enough not to miss her in a sea of faces. Those dreamy eyes -- the fear in them, the hope in them, the twinkle in them -- they reflect her story. Petite and pretty, she stands on the footpath holding a bunch of red roses, eagerly waiting for every Cupid-struck couple to ramble by. She knows these love birds’sweet nothings could earn her 10 bucks, but only if the roses, the universal symbol of love, please their romantic fancy. Sweltering sun or sudden drizzle, she knows she has to step out.  The flowers in her hand remain mute witness to the thorns in her life.

A tinge of smile, a few awkward steps and she comes imploring, “Ek phool le lo, bhaiya. Please, bhaiya. ” She nudges on, her quaint voice often drowning in the bustling crowd. Yet, she doesn't give up. Giving up is not an option. Briskly she walks, to catch up with the ones who would have unmindfully thrown a causal glance at her, enough to fuel her hopes of earning a few more pennies. While some shrug her off, a few reluctantly stop, exchange a few words with her, reach out for their purse even while bargaining for a better price. Really, 10 rupee for a rose is a lot. 150 bucks for a cup of coffee doesn't pinch.    

Her floral-print frock is all crushed and crumbled, her tiny feet in worn out hawai chappals dust-clad and tired, her braided hair unkempt. Life sure hasn't shown her rosy days. You know her innocence has lost its lustre, faded with the trials of time. At an age when kids of her age would go pestering for the latest videogame on the shelves, or that pretty dress in the shopping mall, she sits clumsily counting the few crumbled notes in her kitty, her earnings from the day, her savings for the morrow.

Even as I wonder where she gets her daily stock of flowers from, someone tells me she goes to graveyards collecting them. Initially, I shudder at the thought of it. From the graveyards? Really?  I refuse to believe, though remotely it does seem possible. Come to think of it, where else would a girl, barely 12 years old, get those fresh buds in half bloom? After all, nothing comes free in this world. And soon it begins to make sense. Money matters only to us earthly mortals. Walking up to the dead, to fend for her life comes priceless.

Every time that I see her now, I salute her courage, her resilience, her struggle, and somewhere silently wish she too sees a life in full bloom, someday, sometime.