Phoolmandi
There are dried leaves floating in the sluggish water, next to what's supposed to be a drain.
A couple of old men sit under an unbroken tent, sipping chai and reading the day's newspaper.
A discarded piece of the 'Sunday Times' lies on the road, half drenched in water and half in aroma.
In the street across, there's chatter and autos and cycles pass by with utmost difficulty, crunching abandoned flowers.
The footpath gleams like a kaleidoscope.
Welcome to the Phoolmandi.
A man, half naked, pierces his fingers making the 100th garland of the day.
A young man, timidly buys a gulaab, in hushed tones.
There is a little girl playing with her friends adorning herself with yellow and orange marigolds. "I, too, am a Queen", she softly whispers.
A vendor, passes by the road, too unbothered, living the same mundane life. Flowers here and flowers there, his senses no longer catch the smell of 'rajnigandha'
A middle aged man, tired of his everyday routine, crosses the very same street on his way to the chai ki dukaan. He drops a piece of the 'Sunday Times' on his way to his one room apartment.
The windows to his room open, a woman in a red saree looks at the phoolmandi, and gently puts the mogre ka gajra in her hair.
By @its-ener
