Monday, 7 April 2014


               Hi friends, I’ve already dared a lot by taking A-to-Z blogging challenge. Luckily I succeeded posting five posts and I am enjoying the ride with the words of encouragements from all of you. Today I have written on letter 'F'. My experience with a florist will surely fill your lives too with essence.  

 F FOR:   Florist- sharer of essence and beauty.

                Some events break our myths. When we get indulged caressing our ego by assuming that we are doing some extra-ordinary work, existence arranges such eye-rinsing events.
                We, the members of the group- ‘Sharing of happiness’, wouldn’t have waken from our dreams, hadn’t we met a florist in the red light area in Mumbai. We had seen the boy selling flowers with his friends most of whom were the children of prostitutes or were orphans.
               Once while meeting the women in a red-light area in Mumbai and making them aware about the hygiene and health, we saw a boy teaching the children in a tiny room on the ground floor of a four storey building which was called ‘jannat’ (the paradise). We recognized him at once; he was the same boy who’d sell the flowers on the signals near Hajji Ali. ‘What is he doing here?’ I thought.
              After half an hour we heard the chorus of the boys following a voice. The lines were from a famous Marathi song.
“ chhotesse bahin bhau, udyala mothale hou, udyachya jagala udyachya yugala navin  aakar deu "                                                                                                                      [we brothers and sisters are small today,one day,will break the    cage 
 And with our deeds, we’ll give a new shape to the world and the age]
              We had heard the song before but he had woven the same words in a different tune. We collected more information about that frail-looking boy who seemed about sixteen years of age. His name was Sangam. We were awestruck to hear that the boy, besides singing and composing the poems, gave the children lessons of languages and arithmetic in that notoriously famous area. Sangam’s mother had been forced to work in that area some years before. Sangam was paving a trail from darkness to dawn. He had broken the cage with the sheer courage and perseverance.
              When I last saw him at one of the signals near Haji Ali, Sangam was still selling the flowers with his pupils-cum-companions. Now they were singing a Hindi movie song ‘jeena isika naam hain’[ this is called ‘living’] and the smiles on their faces were in full bloom as the flowers in their hands.
               We renamed our group as ‘Sangam’  [confluence] in the memory of the funeral of our ego so that his memory would keep us rooted in the ground.
               This little florist was really sharing the essence and beauty around. 

image courtesy- Google


Anupama K. Mazumder said...

What an extraordinary boy!

amol khadse said...

thanks Anupama.

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