Roses under the Bridge
The morning has been in the company of flowers. To the fact that my love for them knows no bounds, my explorations in search of the local flora will always be limitless. So here I am today at yet another flower-stop, the Dadar phool gully. It is a small settlement under a broken flyover that goes to nowhere. I stumbled across this heaven on a layover from Mumbai to London. I am glad to have not traded my time gaping at the homes of Bolly-stars over the long skyline views from the Marine Drive.
Genda Phool
The market is a narrow lane donning brightly colored assortments from pinks in the roses, yellow and oranges of the marigold, to the lavender violets and the white in the lilies that constantly suck one in into the bustling chaos. Adding to it is the uproar from the wholesalers, a seemingly endless chant in our eardrums.
The flowers could be the undoubted showstopper but for me the real Heroes are the underdogs.
Friday ka phool khila
At the bazaar, sitting highly pompous and haughty, lined up on their haunches, is a hailing lady supremacy dominating the whole trade. They are the matriarchs of the fragrant by-lanes that weigh heavily with a self-made virtue with one thing in common- the stories of hardships and struggles.
They are flower sellers by profession but full-time fighters to fend for themselves and their family.The wrinkles on their faces are from dark days of poverty and abuse they have endured once but now outgrown. This instills in them a sense of unshaken pride, reflecting in their warm gestures and smiles.
These women do not need our pity but to be rejoiced. Celebrated for their independence and self-worth, superpowers these hardcore feminists all share. They are damsels no longer in distress, rocking in their vivid printed sarees, ready to take on the world and paint the city in a rosy hue just one flower at a time.
Phoolon ki Rani
The Grande dames sit crouched up along the walls with their flower baskets and frangipanis tucked in the folds of their hair amidst the smoke from incense sticks. A holy aura lingers in the air, almost Divine.They appear to be goddesses waiting to be worshipped and the daily onlookers as worshippers waiting to seek her blessings. A setting that grips me with a feeling of pious belonging.
Phoolon ke Mele
Sometimes the Dadar flower market is laden with the typical wondrous sights of impoverished little kids or ailing elderly striving under the sun just to afford one square meal.Although hard to take in, it is a characteristic of every local market in India.The rawness in them brings out the parallel reality that the better half of the society is unaccustomed and insensitive to but nonetheless normalizes.
Life moves on and is nothing but a flower’s play. To end on a colorful note, I get on the backseat, letting these women take the wheel. And grab a pair of rose-tinted glasses, to watch the world turn pink.
With this, I make my exit until my next visit.
Phool Gulaab ka
My personal favorite from the photo series-
Phool ki Kali
