'THE FLOWER SELLER BOY'

He was a rather cheerful little fella,
For someone with a big basket of flowers on his little head.
The wicker basket was his only toy,
And the flowers,
They earned him his daily bread.

He joined us for a game of cricket in the evenings,
When his busy day allowed him to,
I remember him playing, laughing, and running carefree,
Like a warm, breezy childhood,
Like every child, everywhere, should.

He had a little sister about my age,
A little sister who he missed, when he was away selling flowers door to door,
But the kind of person he was,
He improvised right there,
In my ol’ Bangalore.


He gave a handful of flowers to me instead,
The warmth in his eyes, I’ll never forget.
He said, “Don’t pay me for this,
You are my little sister in the neighborhood”.
My flower seller brother,
There he was,
A nine-year-old me quietly understood.