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The Flower Seller

I fondly remember the good old days when I used to stand outside the temple and sell my flowers. Those fragrant, vibrant, living things- what happiness they gave people! Garlands for weddings were made with my flowers- those garlands, that were a symbol of love, of togetherness. I can picture the smile on the faces of children who would pass by. Sometimes I would even give a few flowers for free to children in the eyes of whom I saw longing.

The streets are deserted now, with no one to buy my flowers. The flowers have all died- even they could not accompany me on this journey home. Today I have nothing to eat, but the happiness of my customers fills my stomach. I always fulfilled everyone’s needs… “Madam blue flowers will look better on your saree,”; “Sir buy these flowers for ma’am, she will love them,” ...but today I have the same longing in my eyes. The people I served and I are so far apart that even the very garland that connected them could not connect them, could not connect them to me.

But isn’t that how it has always been? After all, they live in these big houses, own big cars and me...? This does not sadden me. After all, I was born to be this way right? I am the one who is polluting their cities and increasing the chances of them contracting the virus. It is my fault right?

-Hiba Hasan.

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