I saw him again today. Must be 60-65 years old, sits just in front of the Control Room/Assembly bus stop and sells Jasmine flowers.
The flowers were spread out in two neatly separated groups on an old green rag. He sat on the hard concrete road and his narrowed eyes were concentrating on the needle he was using to piece the garland together. He usually sells only one variety - Jasmine, spicing up his spread only occasionally with Marigold when a Hindu festival is due.
Today however on the farther right end of his green rag, were a bunch of roses; stuff that is not usually part of his modest stock. Some 10 of them in baby-pink color, long stemmed - the kind you find on Archies cards and adorns expensive glass vases. They were starting to dry up and would probably fetch half their price today and close to nothing tomorrow.
I looked down at my watch; it was 8.30 in the evening. At the same moment, he stopped making his garland, picked up the rose bunch, turned them around, had a good look, carefully put it back and went back to his garland.
He will most likely not sell a single rose today.
The roses must have cost him dear. The investment must have been an exercise in hope, a little adventure and risk for him, today morning.
What must run through his mind when he goes to bed today, I wondered.
The Black Adder - Richard Curtis and Rowan Atkinson