Gulnaz Sheikh: Designer of Handcrafted leather bags at
Desert Rose Designs
New Delhi, India
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"The Yellow roses of Christmas Eve"
The deepening dusk was not dark enough to hide her tears. She wrapped the shawl tighter against the cold. Standing in the crowded market square, gaily lit shops, the air was festive with the merry making and cheerful voices. Families, couples, warmly clad and shod, holding hands, hurrying down to their parked cars with beautiful packages.
She missed her home. She missed her dad helping her mum dress up their home for Christmas. She missed the scent of her parents. It was all too long ago for tonight, she stood all alone, on Christmas Eve, her flowers still unsold. The roses were yellow the colour of lemon butter. She had chosen to sell them because they had reminded her of her mother's sweet, tangy lemon butter filled tarts. They would brighten up any dark corner, she had thought. Nobody even looked at her, they quickly averted their eyes as if they would be contaminated by her sadness, by her misfortune. The riots in the city had left her orphaned and homeless and selling flowers at a street corner in one of the major capitals of the world today.
It was time to leave there and she had better get to the church quick before all the soup was gone. The road to the church was packed with cars. She tried selling the flowers to the people sitting in the cars but they had just brushed her away, irritated, the traffic jam was begining to get to them despite the music in the cars. Suddenly she felt drained. She was tired of being ignored. Look at me, for godsake, spare me a smile, dammit! she wanted to scream.
She went and sat down on the narrow strip of the road divider. She sat down with her flowers in her lap and closed her eyes to all of them. To all of these selfish busy people who were too poor to even smile at a little orphan girl. She tucked her feet under herself and rested her head against the supplanted tree which had yet to take root in its new place. Still it was strong enough to give support to this frail poor child.
Some gave her a curious glance. Some not even that. Some assumed she was drugged. Some said a silent prayer as they passed her. The traffic cleared. Time passed. This little child with her lap full of yellow roses, asleep against a thin tree. This is what the young guy cycling to the church saw, oh what a heart breaking picture, he stopped to click her photo, an amateur photographer who loved this city. But as he was focusing, trying to get the best shot, the misery of being homeless and alone grabbed his heart and squeezed it, he could not breathe for a moment.
So, he went up to her, patted her gently on his head and smiled at her as she woke up. She was scared. He said, he was looking for yellow flowers for her girlfriend and how much would she give him a discount, if he bought the whole bunch. She gave him a big smile, said he reminded her of his brother who begged her for pocket money to buy gifts on the sly for his girlfriend. That shocked the boy more; "You have a home, a family?", he asked; "not anymore."
"I am going to the church, my girl would be there, do you want to come along?", he asked. "Yes", she said shyly. She sat behind him, light as a feather and soon they were at the church. "the mass is about to begin, let me quickly find her and then we'll go inside." he said. "Here, take your flowers", she said softly. But then she did something very curious, she refused to take money. Why? "let me have dinner with you and your family tonight, that's all". He did not know what to say, he just gave a big smile and took her tiny hand in his. He watched her face light up and he felt like a man, as a man should be.
*ps I would like to thank Gulnaz Sheikh for all the beautiful stories and bright poems she shared with us, her family & her friends. May God give her hapiness forever.
Original Text copyright © by Gulnaz Sheikh. All rights reserved.
All photos from the personal collection "Family Christmas toys" copyright © by Ismini Karali.
All rights reserved.
ALL CONTENT © ISMINI KARALI 2011 - 2012. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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