There is a story as old as the Mahabharata… and maybe twice as old as that… not 5k or 6k or 8k years old… but before language had the ability to transmit. In fact it was and is the story of a disabled woman in Chennai at the market at the train station. She was on the sidewalk of course with a shop built upon a blanket. Selling bags of little flowers. The type of flowers that look like flat young roses. I’m not sure what they actually were. Little colorful flowers.
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Sold by a little colorful 1 meter woman. She looked more like a vandura (monkey) or a raccoon than a woman… a lovely skunk or something of that sort. So ugly. Hands so small. Head so big. 3 feat tall. And yet… there she was. And I was on my way to the train platform. Not wishing to linger… not wishing to sit… but I had enough rupees for a bag of flowers. I had enough rupees for many bags. I bought two and kept one. And I was off to the train platform to hop on a train.
I put the bag of flowers in my backpack and hopped a train south out toward Auroville. Toward other more southerly parts of Tamil Nadu. Out toward Lanka where I wanted to go back… and simply away… She was so very ugly and I was about to encounter a very beautiful little girl amidst a squadron of three or four sisters. They reminded me of my half-sister’s cousins. Not yet ready for love. Not related to me. So joyful. So free.
I sat with my bag of flowers near the open train car door. In meditation posture. Making myself small. I opened the bag of flowers and handed one to one of the nangees (little sisters) banging on the side of her alms bowl. Joyfully and gleefully to me but I got the sense they were awful to many. They moved and danced around the train car in their little form and saris. Asking everyone for rupees. Her and her sisters prodid me and clanked their sticks against their alms bowls right next to my ear.
Smiling and giggling. Dancing. Banging on alms bowls asking us for rupees. And I had rupees. But I also had flowers. And as I recall I had more flowers than rupees. I gave her the 100 rupees I had in my wallet and also a flower. She was the one that looked like my wife... but maybe our grandchild from the future... and she had a seat near the open train car door eventually… and smiled butt on the floor legs stretched long… to me a small minibirya but also the new most beautiful thing in the world.
I yelled at her some. She couldn’t understand. For she spoke Hindi and I English. She was too small. I told her I would lift her bench press style ten times and that’s how I know. You’re a minibiriya… why are you sitting here smiling at me dressed in the most… the most attractive purple sari I’ve ever seen… just having banged alms bowl sticks in my ear dancing with your sisters. She sat there… brown skinned. The train rolled on…
I imagined in a kind of meditation dream that these girls were the pinnacle of law enforcement… perhaps divinely protected… a simple strategy… be merry… be happy… be entertaining… be kind… and ask for rupees. Why I equated them with law enforcement I will leave out… but only to say that at that time I was in heaven… it was midday… the train was rolling on the track fairly slowly… and looking out the open door I was pretty much leaning out… I saw land with water… and knew I was amongst freedom.
Animals and people… much to love and explore… much to enjoy… I was in peace with my surroundings. That’s why! Not that I’m not now or wasn’t before then… but that truly was harmony! And the bag of flowers was also there in my hand… and a single flower under my nose! Twirling in my fingers. Spinning in the kind of way one can do when he has a forefinger and a thumb…
I thought of taking her picture… the girl in the purple dress across from me… smiling and tired… taking a break from her job… the collecting of alms and the dancing amongst strangers in trains… in memory… it’s leaving… fading away… I didn’t take the picture. Out of respect for the beauty of the reality… some things I prefer not to take from time…. And thus that little girl will never be mine. In any way… other than her reappearance as a similar type. The kind that are reminiscent of… the past…
It is just I prefer to be… sometimes thought a bum… and other times known to be more of a very rich man. Who am I to you? Knowing all the while the truth… I have enough. I am thankful. I am learning.
Sincerely,
Buckley Mower
2025 September 8th