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The Price Of A Rose
A Tale From The Streets
I was running late for the office today. I quickly inhaled my breakfast and rushed down the stairs; the office cab had been waiting for me for fifteen minutes. As I entered the cab, I apologized for the delay.
We were stopped at a traffic signal, waiting for it to turn green, when a group of kids in torn, dirty clothes came running toward the cab. Their bodies were so muddy that their clothes seemed to blend into their skin. They weren’t exactly begging; they were selling single-stem roses, but people often just handed them money without taking anything in return.
“Please, madam, buy this rose. It won’t cost you more than 10 rupees,” one of them said, tapping on the cab’s window.
“I don’t want it, and I don’t have any change,” I replied.
“You’ll earn more than that, just sitting in your car, madam,” she responded.
I knew she was right, but I was amazed by her reply.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
The traffic in metropolitan cities is often so slow that it allows you the luxury of having a conversation.
“You look well-off, madam. I see thousands of people like you every day. So, will you buy this rose or not?” she asked.
