Mothera: A Village Flower Seller Who Taught a Child the Meaning of Kindness

 

Mothera was an old woman—wrinkled like dried leaves, her eyes tired yet kind. Since her youth, she had delivered flowers to the entire village. Rain or shine, she arrived every morning with a jute basket full of blooms—hibiscus, marigold, jasmine—each one fresh like a prayer.

Her life smelled of mud, roots, and morning dew.

It was Sunday. Bhola, a skinny boy with wild hair and a curious mind, slept in the courtyard on a cot woven with old ropes. The night before, he had warned his mother:

“Don’t wake me early tomorrow. It’s Sunday. Let me sleep till the sun climbs high.”

Weekdays were strict—school, homework, chores. But Sundays were golden. Sundays were dreams.

As he slept, the village morning hummed gently—cows lowing, roosters crowing, temple bells echoing softly.

Then came Mothera, dragging her slippers along the dusty path. Her anklets jingled faintly. She placed the flowers on the stool outside and entered the house.

“Namaste, Jiji,” she said.

Bhola’s mother smiled and offered her the usual cup of tea.

But Mothera was restless.

“Tea doesn’t cure everything, Jiji,” she said quietly.

“What’s wrong?” Bhola’s mother asked.

“My son… I raised him with my hands. I fed him before I ate myself. Now he’s grown, married. Yet he stretches his palm toward me—for money, for comfort—but never for love.”

She sighed. “His wife calls me lazy. She forgets how these same hands once braided her husband’s hair.”

Bhola stirred in his sleep. Their voices slipped into his dreams.

“Amma… I told you not to wake me,” he murmured.

“We didn’t, beta,” his mother smiled. “Maybe your dreams heard us.”

She handed him the milk pot. Bhola yawned and walked to the milkman’s house, watching buffalo breath rise like smoke in the cool air.

Someday, he would miss this smell—the slow village morning, cow dung, fresh milk, hay.

Life flowed on. Homework under a dim bulb. No electricity. Games in the dust. Oil lamps at dusk. Aloo paratha with white butter. Love served silently.

Mothera returned every day, wearing the same faded red saree. Each visit, she seemed a little older.

One afternoon, Bhola asked Preeti under the banyan tree,
“Do you think we’ll grow old like Mothera?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Everyone does. Nana ji died last month.”

“Why can’t God keep people forever?” Bhola whispered.

“Everything ends,” she replied. “That’s the rule.”

That night, Bhola opened the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita for the first time. He didn’t understand much—but he kept reading.

When Mothera arrived the next morning, she gave him a bright red gudhal.

“This smells like heaven,” Bhola said. “One day I’ll visit your garden.”

“I work there all day,” she smiled faintly. “Flowers understand me better than people.”

“You help everyone start their prayers,” Bhola said.

She looked at him, surprised. “I just want to be seen. That’s all.”

Time passed.

Mothera’s saree faded. Her hands trembled. But she still came. Still brought flowers. Still smiled.

Then one morning—she didn’t.

The stool outside was empty.

At school, the principal announced,
“Our dear Mothera, the flower lady of our village, passed away last night.”

Some children smiled at the unexpected holiday.

Bhola didn’t.

Someone who had given him wisdom, kindness, and flowers—without expecting anything—was gone.

She wasn’t family. But she had planted herself in his heart.

From that day, mornings felt quieter. Hibiscus no longer scented the air.

But Bhola remembered.

The wrinkled hands that delivered joy.
The cracked voice that carried pain.
The red saree that came every morning.

She was a gardener—
of flowers,
and of hearts.

The next Sunday, Bhola placed a flower near the idol and whispered:

“For you, Amma. You will bloom in my heart… always.”

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