The rag picker, the orange flower and the crows feather

 As I was walking home, a rag picker on the street bent down to pick something. As I followed his hands I saw that it was an orange flower from the road. He stopped near the jasmine tree and plucked a twig of three leaves. He tucked the flower and three leaves nicely into his hair bun, next to a crow's feather he had fixed there. Beauty was given its due.

Then as I turned into the gate he asked me if he could have some water. I went in and got water, and some butter milk in a glass. There was no food at home yet. He had the buttermilk. And picked up his sling bag and walked on.

The memory of the orange flower and the three leaves and the crow's feather is a gift he has left behind.

The women of my village, as they would go to the fields to work, would stop by a jasmine or a hibiscus shrub, and pluck a flower and neatly tuck it into their hair. Always.