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Flower day at Eastern Market,
Detroit is an annual event, usually on the third May Sunday, marking the
departure of an unwilling winter. There is a sea of people and plants. The
whole market area is flooded with people
in their casuals, sporting all kinds of movable paraphernalia, some of them
proud with handsome bargains making passersby envious of their gut and luck. You
could hardly distinguish a seller from a buyer. Branding them as farmers,
people were making hay while the day lasts because you should wait for another
year to meet the same crowd. Even in their hectic negotiations for dispensing
their merchandise, they never forget their friendly American smile. The beauty
of this market is that everyone is pleased – vendors, takers and onlookers. Wherever
you turn, colours of all shades smile at you, inviting to spend your dollar
lavishly. What is festivity without food and music? They were in abundance,
sometimes complemented with dance and rhythm. I noticed something very odd here
on this Sunday morning. Not an Indian anywhere in sight. Probably basking in
the summer sun after a hard week’s labour.
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