Dhaka: and the flower girls

Please Madam, some flowers?  asked a small voice.  I cast a sideways glance and there she was, peering at me through the window of the car.  The rain poured down but she remained undeterred.  Madam, only 10 taka.  Some flowers?  Her nose now pressed against the glass.  I fumbled for my camera and at its click, she smiled, surprised.  The car lurched forward.  Wait, I urged the driver, fishing through my bag.  With my ten takas now hers, her flowers were now mine.  I breathed in their perfume. 

The rain began to ease and then ended abruptly.  The car waded carefully across the flooded street and into a gas station.  I shuffled through my papers, preparing for my meeting.  And then I heard, Madam, some nice flowers?  I looked up to a set of imploring eyes.  But while my camera captured her shiny white teeth, it overlooked her misshapen hunched back - for some things, no picture is needed to remember.  As the car pulled away, I was another ten takas poorer and another bouquet richer.  And the air was filled with the luxurious scent of the lovely Dhaka flower girls.