Dadar Phool Market Blues

Dadar Phool Market

On most days, Vishram D’Monte arrived at the Dadar Phool Market before the sun did. At 4:30 a.m., when the city still snored in its sleep, the air around the market was already thick with the smell of marigolds, mogras, tuberoses, and roses. Vishram, now fifty-two and as wiry as the bamboo baskets he carried, moved through the chaos with a practiced gait, humming softly—an old Kishore Kumar tune—oblivious to the grunts of deliverymen or the clatter of crates.

His shop, D’Monte Phoolwala, was nothing much to look at: a peeling signboard, a shutter that creaked more than it rolled, and a counter with a metal cash box dented from years of frustrated slamming. But there was pride in every bouquet, every garland Vishram crafted.

He wasn’t just a seller of flowers. He was, in his own words, an ‘emotion arranger’.

His hands moved with the grace of a classical dancer—stringing together flowers with purpose, each petal whispering a story. Wedding varmala? Soft pink roses with a twist of tulsi. Office inauguration? Marigolds, bold and honest. Baby boy? Blue orchids imported from Thailand—when they could afford them, that is.

Yet business wasn’t what it used to be.

Apps had sprouted like weeds. One tap and bouquets arrived at doorsteps, neat, sanitised, wrapped in plastic and smugness. Social media ‘florists’ had taken over, with hashtags like #FloralFeels and #PetalPerfection. They sold aesthetics, not fragrance.

Vishram was still in the game, but barely. Orders were fewer. Big buyers—the wedding planners, hotel decorators, even the local pandit—had moved to glitzier options. The regulars, mostly aunties and uncles from nearby chawls, still came for puja phool and funeral wreaths. But they paid late, bargained hard, and drank all his chai.

He could have given up. But Dadar was in his blood. This market was his karmabhoomi, his theatre, his stage.

One Wednesday morning, as Vishram unwrapped a fresh consignment of white lilies from Nasik, a black SUV pulled up. It wasn’t unusual for rich people to pass through, but this one parked. Out stepped a tall man in black sunglasses, beard trimmed with geometric precision, dressed in a kurta-pyjama so spotless it practically sparkled.

Behind him, a young assistant held a phone like it was a sacred artefact. He walked straight to Vishram’s shop, ignoring the calls of other florists yelling, “Fresh phool, sir! Come, see mogra!”

“Are you D’Monte?” he asked.

Vishram paused, unsure. “Yes, I am Vishram D’Monte. This is my dukaan.”

“I am here on behalf of Mr. Kunal Khurana,” the man said, taking off his glasses.

Vishram blinked. “The actor?”

“Yes. Mr. Khurana’s grandmother passed away last night. He’s looking for a traditional Catholic funeral setup. Old-school. Someone said you are the best.”

Vishram's breath caught. In all his years, he had done weddings, birthdays, naming ceremonies, and hundreds of funerals—but never for a celebrity.

“I will need white roses, lilies, a cross wreath, and floral stands. Church-style. Tomorrow morning.”

“Hoga. But price—”

“No issue. Deliver to St. Andrew’s Church, Bandra. 8 a.m.”

The man handed him a card. “We will tag you on Insta. Be ready.”

He left. Just like that.

That night, Vishram didn’t sleep.

He went over every detail—designing, ordering extra flowers, even ironing his white kurta. His niece, Tanya, helped him open an Instagram account: @dmonte.phoolwala. She clicked pictures of him stringing flowers, posted captions in Hinglish.

“Uncle, just smile yaar. Natural wala.”

“Arre, yeh kya drama hai? I am not Ranbir Kapoor.”

Still, something inside him fluttered—like a forgotten ambition waking up.

The funeral was serene. Vishram’s flowers transformed the church entrance—arches of white blooms, soft petals scattered like blessings. Kunal Khurana arrived in a simple white kurta, hugged the priest, and stood still in grief.

He looked at Vishram’s work, nodded slightly. Later, he posed near the wreath for a photo. His assistant tagged @dmonte.phoolwala.

Within hours, the post had over 1.5 lakh likes. Comments poured in: “Old-school vibes.” “Elegance in simplicity.” “Who is the florist?”

Tanya squealed, “Uncle, you are trending!”

“Trending matlab?”

“Famous. Viral!”

In the days that followed, Vishram’s shop saw a trickle of new customers. Then a stream. Then a wave. Young brides. Boutique event planners. Even a Netflix series crew.

“Bro, we want vintage feels for our shaadi scene. Like real Mumbai,” said a director with an American accent.

Vishram adapted. Not changed. Still refused plastic wrapping. Still served cutting chai to all. But now, he had business cards. Tanya designed a logo. The shutter got painted.

He kept one corner of the shop untouched though—the old, dented cash box, the broken radio, the black-and-white photo of his parents holding roses outside the same shop, fifty years ago.

“I am not selling nostalgia,” he told a YouTuber once. “I am living it.”

One Sunday morning, as he tied jasmine strings for a Jain wedding, Kunal Khurana walked in, alone.

“I wanted to say thank you in person. My Dadi would have loved your flowers.”

Vishram smiled. “She blessed you through them. That is what phool do.”

They had chai together. Kunal sat on a wooden crate. No photos. No pretence.

“Apun ka Mumbai still has soul,” Vishram said.

Kunal nodded. “Because of people like you.”

As the actor walked away, a kid from the market asked Vishram, “Uncle, you are Bollywood now?”

He laughed. “Nahin beta. Bollywood toh mere paas aaya.”

And he hummed a little Kishore tune, as jasmine danced between his fingers.

[If you liked this story, do check out this link - excerpted from Maximum City, Minimum Time]