The morning heat had already settled over Dadar's flower market when Vikram arrived, his white kurta deliberately rumpled in that studied way suggesting spiritual detachment. He paused at the entrance, adjusting his rudraksha beads, then swept through the narrow lanes with practiced serenity.

At a corner stall, an unremarkable vendor sat cross-legged behind buckets of marigolds and roses, sorting petals with methodical precision. His face held the weathered quality of someone who'd spent years in the sun, hands moving through flowers as if conducting some private meditation.

"These marigolds," Vikram announced, approaching with theatrical deliberation, "they're for my morning practice. One must be particular about such things."

The vendor looked up briefly. "Twenty rupees a string."

"Of course, of course." Vikram crouched, fingering the blooms. "You know, I've been coming here for three years now, ever since my transformation. Used to work in banking, can you imagine? Now I conduct sessions, help others find their path. These flowers, they carry energy. You can feel it if you're attuned."

"The fresh ones are in the back bucket."

Vikram reached past the front display. "You seem peaceful, brother. That's rare these days. Everyone rushing, nobody present. I teach presence, actually. Last week, a CEO came to me. Stress, insomnia, the usual. One session and he was weeping. Weeping! The release was profound."

The vendor separated orange marigolds from yellow ones. "Some people prefer orange for celebrations."

"Exactly! Color vibrations. You understand more than you know." Vikram selected several strings, holding them to the light. "I've studied with masters across India. The real ones, not these Instagram gurus. Three months in an ashram in Rishikesh — no talking, just pure awareness. Changed everything."

"These will last two days if you keep them in water."

"Water, yes. I only use water I've charged with mantras. It extends their life force." Vikram arranged his selections carefully. "You must see all types here. The unconscious ones, buying without awareness. They don't realize flowers are teachers. Each petal, a lesson."

The vendor weighed jasmine in his palm. "Mrs. Sharma comes every Tuesday. Buys exactly three strings. Her daughter likes them in her hair."

"Beautiful! Ritual, consistency... that's half the practice right there." Vikram pulled out his phone, angling for a selfie with the flowers. 

"My followers love these authentic moments. Twenty thousand now, all seekers. I'm thinking of starting a podcast: 'Conversations with the Awakened.' Would you be interested? You have a quality."

"I'm here every morning."

"Every morning! Dedication. That's what I tell my students: show up, even when the mind resists." Vikram counted out money. "You know what's funny? I used to buy flowers for my apartment, for decoration. Now I see their true purpose. They're messengers."

The vendor handed back change. "That woman over there needs roses for her daughter's engagement. I should help her."

"Of course, of course. Service. Another principle I teach." Vikram stood, cradling his purchase. "You know, brother, you should come to one of my sessions. Free for you, naturally. You already have the foundation, I can see it. That stillness. With proper guidance, you could go deeper."

"The roses she needs are here."

Vikram watched the vendor move toward the woman, his gait unhurried. "Think about it," he called out. "Thursdays at the community center. We're exploring the illusion of separation."

The vendor was already showing roses to the woman, explaining something about keeping them fresh. She laughed at something he said, selecting pink ones for her daughter who, apparently, had strong opinions about colors.

Vikram adjusted his beads again, checked his phone for likes on the selfie. Sixty already. He typed a caption about ancient wisdom found in unexpected places, about teachers disguised as ordinary men. The vendor was helping someone else now, a child counting coins for a single rose.

The heat intensified. Vikram's kurta clung uncomfortably. He considered returning to ask the vendor's name for his post, but another customer had arrived, then another. The man seemed to know exactly what each person needed before they asked: temple flowers for the elderly man, bright yellows for the young mother, white for the woman in mourning clothes he served with particular gentleness.

Vikram walked back through the market, past vendors calling prices, past the chaos of morning commerce. His flowers were already wilting slightly in the heat. He thought about the water at home, wondered if he'd remembered the mantras correctly, if the sequence mattered.