Flower markets open before the city does. By five in the morning the transactions are already happening — marigolds arriving by the truckload, strings of jasmine laid out in rows, rose petals spilling onto wet stone floors. It's one of the most vivid places you can stand: colour at that hour, smell concentrated in a small space, the business of flowers conducted in a language that's been the same for a hundred years.
The smell is layered and high — several florals at full strength, no single one dominating. Marigold is bright and slightly pungent. Rose is full and deep. Jasmine cuts through both. The wet stone beneath it grounds the whole thing and stops it from being a perfume counter.
Phool Market fills a room the way the market fills a lane — completely, with conviction.
