Through the Bazaar With Mother

Many of my peers seem to not shop any longer in the traditional bazaars and prefer destination malls or dispatch their domestic help to do the shopping, or even order online or over the phone . I believe that they miss out interacting with common people and see their lives from close quarters, the warts, the smiles, the squalor and the immense human spirit. My mother introduced me several years ago to a bazaar of fresh vegetables and fish located at a good walk from home and oddly called the 11’O clock market located on either side of a road with vegetable, fruit and fish vendors by their large baskets calling their prices loudly with little space to navigate among shoppers. It was located next to a school where children with their sweet voices lustily sang the national anthem and a shloka on Sarawsati above the din of the bazaar. It was noisy, dirty, bright and beautiful with the air heavy with the aroma of greens and fresh bloom of all colours. It is an open bustling market that gets busy by 11 am and is deserted by 2.00pm. Of course it is often painful to see how they eke their living with their little basketful of wares. I have deferred to this idea because my mother insists that we must buy from the small vendors and support such livelihoods than the organised biggies.  Sometimes she picks up the smallest vendor and buys just to remind me of the same. 

Mamma Mia!

She never trusts me to buy fresh produce. She says it needs care and experience to pick the tender vegetable; that the tail of the ladyfinger ought to break under pressure, that the ridge gourd ridges should be wide spaced and shallow, that the drumstick should be sufficiently plump and the leafy bunch must look fresh and stiff, the stalk of the brinjal must not shrivel, and I switch off and refuse to heed further advise on fish or shrimp which i detest buying. I feel that rather than carry all these instructions it is easier to carry my mother to the market and stand silently in the corner watching the surging humanity transact. Slow in gait but steady like a tortoise my mother decked in her zari saree pressed crisp and in an ancient gold chain and bindi holding my hand is a familiar sight on a daily basis and some of the vendors seem to await her arrival. She knew exactly what a good bargain was and capitalised on it. Her head was full information on the day of the lunar calendar which made her calculate how fish might be cheaper on the 11th day of the moon (ekadashi) or in the month of Shravan, or Magha or based on the season which often bewildered me at such futility.

She seems to know everyone and can impressively tell me the travails of several of the vendors, how many children they have, what ailments they suffer and how distant they live. She doesn’t know their names but calls them bai or bhaiyyaji, as the case maybe. They are generous when she comes to them often packing more than the weight she asked for and having me laboriously lug behind. She often thoughtfully packs sweets or savouries in plastic bags to be delivered to some of the vendors on festive occasions or upon seeing a little child in tow with the vendor playing by her side, she would waddle up to the nearest store to buy some chocolate or biscuits or even vadapav for the little one. She would sometimes buy bangles and hair clasps for young girls, a Johnson’s baby kit for new mothers. She had a way of persuading young men in need to take money by spinning a yarn that she is blessed with a ‘golden hand’ and that if they accept money (which they needed) from her hands they would get plenty of it.  Many of these men sheepishly took it and shyly pushed it deep into their pockets. We would have cues that pointed out some elderly or very poor person hesitating to buy at the stated prices and unobtrusively buy the amount and gently push it into her hands. This was especially so if a child was importuning his mother to buy something she hesitated given her budget, regretful of the same. The smile on the child would be priceless as also the relief of his mother.

If my mother walked her tortoise gait in the morning, it was embarrassing to see them clamour for her attention, saying “ammaji boney karo” which meant she should favour them with their first transaction of the day. I would quiz my mother what the business of ‘boney’ was for she would drive a hard bargain for that first transaction sometimes to my embarrassment and protest.  Many vendors have a superstition that if a gracious lady possibly a married woman with children bought their fist sale the luck of the ‘sowbhagyawati” or goddess of fortune would smile upon them. I call it the “Boney M” effect!  In Tamil Nadu vendors use the term “Thangakkai” or golden hand. I had read interesting accounts of  two well known sages (both dead) at Tiruvannamalai Sri Sheshadri Swami and Ramana Maharshi when they were young were called Thangakkai and the shopkeeper if generous with them would miraculously sell of his wares by evening and very profitably. Sometimes the shopkeepers would implore them to just enter their store even though they desired nothing. Sheshadri Swami was so revered that the shopkeeper would be pleased even if he tore up or spoilt some merchandise in a strange bout of madness. 

My mother was not always gentle and kind and would sometimes berate the poor young vendor for extortionate or customer based pricing telling him off wagging her finger that “i knew your father too well and never had this kind of problem with him though. I shall have to let him know!” I would smile sheepishly trying to drag mother away. It always puzzles me that despite her kindly disposition she would bargain hard often cutting the price by a third if not a half, embarrassing me no end as i protest that she is being exploitative. She would dismiss me off with a grunt saying I did not know the market and its price movements and that she did. Once i remember a vendor she usually avoids given his prices declare to her on the road, “aaj ammaji aap ko kuch to lena hi hoga aur aap jo dena chate hai theek hoga” and i was standing there amused as he explained to me how it hurt him that she does not shop at his basket. If i suggested that the extra money would probably help the family she would say that these things should be decoupled and might be considered separately if they have a problem she learns of. She would indeed give money towards, daughter’s marriage, pregnancies, children’s birthdays, illnesses etc. If the vendor cut her finger in the process of using a knife, i would be dispatched to buy band-aid or iodine much to the embarrassment of the protesting vendor. Sometimes she would ask the vendor if he had fruit in bulk that turned ripe and buy it to distribute to her list of istriwala, jhadoowala, watchmen, paperwala, milkman and several others much to my exasperation. I would grudgingly have to pack 8 to 10 bags each with a variation suiting the family size and children involved. 

They often gave her their best and freshest pieces of what they sold. She also had an elephantine memory of past slights with specific vendors and can tell him or her off on a litany of errors in history. Most of them simply smiled kindly when she scolded them overlooking her temper with gentle persuasion. Sometimes they would be bold enough to ask her “ammaji hume bhook lagi hai, thoda vadapav khila do”. My mother would be pleased and say “zaroor beta, main abhi laati hoon” and dispatch me with specific instructions to buy fresh pav from the bakery and give it to Patil vadapav store with instructions on hot vadas, chutney and green chillies.  If i was dispatched to the bazaar by myself I did not have to strive too hard, most vendors knew what to pack and at what rates, though occasionally I would make a mistake for which I would hear no end. 

Taking my mother almost daily to the market has taught me so much over the years to smile kindly upon the many whose tiny efforts shape our lives. We remain indebted to so many hands that touch our lives that to remain grateful to them all is impossible without thinking of it as sacred. The Buddhists use the term “Indrajaala” or the web of Indra where each knot on the web reflects the entire web in itself in an endless interdependency. I am often touched by my mother’s kindness and firmness and oblige her to simply revel in that generous spirit even though i am sometimes annoyed at the errands and demands it places upon me.  If she does not show up for a few days there are discreet enquiries what happened to her. I do hope and pray she smiles at the bazaar for many more years to come and i gently hold her hand through that sea of humanity.