Those of us who grew up in eighties India have an affinity for certain ways of life. We still like dinner table conversations, bonding over ludo and carrom, watching TV together, planning vacations to nearby spots, and visiting the nearby kirana store or grocery market to buy essentials.
The local market in the neighbournhood - with the vegetable vendors - each screaming for attention, the fish mongers calling customers with the prize catch in their hand, the sundry plastic, steel and utensil shops, the stationery stores, ice cream stalls, and stalls rustling up telebhajas, rolls and greasy chowmein plates still have a special place in our heart. However much the convenience of online shopping lures us, a visit to the local market is a mood-lifter like nothing else.
Urchins run around, the cat inspects the fish stalls, dogs play hide and seek.
There's the smell of fish, livestock, rotting vegetables, there's mud and squelch, but you don't mind. You feel a strong sense of affinity with the common folk and their sundry problems. The tailor didi starts her litany of problems, and suddenly you both a sharing a chai unburdening yourself. She discourages you from selecting a rather bold design for your blouse - it won't suit you, boudi. These designs don't do justice to your dignified personality, she says. (She doesn't mention that her assistant has left, and she can only do conventional designs by herself!)
You browse through the shops, chatting with the dadas and didis, enquiring about their kids. They in turn, ask how yours is doing. How small she was when they first saw her, how fast children grow up, how time passes, etc. Then starts the discussion about general state of politics, inflation, corruption and the deteriorating quality of life. How things cost double than they did a few months back, what is happening to the country, where will common people go....etc. etc. A feeling of camaraderie envelops both buyer and seller - suffering in varying degrees from the same blows of inflation and shrinking pockets.
There's the smell of fish, livestock, rotting vegetables, there's mud and squelch, but you don't mind. You feel a strong sense of affinity with the common folk and their sundry problems. The tailor didi starts her litany of problems, and suddenly you both a sharing a chai unburdening yourself. She discourages you from selecting a rather bold design for your blouse - it won't suit you, boudi. These designs don't do justice to your dignified personality, she says. (She doesn't mention that her assistant has left, and she can only do conventional designs by herself!)
That gentle nudge to your self-image and esteem does wonders, and you walk out with a huge smile on your face. Maybe, that's the magic of human interaction. And the roshogollas, lyangchas, gojas and sonpapdis from sweets shop are added attractions, np doubt!
At the end of the day, we are cut from the same cloth, suffering the blows of life to a lesser or greater degree. No matter how much online shopping portals entice us, these can't substitute for a walk to the local market.
At the end of the day, we are cut from the same cloth, suffering the blows of life to a lesser or greater degree. No matter how much online shopping portals entice us, these can't substitute for a walk to the local market.
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