How I met your – market!

‘What a dog’s life am I leading’, I asked myself. Muttering curses under my breath, I stopped, and suddenly fell in love with the same ‘dog’s life’ I was cursing. Wondering why?

There he was, teaching my first lesson of the day. Curled up, snoozing away in the midst of screaming vendors, trying to attract buyers; buyers trying to strike a golden deal, and packets swinging everywhere. Nothing bothered him. He slept where he could, however he could, whenever he could. Dog’s life, this?

It was after a few years that I entered the farmers’ market, rayuthu bazaar, as they are locally known. Cramped would be an understatement. There wasn’t room to extend ones elbow unless one wanted to earn the choicest of expletives, but this dog had managed to snooze off, right in the middle of the pathway. Not a twitch was registered while people walked past, trying to avoid it. I couldn’t stop but think of a scene common at all the entrances of the ‘supermarkets’ - a fake namsate by a ‘military-dressed’ security guard, who frisks you to stop you from bombing it.  And anybody who stood at the entrance would be asked to move aside (read: shooed away), but here I saw a dog all cozy and asleep, undisturbed! From nowhere a word popped up in my mind - co-existence?

As I walked around, I noticed a huge difference in the way the folks here handled the stock. The one lone okra that rolled out of the bag was picked up and put back in place. (And the one onion that rolled out, vanished into someone’s pocket, even before the farmer could think of retrieving it – price rise!). I took long strides trying to check the whole area before I could pick some veggies. As I walked past a plush green mound of beans, I stopped, picked one and casually said, “Waah, now that looks like a great stock!” The reaction that followed made me realize how much I had missed in the past few years by staying away from this place. The farmer’s eyes brightened, his chest swelled and he flashed a smile. I so badly wanted my mom to react that same way every time she came to a ‘parent teacher meet’ when I was in school! A customary ‘thank you’ is for the western educated (maybe), but here, the reaction beamed a ‘thank you’ via a satellite you need to have a tuning to.

At the supermarket, I would have no qualms in registering with the salesmen that the stock is bad, but here, I wouldn’t dare do that. As a child, I remember the day when someone made fun of my rabbit tooth and ‘got it’ from my dad. Since then, the only people who make fun of my teeth are me... and my Dad.

Now, it was time for me to buy some okra (is this its new name? In school I was taught it was lady’s finger! Some bra-burner seems to have got his/her way through) or let me refer to it as ‘venadakkai’ (pride!). I chose to buy it from an old lady who sat next to her huge bagful of stock, arranging it with an ‘alignment’ that could put the formatting lines of a PowerPoint to shame. As I approached her, she looked up through her spectacles which looked repaired and re-repaired a dozen times. She picked the good tender ones into the weighing board, not letting me mess with the ‘alignment’, which the little OCD within me appreciated. The total came to Rs 25 and the learning began.

I gave her thirty rupees to which she responded with a ‘tchich’ and said no change. My response was, “give me back ten and I will give you a five before I leave the market”. Her reaction was an eye opener - her neck went slightly back as she frowned and pouted. I could see her quickly assess the damage possible, if I don’t come back with the ‘five’. She muttered a few more words to express her displeasure but by then I was lost. Her genuine concern about me not giving her the ‘five’ in a way helped me value money more than I have ever done. ‘No money is easy money’ – is what she had taught me. I gave her the ten and said I would collect the ‘five’ before I head out of the market. I dashed out of the market with a learning for which a ‘five’ was way too little.

On my way back, I had to pick up a packet of oil, for which I stopped at the ‘supermarket’ where I was handed a trademark supermarket 99-rupee bill. I gave a hundred rupee note and in return got a packet of oil and a ‘toffee’. I stood there and muttered a few words to express my displeasure finally saying ‘I need my rupee!’

As I slid the rupee into my pocket, I smiled and thanked my teacher. I had already recovered 20% of my tuition fee and the profits weren’t far away.