Microcosm

The weekly sabzimandi beckoned

So swinging our empty bags happily we sauntered through the park

In the park, encountering the serious evening walkers guilt clutched asphyxiating

The expanding girth caused the mandatory heartburn

But momentarily

Soon the titillating twinkling fairy lights of the sabzimandi brightened our vision

And lifted the slumped spirits

Festooned with gay lights the road looked like a fair

What sublime joy it was to behold fresh green vegetables

In their varied variegated individualistic greens

Some dark and blatant, others oh! So coy in soft hesitant hues

Some rotund and squat, other elegantly slender

Displayed strategically under complementary coloured lights

Red enhancing the colour of tomatoes, carrots and onions

Green beautifying peas, beans, gourds, cucumbers and pumpkins

Visible from far these tiny shiny lights ring in a festive mood

Lemons, green chilies, mint, coriander suffuse sharp spicy aroma

But mingling with perfumes, perspiration, powders and omnipresent Kesari whiff of Vimal

The sturdy smell assailed my sensitive sensibilities

And I winced

Then an electrifying cacophony of languages and dialects entrapped me

Engagingly teasing my trained ear

A young very-much-in-love Marathi couple

Were bargaining for coconuts for making Ganpati’s favorite modaks

I gave them a benevolent smile bit it didn’t reach them

They had eyes only for each other

Where I stood undecided near the mounds of vegetables

Two short dark emaciated women in drab dull salwar kurtas

Were selecting pointed gourds with perfect practiced precision and promptness

Admiring their deft wrists I noticed their white and red shakha pola

They were Bengali beyond doubt

I intently observed the patoles they had selected

Making a meticulous mental note of the parameters

For selecting prudently

When I was busy choosing

A hefty twosome requested for pronto delivery of pumpkin

Discussing the sweet and sour preparations of the same

Their Kashmiri pronunciation pinned them

I checked the faces to confirm my ears’ recommendation

Yes truly

The faces glowed as if from a lamp lit within

Such glorious was their complexion even though both were past their prime

Having filled my bags to my heart’s content

I let my nose lead me towards the roasting corns on live charcoals

my sprightly steps took me to the corn cob cart

Reaching there I stood waiting to catch the seller’s attention

And to pass time

Stole a furtive look at the person across my shoulder  

My glance fell on a fair face with a wart

Inch long white hair cascaded down from the wart

He was Conferring in an unrecognizable northeast dialect

With his consort

In a long skirt

And a t-shirt

And a scarf thrown around the neck for modesty

He himself wore a long pistachio green Khadi kurta

And a loud jingoistic silver India pendant

Could have been gold to show deeper respect

Wife didn’t cow down to his request

I complimented him on his silver India

But he paid no heed and left

The space was occupied by an elderly couple with broken dry dark skin

Not comprehending the price of corncobs paid double the amount

And put the humble seller in a quandary

To assist both parties

I explained the cost of one and multiples in English to the Kerala Christians

They happily accepted the returned change, thanked me and departed

I stood my ground because I had chosen soft sweet tender corncobs

And was getting them roasted on blinking charcoals

A pair of impatient sweaty stout tired Marwari sisters-in-law

Cavernously craving corn

In a jiffy chose two from the exhibited roasted ones

And uncontrollably salivating

Asked the man to coat the selected cobs generously with salt and lemon juice

Ah! But the bhuttawala’s cache of neeebus was over

Hence without any delaying long explanation

He ran to replenish his supply

I empathized with the two fat matrons

Being on the same boat

My corncobs were roasting unmonitored

So I wanted to go ahead and turn them over

Ahha! our man returned grabbing yellow lemons

With due haste but undue force he cut one juicy lemon in two

Smeared one with rock salt and daubed the cobs

The two ample Marwari sisters with uncontained saliva

Grabbed those swiftly and walked away enjoying

Mine were also ready

He handed them to me swathed in their original covers

Because those were too hot to handle naked and smoking hot

I thanked him for gift wrapping my bhuttas

Conversing with the bhuttawala brought forth my Bihar nostalgia

Patna was my home for four years

One home among many

Sprinkled all over India

That contained me as best as they could

In my vagabond life of fifty eight years

Walking back indulgently nibbling my bhutta

I realized this weekly Sabzimandi in Delhi

Was a microcosm of my India!