How does one tell their tale in a language which knows not its way in their lives? One should try -- plain and simple. Such are lives that met our author on puddled, lamp-post evenings of orange shadows, while she walked behind more ambitious steps, who would queue up for the freshest of evening vegetables, sprinkled with water to add to their teamed-up shine. Our author would often be amused by the look of being busy on everyone's face, and some on the Sunday morning crowd outside the butcher's.
Last week though, she chanced upon one Mrs Vegetable Vendor, who, in her widowed saree and carbohydrated figure sat on a tool, hands outstretched, precariously balancing five slim brinjals and discussing with the probable buyer how one more would exceed the scale of equality. She had a royal presence in that dingy array of excess cabbage leaves around her which would be impossibly collecting rain water. It extended over the pillars of carrots, corner of pumpkins, triangle of bittergourd, square of brinjals and the mountain of chillies. These were always given away, a handful, for free with the rest of the loot. With couple of bargaining sentences exchanged, she casually tucked in the money under one of the rice sacks on which her tool sat, handed over the packet, gave a smile and put in a word, "Please come back."
Our author was content at having noticed the entire routine of the old woman. She walked over and bought a slice of pumpkin, deftly cut into the exact measure she asked for, some brinjals, and of course got the chillies. The process was repeated out to her in exact perfection, complete with the "Please come back." She walked over to the grocery's and striked each monthly item on the list out. As she walked back she found Mrs Vegetable Vendor turning her back diagonally to face the butcher, and share aloud a dialogue of absolutely no intimacy.
"Seven ninety four. You?"
The butcher counted the cash out of its blood stained tiny tin box and counted the cash. "Eighteen hundred thirty six. Not bad for such an evening." He smiled. He then picked up a pan masala container from under his tool, put in a five hundred rupee note into it, closed it shut, showed it to the woman, and safely tucked it in. Mrs Vendor watched this with the optimum measure of attention, and suddenly shrugging it off, faced away.
Our author was taken aback. Mr Mutton Man? He did that? What did he do? Was it only her intention that she see something more than what is normally seen, or she actually got to see what she saw? A love story lurked in the minerals and proteins of the daily market. This was so different from the love birds in super shades attending a tennis match. And, mutton man? What could one say about him.
Sundays were his bestseller. The best of the goats, well fed and well sacrificed were hanging in their bloodiest glory on such mornings. He would sit in his tool, a king of carving, managing to cut the exact bit of meat as one desired. The cube of tree log block on which the meat was cut, and made meaning in homes as beautiful mutton curry, let out a thump sound of sheer confidence, acceptance. There was an occasion to his separating the meat, delicately from the bone, adding some fat, keeping some more back. As his flow with strokes gained momentum, the crowd outside thickened. Often it felt like a circus, where the audience would gather, spellbound, watching in allied amazement the ringmaster at work. Silent spectators. Some who came in with their newspaper supplement too would look up and watch. There was no space for a verbal exchange, the price was fixed. And the submission was willing. The king's command never entered a negotiation. It was obeyed. Loyally.
Very different, the king and queen of protiens and minerals. Yet, one gesture from the Mutton Man, and the universal sameness of the loveliest feeling evolved. The pan masala container dissolved differences of any that might exist. The author was happy. She found her story for the night. Her readers would appreciate another narrative. Till a very cranky "What more?" from the vegetable vendor shook her back to the unmoving queue. She quickly counted the change and passed a glance at the mutton man. He was noisily chatting with his helps, through his red stained mouth.
No love lived in the markets. Only vegetables and meat did.
Vegetables could not think. Meat greedily consumed. Market, the world.
Last week though, she chanced upon one Mrs Vegetable Vendor, who, in her widowed saree and carbohydrated figure sat on a tool, hands outstretched, precariously balancing five slim brinjals and discussing with the probable buyer how one more would exceed the scale of equality. She had a royal presence in that dingy array of excess cabbage leaves around her which would be impossibly collecting rain water. It extended over the pillars of carrots, corner of pumpkins, triangle of bittergourd, square of brinjals and the mountain of chillies. These were always given away, a handful, for free with the rest of the loot. With couple of bargaining sentences exchanged, she casually tucked in the money under one of the rice sacks on which her tool sat, handed over the packet, gave a smile and put in a word, "Please come back."
Our author was content at having noticed the entire routine of the old woman. She walked over and bought a slice of pumpkin, deftly cut into the exact measure she asked for, some brinjals, and of course got the chillies. The process was repeated out to her in exact perfection, complete with the "Please come back." She walked over to the grocery's and striked each monthly item on the list out. As she walked back she found Mrs Vegetable Vendor turning her back diagonally to face the butcher, and share aloud a dialogue of absolutely no intimacy.
"Seven ninety four. You?"
The butcher counted the cash out of its blood stained tiny tin box and counted the cash. "Eighteen hundred thirty six. Not bad for such an evening." He smiled. He then picked up a pan masala container from under his tool, put in a five hundred rupee note into it, closed it shut, showed it to the woman, and safely tucked it in. Mrs Vendor watched this with the optimum measure of attention, and suddenly shrugging it off, faced away.
Our author was taken aback. Mr Mutton Man? He did that? What did he do? Was it only her intention that she see something more than what is normally seen, or she actually got to see what she saw? A love story lurked in the minerals and proteins of the daily market. This was so different from the love birds in super shades attending a tennis match. And, mutton man? What could one say about him.
Sundays were his bestseller. The best of the goats, well fed and well sacrificed were hanging in their bloodiest glory on such mornings. He would sit in his tool, a king of carving, managing to cut the exact bit of meat as one desired. The cube of tree log block on which the meat was cut, and made meaning in homes as beautiful mutton curry, let out a thump sound of sheer confidence, acceptance. There was an occasion to his separating the meat, delicately from the bone, adding some fat, keeping some more back. As his flow with strokes gained momentum, the crowd outside thickened. Often it felt like a circus, where the audience would gather, spellbound, watching in allied amazement the ringmaster at work. Silent spectators. Some who came in with their newspaper supplement too would look up and watch. There was no space for a verbal exchange, the price was fixed. And the submission was willing. The king's command never entered a negotiation. It was obeyed. Loyally.
Very different, the king and queen of protiens and minerals. Yet, one gesture from the Mutton Man, and the universal sameness of the loveliest feeling evolved. The pan masala container dissolved differences of any that might exist. The author was happy. She found her story for the night. Her readers would appreciate another narrative. Till a very cranky "What more?" from the vegetable vendor shook her back to the unmoving queue. She quickly counted the change and passed a glance at the mutton man. He was noisily chatting with his helps, through his red stained mouth.
No love lived in the markets. Only vegetables and meat did.
Vegetables could not think. Meat greedily consumed. Market, the world.
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1 comment:
Hmmm interesting
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