The dailies of life comprise such abundance of ordinariness, modern life turns blind to it. A walk to the marketplace yielded the same directions: fast food - household and grocery - poultry - livestock. Friendly little marketplaces felt like extended joint families one took for granted. You could request for a discount, not bargain; you could demand a discount, not bargain; you could deserve a discount, not bargain. The end product was an aura of satisfaction one did not carry in translucent polythene packets.
But were you a stranger, a new face? Apprehension could well eat you up. What if you were overcharged? What if you were given the rotten apples, smartly, in between the kilo which you thought you picked? What if you were laughed at the moment you turned your back? The marketplace is a battlefield and arrows are shot at you at each nook, and corner. Who could you trust in the crowd of ordinariness?
Malini felt dead now, hardly alive, but it turned into a habit, like the abundance of other ordinariness. Sometimes she allowed the prying eyes to read her, sometimes she fancied a reading herself. Today she decided to identify, analyse and buy fish. As an instruction she inherited, she remembered her father's instances of the fish speaking back to you. Sarees spoke with Malini, as did notebooks, stones, and sometimes clouds.
The ice pedestal was bride-decked in a streamlined bloodbath. Teams stacked against each other in huddles -- the proud pomfrets, sexy mackerals, underdog folis and of course alienated in exclusivity a basket of pastel blue jumbo prawns. The regular pabda and the rui, katla were champions in their own right. A compact, shimmering, silvery scaled beauty caught her attention. For a moment she gave up the mask of resilience and light-footed like birds, flew in excitement. It was a hilsa, the bored fish monger informed. Malini had no rat-hole to hide her ignorance. Once you are in love, you know you are bought -- in a good way -- in your own willing submission and space.
Malini surrendered once and for all, without shadows. Now she was born anew, in the market. They owned her, they wished to teach her, make her their favourite subject, giving her a snippet of secret here, a theory of legacy there. She left, suddenly seeing all the abundance that ordinariness had to offer, a string of sights, she had earlier pulled the blinds to.
There, she walks out. Satisfaction speaking back to her from scaled gills, sacked grains and shopkeepers' gestures.
But were you a stranger, a new face? Apprehension could well eat you up. What if you were overcharged? What if you were given the rotten apples, smartly, in between the kilo which you thought you picked? What if you were laughed at the moment you turned your back? The marketplace is a battlefield and arrows are shot at you at each nook, and corner. Who could you trust in the crowd of ordinariness?
Malini felt dead now, hardly alive, but it turned into a habit, like the abundance of other ordinariness. Sometimes she allowed the prying eyes to read her, sometimes she fancied a reading herself. Today she decided to identify, analyse and buy fish. As an instruction she inherited, she remembered her father's instances of the fish speaking back to you. Sarees spoke with Malini, as did notebooks, stones, and sometimes clouds.
The ice pedestal was bride-decked in a streamlined bloodbath. Teams stacked against each other in huddles -- the proud pomfrets, sexy mackerals, underdog folis and of course alienated in exclusivity a basket of pastel blue jumbo prawns. The regular pabda and the rui, katla were champions in their own right. A compact, shimmering, silvery scaled beauty caught her attention. For a moment she gave up the mask of resilience and light-footed like birds, flew in excitement. It was a hilsa, the bored fish monger informed. Malini had no rat-hole to hide her ignorance. Once you are in love, you know you are bought -- in a good way -- in your own willing submission and space.
Malini surrendered once and for all, without shadows. Now she was born anew, in the market. They owned her, they wished to teach her, make her their favourite subject, giving her a snippet of secret here, a theory of legacy there. She left, suddenly seeing all the abundance that ordinariness had to offer, a string of sights, she had earlier pulled the blinds to.
There, she walks out. Satisfaction speaking back to her from scaled gills, sacked grains and shopkeepers' gestures.
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