By Lealyan Thawmte
Based on the windfall from the recommendations of the Fifth Pay Commission's report, my better half - my wife..duh - had demanded that I should accompany her to the Sunday Market, behind the Red Fort in Old Delhi, also embarrassingly known as Chor Bazaar. Mostly dealing in secondhands and bric-a-bracs, one can get anything from shaving blades to tractor tyres.
I had been there a couple of times in my not-so-hey days and the experience was such that I had promised myself not to ever go or put it it my thoughts again and make do with what the nearby Sarojini Market had to offer. As usual, I broke my promise and bravely succumbed to my wife's pressure tactics, as married and harried men like us often do in the face of wife-ry onslaught.
'Chor bazaar wale' ! I woke up with a jolt. There was no bus stand in sight as we awkwardly got up from our seats. Snide glances from an overfed lady hovered on us as the Blueline conductor repeatedly sing-songed, 'Chor bazaar wale..Chor bazaar wale'. Hmm..a traffic light. We stepped down and crossed the street. I took a deep breath, tightened my belt, my shoe laces and whatever else there was to tighten. Muscles included.
Holding on tight to each other, we approached a sea of humans humming towards the Bazaar . A bustle here, a jostle there but no entry point..but wait, over there - the wall (not Pink Floyds) or rather the fence.
People, not in twos and threes, but in sixteens and seventeens were clambering, climbing, shoving, pushing, pulling, heaving, jumping and still more - clamouring at one over-the-fence entry point. The makeshift stepboard creaked in protest as we too rushed into the melee and made our grand entry - slithering down unkempt moustaches and BO's in varied flavours - into 'Chordom'. Minus a shirt button.
Checking to see if my shoes were still intact, I momentarily stepped back at the din and asked my wife for a cotton ball. 'You're not on a flight, my dear', she rebuked.
The orchestra was in full swing. 'Pachees Rupiya..CLAP..Pachees Rupiya..CLAP..Pachees Rupya..CLAP!, hoarsed an overdressed quartet from heaps of westerly waste in a strangely enough sol-fa perfect unison. Zubin Mehta would have been proud of them.
A hawk-eyed twentyish something pranced his wares next to them. His well-oiled super lungs in full throttle. 'Pandra Rupiya.. SALE! Pandra Rupiya..SALE'. And as he pulled, stretched and showcased, one of the material chose to bettray him and went 'Riiii..ii..iip'. 'Aur bhi hain..', he continued without losing momentum and with all the finese and elan of a stage magician picked up another from the pile on his feet.
I pointed to an ochre coloured jacket and nudged my wife, 'Look..' 'Crrii..iing..CriÃing' interrupted the rickshawala trying to pull his cargo of a kingsize bed across a two-foot opening. I wished him all the luck as I pulled my wife away or whatever was left of her.
As we squeezed and squirmed our way amidst intoxicating fragrances of BO's and mustard oil greased hairs, Anuradha Paudwal did her bid soulfully from a two-foot speaker near a carelessly strewn maze of fake T-Series audio cassettes. 'Price Rs. 15. No Bargen'.
Next to it huddled a woman, weekdays beggar probably. Her wares: Three small plastic balls, smudged. Two Rotomac ball pens, without refills. A couple of rusty bolts. A number of unassuming dry battery cells. Half a dozen or so of uneven nails. Three clearly used tooth brushes and a dirty soapcase.
Awed at the brazen display of the hitherto unknown luxury items and admiring the daring entrepreneurship of the lady, we ogled for a good ten minutes before she decided to shoo us off to make way for her customers.
Finding nothing suitable and getting exhausted from all the shouting and shoving indulged so enthusiastically by the pre-Diwali shoppers, we finally settled for half a dozen peg holder crystal glass. Stolen from Air India. Courtesy: Cabin Crew, most probably. We returned home with the goodie and an assured flu.
Thankfully the next Pay Commission was then another 10 years away.
Zogam.Com
Based on the windfall from the recommendations of the Fifth Pay Commission's report, my better half - my wife..duh - had demanded that I should accompany her to the Sunday Market, behind the Red Fort in Old Delhi, also embarrassingly known as Chor Bazaar. Mostly dealing in secondhands and bric-a-bracs, one can get anything from shaving blades to tractor tyres.
I had been there a couple of times in my not-so-hey days and the experience was such that I had promised myself not to ever go or put it it my thoughts again and make do with what the nearby Sarojini Market had to offer. As usual, I broke my promise and bravely succumbed to my wife's pressure tactics, as married and harried men like us often do in the face of wife-ry onslaught.
'Chor bazaar wale' ! I woke up with a jolt. There was no bus stand in sight as we awkwardly got up from our seats. Snide glances from an overfed lady hovered on us as the Blueline conductor repeatedly sing-songed, 'Chor bazaar wale..Chor bazaar wale'. Hmm..a traffic light. We stepped down and crossed the street. I took a deep breath, tightened my belt, my shoe laces and whatever else there was to tighten. Muscles included.
Holding on tight to each other, we approached a sea of humans humming towards the Bazaar . A bustle here, a jostle there but no entry point..but wait, over there - the wall (not Pink Floyds) or rather the fence.
People, not in twos and threes, but in sixteens and seventeens were clambering, climbing, shoving, pushing, pulling, heaving, jumping and still more - clamouring at one over-the-fence entry point. The makeshift stepboard creaked in protest as we too rushed into the melee and made our grand entry - slithering down unkempt moustaches and BO's in varied flavours - into 'Chordom'. Minus a shirt button.
Checking to see if my shoes were still intact, I momentarily stepped back at the din and asked my wife for a cotton ball. 'You're not on a flight, my dear', she rebuked.
The orchestra was in full swing. 'Pachees Rupiya..CLAP..Pachees Rupiya..CLAP..Pachees Rupya..CLAP!, hoarsed an overdressed quartet from heaps of westerly waste in a strangely enough sol-fa perfect unison. Zubin Mehta would have been proud of them.
A hawk-eyed twentyish something pranced his wares next to them. His well-oiled super lungs in full throttle. 'Pandra Rupiya.. SALE! Pandra Rupiya..SALE'. And as he pulled, stretched and showcased, one of the material chose to bettray him and went 'Riiii..ii..iip'. 'Aur bhi hain..', he continued without losing momentum and with all the finese and elan of a stage magician picked up another from the pile on his feet.
I pointed to an ochre coloured jacket and nudged my wife, 'Look..' 'Crrii..iing..CriÃing' interrupted the rickshawala trying to pull his cargo of a kingsize bed across a two-foot opening. I wished him all the luck as I pulled my wife away or whatever was left of her.
As we squeezed and squirmed our way amidst intoxicating fragrances of BO's and mustard oil greased hairs, Anuradha Paudwal did her bid soulfully from a two-foot speaker near a carelessly strewn maze of fake T-Series audio cassettes. 'Price Rs. 15. No Bargen'.
Next to it huddled a woman, weekdays beggar probably. Her wares: Three small plastic balls, smudged. Two Rotomac ball pens, without refills. A couple of rusty bolts. A number of unassuming dry battery cells. Half a dozen or so of uneven nails. Three clearly used tooth brushes and a dirty soapcase.
Awed at the brazen display of the hitherto unknown luxury items and admiring the daring entrepreneurship of the lady, we ogled for a good ten minutes before she decided to shoo us off to make way for her customers.
Finding nothing suitable and getting exhausted from all the shouting and shoving indulged so enthusiastically by the pre-Diwali shoppers, we finally settled for half a dozen peg holder crystal glass. Stolen from Air India. Courtesy: Cabin Crew, most probably. We returned home with the goodie and an assured flu.
Thankfully the next Pay Commission was then another 10 years away.
Zogam.Com
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