Vishal Sharma
I am being driven by my driver on a stretch leading from Gujjar Nagar bridge towards the Gumat intersection. As we near the intersection, I ask my driver to set me down so I can take a stroll from the rotary just below the ingress to the bus stand through the Jewel bazaar- the place which endlessly throbs with life.
A nice small concrete gabled roofed police post sits in the middle of the rotary with a few plants around it to keep the occupants company. I saw two coppers sitting there, fanning themselves with a folded newspaper. They are jolted into paying attention every time a vehicle screeches to a halt or someone indulges in immoderate honking. Traffic around the rotary runs at a feverish pace. There is frenzy; there’s noise. But it isn’t humdrum. For the regulars to the bazaar, it’s the orchestra of life producing life’s best symphonies.
The road descends slowly; I move from the centre of the road to the footpath on my left. And as I start towards the jewel chowk, I see a small boy carrying a plastic bag in hand- walking up briskly; a bag as big, if not bigger, as he is. He holds its one end with his left hand; picking up with his other the things that he sees of value on the footpath; and on the road and shoving them inside it. As he walks past me, he glimpses an empty plastic bottle rolling on to the side of the road; and rushes to grab it and then puts it in the bag.
As I swerve around to continue my stroll, I barely escape bumping into three small girls- of same age- holding similar sized bags- chirping and giggling, and without any care whatsoever in the world. They are rag pickers like him. They rush past me. I turn around to watch them till they take a turn and disappear on the road headed towards Vivekanand Chowk.
A few more steps into my walk, I see a mobile shop on my left; a middle-aged man of fair complexion and a receding hair line sits in his chair- sullen looking- with his chin supported by his hand on the table. His help sits in a corner browsing his mobile. It appears that he has not had a buyer until now- hence perhaps the woe. May be its early hours; may be, he will have buyers later in the day.
I look up in the sky; it’s bright, warm and brazen with heat. There is no trace of any cloud anywhere as far as my pathologically myopic eyes can see. I lower my sights a bit and I see the tangled mass of the electric cables strung from pole to pole erected at every thirty feet or so. Wires- some thin while others thick- sprout from these poles; some- much thicker- are even strung across the road and tied to the poles on the other side of the road.
I look across the road and see a ready-made garments shop in which t-shirts, bermudas and innerwear of different colours and sizes are hung sideways in the storefront for display. The owner- a plump old man- has left his seat to tidy up things in the shop; he is sorting out the garments from out of a confused pile and arranging them in such a way on the shelves that they catch the eye of buyers. With a short stick that has a cotton cloth thumbtacked to its far end, his assistant is dusting off the shelves and furniture in the shop.
On my left, an eatery /food joint is being readied to host the customers. A young man is carving a chicken while his attendant is applying a paste of turmeric, chili and salt on the already carved chicken. Nearby, a tandoor is fired up and is spouting fire. It’s in here carved chickens will be placed for roasting. I see a man sitting on a bench awaiting to be served the morning meal. The owner walks in through the door on the far side and barks out an order. “Hurry up,” he says.
Meanwhile, after another short walk ahead I see a vegetable and fruit vendor weighing up vegetables for a bespectacled old man even as they continue to argue over the price. The buyer has still not agreed to the vendor’s price offer; but the vendor has weighed the stuff and begun putting it in a polythene bag. Perhaps both still harbor a hope that the other will back down.
Even as they haggle, I walk on, and see a few boys hosing down the floor, stairs and reception lobby of the hotel. All the while a man sits on the front desk with carefree unconcern even as the water gurgles or babbles under his feet. He is on the phone with someone; and is all worked up. His face is red with anger, and grows redder every time he shouts angrily into his phone. As I look at him, he looks up from the desk and engages me with a steady gaze. I ignore him. As I leave him, I hear him call to someone; urging him to hasten.
A dog comes from behind and moves ahead with a steady trot; stopping a few meters from me. It then turns its face towards an eatery-another one on the way, hoping that the man taking away pots and pans for washing will throw a morsel of food at him. The dog’s expectant look strikes a chord with the man standing by the tandoor. He throws a piece of stale roasted bread at him; the dog lunges forward to grab the food and after it takes the bite it so desperately craves for, it quietly retires to an inner lane.
I continue walking. A beggar’s laboured gate on a crutch then catches my eye. Dragging himself on his good leg, the long unbathed, unshod beggar dressed in rags and with dreadful locks stretches out his arm, covered with sores, to me for alms. I tap my pockets for a coin. Embarrassed that I don’t have a coin to toss over to him, I quickly brush past him.
I then stop by a hawker selling fruit on a cart by the side of the road. He has just handed a banana to a sikh boy, who in no time has peeled it off and thrust the peeled part into his mouth. ‘How many more?,’ he asks the sikh boy. ‘Two’. He then turns his gaze towards me. I scan the fruit on the cart. He doesn’t have that I need, I quietly tell myself. I look at him; press my lips together in a tight line-indicating my disapproval. The man on the other side of the cart can’t quite figure out what’s happened. He raises his eyebrows- more in disgust than in surprise perhaps.
I move on. The next stop is a book store. It has a glass storefront with small niches on the inside in which are placed the new arrivals. Inside the store, books of all kinds are placed on wooden shelves along the walls on all sides going as high as up to the ceiling. I pick a magazine, flip through it and replace it. Then I grab a novel. As I press it and turn its pages quickly, it whirs as though it was a hand fan. I look at the blurb and find that it is a thriller. I quietly place it back in the shelf. A man sitting at the counter, who has been watching me all this while, looks expectedly at me. I avoid meeting his gaze and instead walk out of the store.
I quicken my pace and rush past many shops. There are all kinds of them there- from utensil store to shops selling electronic items, hardware items and groceries. There is even a photographer’s shop too. As the end of the road nears, I see a couple of sports shop as well. I reach the end of the road, and stand there looking at the intersection over which stretches a big fly over that then fuses with the bridge on Tawi river. Underneath, its piers are adorned with a series of wall hanging gardens. A happy sight for eyes in a plentiful sweep of concrete! Meanwhile, the rush of traffic around it continues unabated.
The sun continues to stream down. Anyone with a sense will rush indoors and loll on the bed, and not be out and about as I am. A little later, I walk across to the other side of the road to go back to the place where I started from.
As I begin my walk from this side, I come across a sweet shop; its specialty being the gulab jamuns, and they are being advertised proudly on a black cloth fixed on a wooden stand along with the rate per piece. The workers in the shop have set to doing things they do on a daily basis. A big burly mustached fellow is warming milk in a big pan; he has a stirrer in his hand. The left hand stirs the milk, while with the right one, he keeps twirling his moustache.
I quicken my pace and reach the place where the bust of Bhagat Singh (freedom fighter) stands. As I begin walking past it, I crane my neck to look at it. Something makes me pause there. For a minute or two, I stop and then I happen to cast a glance on the road- behind it- sloping down towards the science college. A collection of people can be seen going about their business; ordinary people busy in their chores. It makes for quite a picture. The myriad forms of life are on display; life in its truest form is in full view of those who care to see.
I then pause at a small wayside counter selling mobile sims. It is perched right in front of a shop and on the pavement itself. The owner- a fortyish something- with a straggling beard and with eyes that seem to be crying for glasses- is busy telling the potential buyer all that is good about the sim. The buyer- a young boy- looks mesmerized by his sales pitch. His queries never end so does not the patience of the seller. He drones on and on.
I leave them to stride ahead and find myself right in front of a shop selling ready-made garments. Two women- in their thirties; one weedy and another full figured with an ample buxom- are trying to beat down the price of a garment. The seller will, however, have nothing of it. He tells them that he has already given them the best offer. The buxom woman entices him with a counter offer. ‘We will buy another garment, if we get the price we ask for,” she tempts him. The seller looks around and calls to his helper. ” Show them the piece from Jallandhar,” he commands his helper. The helper gets the piece and the seller unwraps it. ‘ I will charge you the same price you ask for. But this is not the same piece I showed you earlier,” he says. He then takes the two fabrics in two different hands and then rubs them with his thumbs and index fingers. “Here, see the difference. One is lighter with no friction and other not so smooth,” he says. But the women are not impressed. They continue with the typical buyers’ rant.
I watch the fabled Indian haggle in its full glory with great delight. After a while I walk on and pass a few shops before I find myself near the gas station. At the entrance to the station is a repair shop where a two wheeler is being tended to by a mechanic while another awaits his turn. A stout but a short statured young man is inflating the tyres of a scootie held steady by a girl. A couple of cars have queued up behind a motorcycle whose tank is being filled with gas. An employee of the station makes a quick hand gesture to the waiting car, indicating to him to come on to the other side. A man sits stroking his crotch on a chair outside the office keeping a watch on comings and goings at the station. I turn around to have a final look at the bustling bazaar and then walk towards the waiting car.
( The writer is a novelist)
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