A CHANCE MEETING -I
A CHANCE MEETING – I
THE ANNOUNCEMENT
“You mean you have not heard of it, let alone solicit a visit,” said Shyamoli, my domestic help one morning. She almost sounded like a judge questioning the foolishness of the plaintiff. Her eyes widened and that incredulous look wafted past her.
The place that had aroused such deep emotions was the quite popular and one frequently visited by residents of this city.
Kondli Bazaar. Right at the border of the bigger metropolis, this wholesale market has thrived for decades. And as the cities on both sides of the border expanded, Kondli Bazaar directly benefitted.
“All madams go there”, Shyamoli continued emphasising each word. She was referring to the other households she works in. “Generally on Sundays after breakfast and return with their cars full of purchases by lunchtime. In fact,” she continued with glee, “my madam from 1200 (apartment number) brings my order too.”
“Oh!” I replied, waiting for her elaboration. “Mustard oil” Shyamoli announced. “5 ltr of it every month.”
This was disturbing news for me, the ‘always out of the budget’ soul. What a fool I have been, I chided myself. Everyone who is anyone goes grocery shopping to Kondli Bazaar and me, the fool me, the un-austere me always off to a fancy department store. Did I by any chance have hundreds of dollars stacked behind my shoe rack?
Now onwards Kondli it would be. My eyes shone as I counted all the ‘yet to be’ savings. I could almost hear a boing. That was my brain ringing the financial bell. You will soon be a rich girl, very, very rich.
And so, one muggy, musty, July when domestic responsibilities got done and dusted with, I made a public announcement, my tone as that one generally reserves for one’s pet. “Kondli Bazaar, here I come.”
“Are you sure?” the family detractors questioned. “It’s very far off. You will spend more than save.”
But I was now beyond distractions. Mission Kondli was on.
THE PATH TO RICHES AIN’T EVER EASY
As part of the austerity drive, an Ola auto got booked. The cabs showed a fare almost double that of the humble three-wheeler. After a 14 (exact) minute wait and several phone calls (“Bhaiyya kahan ho aap?”), the elusive auto arrived. The auto decorated with colourful buntings almost gave the feel of a birthday bash. The driver (bhaiyya) completed his avant-garde dress with a colourful bandana and pink colour floppies.
With my frizzy hair now flying in all directions and the warm breeze and the fiery sun for company, we were off.
The auto, the bhaiyya, and the passenger rode along and rode along. Soon it began to look more like a darshan around the city rather than reaching the place where ‘all madams frequent and save lakhs of rupees’. We crossed wide roads and jumped over broken potholes, we went under bridges and waved the metro rail as it passed by. We crossed construction sites and bus stands, and we saw fast cars zoom by and cyclists trudge along. Finally, we passed by several factories where pasted on the main gates were almost in uniformity two posts. “We do not hire child labour”, one said while the other was more desperate. “Staff required. Walk in for an interview with Resum(e).”
As the topography changed something told me (maybe it was a chilling message from my bones, or whatever was now left of it) that Mission Impossible was soon going to be possible. The funky driver (bhaiyya) screeched to a halt outside a factory gate. Tall, old trees with branches laden with leaves gave immense shade to the labourers who were unloading from a truck.
CROSS-BORDER ISSUES
“Kondli aa gaya madam,” said the one with pink floppies. “Kahan bhaiyya?”, I countered. Surely Kondli Bazaar couldn’t be behind one of these factory gates. “Nahin madam”, continued pink floppies. “Walk a few steps, turn right and you are there.” “But why cannot you drop me in the bustling bazaar?” I countered again afraid of an yet un-ventured place. “Because” he replied as if speaking to a child “this is the border. Do you see the barricades? If I cross them, I will get fined. I operate only this side of the border,” he concluded ominously.
The yellow-painted barricades he was pointing out were 3 barriers put on the road, presumably by the police to naturally slow down traffic. Oh! Well. Adventurers don’t show such pettiness, I told myself. Let’s walk.
And so the barricades got walked by, and the border got crossed. Now only Kondli bazaar had to be reached.
“Tomatoes only 20/- ” shouted a voice. “What?” It was incredible. The red berry plant was selling almost at 300/- from where I came. I turned to hunt the voice. Hidden inside a tiny vegetable shop completely covered in tarpaulin with just a small opening sat a young boy of not more than 14 years of age. Possibly a cross-border smuggler. He looked at me with hope. But I had a bigger mission to achieve first. Reminding myself to purchase on the way back, I moved on.
An E-Rickshaw stopped by and the driver looked at me in anticipation. “Bhaiyya, Kondli bazaar kahan hai?” I queried. “You are standing in Kondli bazaar”, he replied and rode on realising that I would not be his sawari today.
I had arrived!
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Google Photo only for representation. But looks almost there.
