THE BAZAAR
It seems just the other day. I used to amble into the little vegetable market that still occupied the narrow street in front of our house which led to the bus adda. The general cacophony and the assorted aroma automatically transported me to my younger days; as a child, the raised voices of the vendors, the rattle of wheels on the mettled road and the occasional toot of automobiles attracted me like a magnet but sadly the place was out of bounds for us kids by virtue of a strict farman issued by my father and any violation was sure to have serious repurcussions. So we were told by the elders of the house. As a youth, when these restrictions were lifted, I often used to aimlessly meander through the melee and dust for hours on. The mixed aroma of cow dung, horse shit, rotten vegetables and human odour was irresistable. Add to this the loud bargains often leading to minor scuffles, friends discussing politics and all matters sundry over a glass of milk tea, dogs barking at ...