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 others in general and more specifically at horses who roamed freely once their masters had off loaded the wares and of course at stray mongrels from neighbouring areas. My mother found this behaviour rather incongruous with that of her other children. She often wondered aloud about my sanity in front of visiting neighbours, thus making me a perfect fodder for their gossip. And she kept on nagging to me to refrain from such fruiitless ventures and focus on my studies. My cousin, who studied with me and was about my age, would daintily cover his nose with a white kerchief, which was provided specially for this purpose by the family while traversing through this man made hell at high speed, on our way to college. Seeing him pant so heavily after this sojourn, it seemed he had held his breath during the entire length of the bazaar. To this, he never admitted.
One fine winter morning, as I was observing the market place from our terrace just as a king would survey his kingdom, there appeared a van with a loud speaker atop. The announcement, which was a few decibels above the din of the market place, was to inform the vendors that the municipalty as the supreme civic body, had decided that the market would be shifted near the newly constructed market yard and each vendor could participate in the bidding for a shed. The bidding would take place the following sunday at the municipal compounds.
There was complete silence following the announcement, but soon after, the vendors surrounded the van in loud protest. I ran down to see the development from close quarters. What I could gather from the impassioned rant of the vendors was their fear that since the new venue was at the outskirts of the town, they would lose their customers. Further, transpoting their ware to the new place would be expensive. In short the proposal was outvoted instantly.
Sadly, their plea remained unheard and the very next morning, a bulldozer accompanied by a tractor arrived at the spot and raized all the temporary structures that had graced the market all these years. The debris were cleared within an hour in front of the eyes of some hapless bystanders. The northerly suddenly heaved a silent breath of pain, helplessness and despair. My market place was gone. I left the town soon after to pursue my vocation.
My work commitments had kept me away from my town for quite some time. A sudden death in the family necessitated a short visit. As I stand today, on the same terrace, after so many years and look at the broad pitched road that leads to the new swanky bus terminus, an emptiness engulfs me. The market bubbling with life, the raised voices, the enchanting smells, all float in like an apparition. As the winter sun gradually clears the haze, the scene dissipates. I look back at the young boy joyfully pacing the market place and then walking into the unknown through the narrow lane that once was.