Walking around an average South Asian market is more distracting than trying to navigate a Wal-Mart during Black Friday. There is a market near my apartment that stretches through a narrow street for at least three kilometers, winding through various neighborhoods, and boasting every shop imaginable. One section is lovingly referred to as Home Depot, because it contains a long line of shops which sell everything from air conditioning units to water tank covers. Another area includes men’s jeans vendors, all of whom seem to be selling the exact same type of ill-fitting pants, complete with skinny legs and feminine designs on the pockets. In another area, a group of bursting kitchen supply stores is huddled together, seeming to collectively spill their plastic and metallic contents onto the traffic outside. Every few feet, you see a man sitting on a cart, laden with bananas, mangos, or whatever fruit is currently in season.
l like to walk through the market by myself, because it allows me to momentarily forget
myself (and bonded labour, desperate poverty, corruption, gender oppression,
and systematic exploitation) and get lost in the experience of taking in the
activity swirling all around me. As I enter the street, I look down at a small,
crouching group of men, swapping a tattoo gun between their forearms. They notice me, offer the gun, and I continue on
after politely waving a “No” with my left wrist. On the left is the main spice
vendor, with his once-a-week “masalas” on display behind his scales. I sidestep
a bony cow lazily sniffing its way through the trash mound by the public
toilets on the corner, and am nearly overwhelmed by the smell that hits my face
in the process. The ground is uneven, with small crevices carved by random
thunder and lightning downpours of the last few days; I hopscotch my way over
the puddles. The chemist shop on the corner is well-lit and the sound of the
cricket match on the television above the small Hindu altar distracts the shopkeeper as
he looks for the eye drops I use to clear the dust from my eyes at the end of
the day.
I
re-emerge onto the street and decide to keep walking, not wanting to turn back
just yet. A little boy with eyes as black as his hair stares after me as his
dad carries him quickly ahead. The characteristic twinkle of the cycle rickshaw
bell sounds and instinctively, I step aside with the crowd to let him pass on
the right. A motorcycle winds through from the opposite direction and I stop
short, right behind the cycle rickshaw as it is forced to move out of the way.
There
is a pile of dark green, golf-ball bulbs on a cart that I have never seen. The
vendor notices my curiosity and immediately opens one with a smooth swipe of
his knife. The flesh is white, crisp, and tasteless, like a water chestnut. I
buy a half-kilo, determined to find out the name and use them in a recipe that
week. My
eyes ping-pong from left to right, refusing to settle on one place for fear of
missing out on the visual variety. I see the embellished collar of a fancy
dress, a dusty pastel trash bin, flattened circles of flour floating in
sizzling oil, stacks of unused bricks, and the smile of the man with too many
tomatoes to sell by the end of the night. After feasting my eyes, ears, and
nose a little longer, I turn back, always feeling a little more alive, and a
lot more present than I did earlier that day.
My friend recently posted this quote from Betty Smith’s “A
Tree Grows in Brooklyn” on her blog:
"People always think that happiness is a
faraway thing", thought Francie. "something complicated and hard to
get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains-a
cup of strong hot coffee when you're blue; for a man, a cigarette for
contentment; a book to read when you're alone-just to be with someone you love.
Those things make happiness."
The
street market has become one of my “home” places in South Asia, and I think
that has something to do with the “little things” that make it so special. With
such an incredible amount of activity, I have no option but to put my phone
away (baring any seriously awesome photo ops) and be present to the beautiful
gifts unveiling themselves all around me. In the market, I am reminded of a God
who delights in giving the kinds of tangible, little sensory gifts that make me
feel so alive.
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