“Why are you so excited to go to the market?” asked my cousin, who had spent all his life in Massachusetts and was here for the summer break. Our mothers were sisters.

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“Wait till we head to the bazaar,” I said, as we bet ten rupees.

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We slipped into our chappals and set out for the market. My mother handed each of us a large jute bag to carry the vegetables, and she walked a little ahead of us. As we walked, we saw the white trail of an aeroplane stretching across the crimson-orange sky. He took out his camera—our late grandfather’s gift—and captured the scene.

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We crossed the traffic signal at the busy crossroads of the market. There it was, spread out before us: two broad roads separated by a divider, cars stuck in traffic, and fruit carts lined up on either side at the ends of the roads.

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As we walked along the roadside, we heard the fruit sellers calling out at the top of their voices.

“Come here, Madam!” yelled one.

“Look at these apples—the best in town!” shouted another, even louder.

They called out with friendly smiles, though they had to compete with one another to earn a living.

 

We approached the second vendor.

“No, bhaiya, you're charging too much,” my mother began her usual ritual, for bargaining was a must while shopping.

“Bhabhi ji, you are my regular customer. How could I possibly cheat you? Don’t look at the price; look at the quality. Taste one and see—you’ll keep coming back for more,” he said.

I signalled to my cousin, who immediately photographed the exchange.

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The fruit seller sliced open an apple and cut three thin wedges for us. The moment we bit into them, the juice filled our mouths, and we were lost in their sweetness, our eyes closing in delight.

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“Maasi, you have to buy these,” my cousin said, and I readily agreed.

A kilogram of those red beauties soon found its way into our jute bag.

“So these are the markets of Bombay,” he said, looking around.

 

To our left stood two-storey shopping centres selling affordable local clothing. Across the road were residential buildings, their ground floors occupied by vegetarian bakeries, stationery shops, and stores selling steel and copper utensils. Fruit and vegetable carts lined the footpaths on both sides of the road.

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A BEST bus rumbled past, packed with commuters returning home from work.

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“I wonder how they can breathe. There isn't even enough room for an ant!” my cousin exclaimed, snapping another photograph.

“There’s plenty of space,” I said.

 

He looked as though he might faint.

We stopped at a small chaat stall on the footpath outside the Sun Shopping Centre.

“This mall sells sari laces, nightwear, cotton homewear for men and women, toys, and fabric for petticoats in every imaginable colour,” I told him.

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My cousin photographed a shop on the first floor whose window displayed a sign that read:

3 Kurtis @ ₹999. SALE! SALE! SALE!

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“Three plates of pani puri, extra spicy,” my mother ordered.

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The vendor handed us small disposable paper bowls. He cracked open the round puris, filled them with warm ragda made from white peas and mashed potatoes, then topped them with chilled spicy green water. One by one, he placed them in our bowls.

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The moment they entered our mouths, it felt like a bomb of flavours exploding. There was the crunch of the puris, the comforting warmth of the ragda, and the fiery tang of the paani made from green chillies, coriander, mint, tamarind, and water.

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My cousin kept eating even though tears streamed down his face from the spice.

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He photographed the last puri from his plate of six before devouring it.

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Then came the sukha puri—one each—filled only with ragda and topped with sev, meant to soothe the heat.

Next, the vendor prepared sev puri. He arranged seven flat puris on each plate, topped them with mashed potatoes, freshly chopped onions and tomatoes, added small amounts of spicy green and red chutneys, and generously drizzled sweet chutney made from dates, tamarind, and jaggery.

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Finally, he showered everything with crunchy yellow sev.

The sweetness of the chutney and the freshness of the tomatoes made us lick our fingers.

Another moment for the trusty Sony camera.

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My mother then stopped at a vegetable cart. She bought potatoes, tomatoes, tender ladyfingers, and bundles of fresh spinach that were being sold at two for the price of one because it was evening and the vendor wanted to clear his stock before heading home.

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Our bags were now full.

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Just as we were leaving, we witnessed the most dramatic and eagerly awaited spectacle of any middle-class market: two middle-aged aunties arguing over the largest bottle gourd at a nearby stall.

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“I saw it first. I’m taking it,” declared the first.

“No, I saw it first. I’m taking it,” yelled the second, her eyes wide with indignation.

“Madam, take this one. Or that one,” the vegetable seller pleaded, trying to calm the situation.

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Unfortunately, he only made matters worse.

“You always favour her! Every single day! Stay within your limits,” shouted the first woman.

“You are the reason for this fight,” accused the second.

Everyone paused to enjoy the spectacle.

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What film director could ever recreate such an iconic scene?

“This one deserves at least two photos,” my cousin said.

On our way home, the sun had already set.

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Our final stop was Sri Sitaram Vegetarian Bakery, the last shop in the final building before the traffic signal at Ram Bazaar.

It was an old-fashioned bakery that had been operating for forty-seven years. They baked the most buttery cookies and the flakiest cream rolls, along with cakes and pastries.

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We bought a chocolate-chip pastry for each member of the family, a packet of cream rolls, and some fresh jeera biscuits that had just come out of the oven.

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The entire shop smelled of butter and sweet vanilla.

We finally headed home.

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By the time we arrived, my father had brought dinner from my aunt’s favourite restaurant.

After we had eaten, my cousin and I took our pastries to our room.

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“It’s so fresh,” he said after taking a bite. “I always thought only rich, dense chocolate cakes were good, but this simple, sweet pastry has a different kind of love in it. It has the freshness of humility.”

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Then he took one last photograph.

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Before I rested my head on the pillow, he handed me ten rupees, flashed me a wide smile and the sideways wink he always gave when he wanted to thank someone without saying the words, and then drifted off to sleep.