The Summer of 1987- When life was a lot less complicated…
It was the summer of 1987. I woke up with a spring in my step. The first Sunday of the month was always special- it meant an outing to the local market with my mother. And this trip came with a list of privileges. Being my birthday month I was also expecting some surprise gifts as well. Last few days had been dropping broad hints on the need of cricket kit (what with the Reliance world cup fever catching the nation).
The trip starts with the mandatory haggling with the rickshaw puller. He demands an astronomical 10 rupees for the ride. My mother makes a brazen counter offer of Rs 2. Both parties trade statistics on inflation and the state of the economy. Ultimately the poor guy blinks first and off we cut across the tree lined avenues of the township after a settlement was reached at Rs 5.
The rickshaw deposited us at the entrance of the market from where begins a labyrinth of lanes lined on both sides by petty shops selling all kinds of wares. Our first stop was the stationary shop to enquire if books for the next academic year had arrived or not. Thankfully it hadn’t, clearly shaving off a good 30 mins of our trip time (was better invested elsewhere I felt). But of course I get my monthly edition of Tinkle. Start of summer vacation meant, I could make another pick — I chose “Bahadur” of Indrajal comics fame. I longingly looked at the glossy cover of “Tintin in Land of Pharaohs” half expecting someone to take pity and place it on my hands. But at Rs 20 it was out of reach for the middle class. “When you grow up, you yourself go there”, comforted my mother. “And who will take me to a god forsaken place like Egypt” I replied making a face.
The next stop was Canara Bank to get some cash to fund the rest of the shopping and for the month. We were alarmed to see a serpentine queue at the entrance with heavy police presence. On reaching closer we realized that it was the crowd of the nearby Theatre (screening some film about an invisible man named after our country) which had spilled over. Some shady looking guy approached me with a “Dus ka do offer”. Before I could comprehend, I was dragged into the banking hall by my mother.
Taking our own money from the bank is not an easy accomplishment. We get handed over a metal token (with a waiting number inscribed) which fills the whole of my palm. The wait time was fruitfully employed in reading through the heroics of Shikari Shambu and the antics of Suppandi. When our number came I went running to the counter brandishing the token like a Olympic winner flaunting her souvenir. The old lady at the counter took ages to count (and recount) the bundle of notes. “Why don’t they just install a machine at the entrance to dispense the money at the click of a button and make things faster”, I asked as we made our exit. “How would they know how much to hand out and to whom” , laughed my mother at my innocence.
As we approached a temple I quietly prayed to God that we skip the divine visit. But who listens to a prayer of a 10 year old. My grade results were out last week and it wasn’t exactly encouraging. My mother prayed at the altar to seek heavenly intervention to redirect my focus from gully cricket to more important stuff.
The next stop was at a run-down shack to sustain the body in the extreme summer heat. A foot long Masala Dosa washing it down with a bottle of Gold Spot. The real reward of the trip I so much longed for. Feeling nourished we went to the next lane where a new air conditioned Park Avenue show room had recently opened.
“Show me a shirt fit for a prince” demanded my mother in the grandest of fashion. The store owner obliged by showing the costliest outfit of his shop. Made of the finest Egyptian cotton claimed the guy behind the counter. My mind raced back to the pharaohs on the Tintin cover.
“Mom, princes don’t wear shirts” I protested, knowing fully well that this shirt was destined to be my birthday present. “Nor do they wear gloves and pads” snapped back my mother. “Well, the Nawab of Pataudi did” I growled back defiantly. 10 minutes later and Rs 100 poorer, we walk out of the shop with hopes of a cricket kit dashed to smithereens.
The final destination was the dirtiest and the one I dreaded the most. The vegetable market — where dozens of vendors sitting under gulmoher trees display their produce. The air is filled with a mixed aroma of coriander leaves, rotten tomatoes and jackfruits. We visit almost every peddler seeking the best price. I tug along, carefully side stepping freshly minted cow dungs, with a big shopping bag which gets heavier by the minute. Mother is at her bargaining best and brings out all she can from her vast repertoire of negotiation skills. I wished that when I grow up , the vendors would come to my house rather than me going to them.
It is almost 1 PM and we are famished. Mercifully, the ride back is via an auto rickshaw as I protested on the weight of the bags. Thereby ends the tale of one of the most joyful times of childhood — something to cherish and treasure for the rest of my life.
