What with all the apps delivering straight to one’s doorstep, the supermarkets, the food halls and even the occasional (super-expensive) pop-up thela (cart) offering the woke from field-to-fork option, the good old veggie-market/mandi has fallen off my regular beat. But I love the energy and the atmosphere of a hardcore street market, and I have many fond memories of being my mother’s packmule, trotting back loaded down with fresh yummy veggies (spread evenly into two plastic baskets to balance the weight) while she strutted ahead, bright-eyed and flushed with the joy of a good bargain.
So, this Diwali, I, along with an NRI pal, visited the weekly market that is held fairly close to our home outside Bengaluru to soak up some of those old-school vibes. It was more crowded than we remembered, and more exotic (lots of dragon fruit and rambutan happening), and, of course, nobody was giving away chillies and coriander bunches for free. But what really made us do a double-take was the cries of the street vendors.
At first glance it was the same familiar scene, men standing next to their carts calling out prices and describing the virtues of their goods as shoppers walked by. Sometimes they hail the passing throng to get a laugh, calling ‘hey, college-going akka’ to flatter you, or ‘tomatoes as red as your cheeks, amma’ or ‘oye, stylish guy on the phone’, and so on. The old ‘hassi toh phassi’ (if I can make the person laugh, I have hooked him/her) really applies at vegetable markets, indeed at all street markets. But, then, we realised that the street market had discovered artificial intelligence (AI).
Sure, there were energetic cries coming thick and fast from the knot of carts heaped high with apples, but nobody was actually mouthing them. Instead, there was a speaker attached to every cart, blaring a recorded chant at passing crowds while the vendors themselves lounged about on folding chairs, avoiding eye contact, and pulling on cigars. My friend chose to look at this development optimistically, marvelling at Indian innovation and how it made complete sense for the vendor to not strain his voice needlessly at the market. Besides, this levels out the playing field for those who are not so extroverted, she said, after all, it is not the street vendors’ job to put on a colourful performance and flirt with every passing aunty in need of an ego boost!
What to even say? Maybe I’m just an aunty in need of an ego boost, but I didn’t like the averted gazes of the vendors and the robotic, impersonal ‘street cries’. I felt they had robbed us both—vendor and buyer—of a moment of human connection, where we would meet, chat, sass a bit back and forth, come to an agreement that suited us both, and close by wishing our families a happy Diwali. “Arrey, maybe he can’t be arsed yelling all day and chatting with you,” my friend said, “He would rather sell his stock quick, go back home and hang with his fam.”It is alienation,” I stuck to my guns, “We are being forced into silos. A wedge is being driven between him and me, thanks to this stupid, recorded aapal-aapal-aapal.” My friend replied tartly, “You should have thought of that before you succumbed to the convenience of shopping app deliveries and left the market men high and dry. Now, don’t cry me a river about the pleasures of slow-living and the sorrow of sundered connections!”
Which is also a good point. So I dropped the subject, switched on my electric candles, banged out my stencil rangoli, played my aarti off YouTube, and ate my store-bought mithai. Happy Diwali.
editor@theweek.in