Lady at the market.

On a warm lazy Sunday afternoon, I took a bus to a weekly market I had never been before, though I had passed by it often on my way to other destinations. It was a typical Delhi market under a flyover and was famed for its weekend bargains. Pretty ordinary spot, dirty, muddy roads with potholes, hawkers selling all sorts of wares, from garments to pretty birds out of plastic tents and makeshift stalls along the stretch of road; young boys shouting out special rates and discounts as people passed by. A few hours of shopping and I had bought a few shawls, handkerchiefs and some cotton shirts; checked out some lovely fabric, bargained with a few shopkeepers over a couple of skirts, dresses and scarves but decided not to buy any. 

I followed the narrow path between stalls and decided to head back, this time in an autorickshaw as I was now way off the bus route. I headed to the stop where a few autorickshaws were parked, drowsy drivers waiting to pick up customers. They gaped insolently at potential customers, taking their pick, like they were bestowing a huge favor carrying us around for a highly inflated charge. I knew they would quote a ridiculous sum and we’d haggle and quarrel and finally settle somewhere in the middle, in their favor of course. The first guy I spoke to refused to go to my destination. He said he had never heard of the place I wanted to go to. The other drivers looked on, chatting among themselves, uninterested. I knew it would cost me a bomb to get home at this rate. I could trudge back a long sweaty way from here to catch a bus again or humbly sit in whichever auto was willing to take me. I suddenly felt very tired, the heat and humidity getting to me and dreading the battle ahead. 

It was then I felt someone tugging at my shirt. I turned, expecting to see a bedraggled child beggar or worse but saw a young girl tugging at my shirt. She wore a plain tunic and a beautiful multicolored patterned skirt, the kind I had been looking for the whole afternoon but had not found. She said, ‘Didi, I can get you a nice autowallah but you have to walk through there’, pointing at a petrol pump some few meters ahead. I was intrigued. What’s the harm? I thought to myself and decided to walk with her. A certain fear entered my mind too, I had heard of tourists being led off by children or by young women seemingly in distress and then being kidnapped or worse things done to them once lured to a secluded spot. I looked around to see any suspicious movements or persons following us but nothing seemed out of place, so I kept my calm and followed her. 

We kept walking. She led me towards the petrol pump and walked past it, to a narrow path behind a brick wall with many people walking in and out of it, quite like the narrow streets of old Delhi. I felt relieved to see many people walking by and I also looked rather conspicuous in my jeans and shirt while everyone around me seemed to be wearing graceful, flowing robes and lovely skirts, sweeping the floor as they moved about. She took me through the narrow path, beyond a small paan stall, into what seemed like a big eatery with an open kitchen. Half a dozen men of indistinct origin and age were in various modes of frying, stirring and cooking at huge pots. The fire crackled but none seemed bothered by the heat of the flame. Many people sat eating and chatting noisily on long benches placed on both sides of an even longer table laden with steel tumblers, wide plates heaped with goodies and jugs. There were at least four such tables and the aroma of the food made me feel famished. We walked past them, through an open doorway behind a dirty curtain and a middle-aged woman with a handsome face waved us through, smiling at us. She wore similar clothing as the girl and I wondered where I could get a similar skirt for myself. 

The girl led me into an open courtyard with a couple of old rusty wrought iron benches under small flowering trees, a few old tires strewn around, firewood stacked high like a wall along one side and beyond it, I was surprised to see a quite countryside, open roads with tall grass growing on one side. The sky was a bright golden orange from the setting sun and a cool breeze blew. It was like stepping into a different world, in another time and space. I twirled around in surprise, trying to place such a lovely sight amidst the ugly city sounds and sights just behind us. A bare path led to the road, a dog was running around and I could see a few autos lined up along the road. I laughed out loud in disbelief and the girl who called me Didi, clapped in delight at my state. 

The woman from the kitchen came out with a tall steel tumbler and offered it to me. I accepted it and sipped cool sweet and spiced lime juice from it gratefully. The air seemed much cooler and the noise dim. There was hardly any traffic on the road and I was content to just sit on one of the old benches under the yellow flowering trees and hear the lady talk in a regal voice. 

I asked her how long she had lived here and she replied, ‘More years than you could imagine!’ I smiled and enquired if the little girl was her daughter. At this she laughed and said, ‘She is my granddaughter’. I retorted that she looked too young to be a grandmother and she laughed even harder but said nothing. She must have been rather pretty when younger, I thought to myself. She told me that she had come here a long time ago and had been selling food and drink for a living. They would sometimes show lost strangers the way back home and share with them a tranquil moment in their backyard. I asked if I looked lost, she smiled and said I looked new and the auto guys would eat me alive so she had sent out her granddaughter to rescue me. I thanked her and I complimented her on the beautiful skirt. She said she used to make them but not anymore and told me of a place where I could get similar ones. I noted down the address in my notepad and wished I had my camera to capture the sights and the pretty skirt. A young boy brought us more juice, sweetened curd and a plate of kebabs and bread. It was hard to decline and I relished the food. She spoke of an old love, a prince who fell in love with her for her culinary skills and wanted to marry her but she had to refuse him as she had already been given as wife to his head cook. In a fit of fury, he had her husband killed and then banished her from his kingdom so she took off and came to this place, started over and here she was. I even managed to get some kebab recipes out of her. Her secret tips being ‘fresh ingredients and to cook with love’. The sun was almost down so I had to regretfully leave. As I stood to go, she handed me more bread, wrapped in a cloth and said her girl would find me again if I needed rescuing. She found me a cheerful auto guy and waved me off homewards. As dusk fell rapidly, I couldn’t tell how we got back on the city roads from the lovely open roads but I was home sooner than I thought. I told my roommate about the day’s adventure and we feasted on the bread which she also asserted was the best she had tasted in years. She laughed at me as I described the unbelievable beauty of the place I had just comeback from with a great deal of excitement and I promised to take her back the next weekend to show her it was for real.

We went back to the same market two weeks later and I led her to the wall behind the petrol pump and walked on through the narrow path. But to my great surprise and utter confusion, instead of the huge busy kitchen, we walked into an abandoned lot. There was no kitchen, no crowd eating, no dirty curtain, no stack of firewood, no road and open spaces beyond but a dead end of rotting garbage and plastic; and an old collapsed brick wall, with nondescript scribbles. Atleast the paan stall was still there, so I walked over to him and asked him about the big kitchen that was there a few weeks back. He looked at me like I had gone crazy and then slow realization seemed to dawn on him. He broke into a knowing smile and said, so you have been there too? He said people came back looking for the kitchen but not in a long time and he truly knew nothing of it. The lot had always been empty as far as he knew, which was for more than twenty years but the old stories people shared of the food supposedly served there made him long to be invited to the magic kitchen. He winked and said, ‘Don’t worry, they say, the girl will find you when you need them again’. 

I could only return home pretty unsettled and my roomie teased me about it for some time but I reminded her that she had relished eating the ghost bread and that shut her up quick.

It’s been years since I broke bread in that magic courtyard. Many occasions I had felt lost in new places and fought with autowallas at dusk but the girl never came to find me again. I fear I had offended the kindly people or maybe I have grown stronger since then, no longer requiring rescue. I do miss the delicious lunch and company and oh! I found the place for the loveliest of skirts, at the address the lady pointed me to and no surprise! the people at the shop had no idea who I was talking about so I desisted from making a fool of myself. I even wore one of my new skirts to that old market but nothing happened. I hung around, waiting for a tug on my shirt or shawl until I felt quite silly and gave up.

Perhaps on a sunny afternoon, when in need of a rescue, you’d be the lucky one to be invited to that place. If so, don’t forget to take a picture of that magical place and yes! Do tell the kind lady I finally got the skirt I was looking for and thank her again for her kindness to me that afternoon.