Southern Market Excursion

Southern Market Excursion

The other day I went to the market with Baba in the morning. There are two fruit/vegetable markets nearby. ‘Southern Market’ and ‘Lake Market.’ We walked to Southern Market because it’s closer, although, for an as yet undefined reason, Baba and Abhijeet swear up and down that Lake Market is much better. Is the quality of the fresh produce better? Are there more options? Are the prices cheaper? It’s a mystery. I just have to take their word for it for now - there would be no convincing them otherwise anyway. That’s one thing I notice in this city sometimes: people will assert an opinion as fact and provide no explanation. “Why?” I ask, “How come? In what way?” And, with a dismissive wave of the hand and a tilt of the head, I am assured with absolute conviction that such a statement is true, it’s just like that, it just is, no explanation needed. My tourist self is not satisfied, I think to myself: “Well, what do I tell them in my blog? People are going to wonder. I wonder!”

So I accompanied Baba on his walk to the market. Him: flip flops scuffing the ground as he shuffles along, cloth grocery bag folded up small and tucked under his arm, loose pants pulled up high around his waist, belt tightly buckled. Me: slowing down the pace of my walk, tall lost white girl strolling along with eyes full of curiosity, yet stifling my wonder-filled gaze in order to look more non-chalant, “No, I’m not dying to take a picture of your snack stall, or that incredible dilapidated building with the British style carvings and intricate wrought-iron work over the windows and on the terrace.” I don’t even know how to describe the layout of Southern Market, I guess it’s sort of the cliché small back-alley open-air market-bazaar that we westerners tend to imagine in the ‘East’, like a cramped version of our flea markets. Nestled between and amidst shops and alleyways, there lies a plethora of fruit, vegetable, fish, and chicken vendors. Yet, true to the peaceful Bengali stereotype, there is no aggressive hawking of wares – just a calm, vibrant display of produce, the vendor lounging nearby, an image of repose and tranquility.

That reminds me – in an earlier blog I talked about what I called a ‘head wag.’ I wasn’t happy with that description in the first place, I just couldn’t think of another way to describe it. Bengalis don’t wag their heads. In other parts of India, yes, there is a head movement that could be described in that way, although I’m certain there’s a better description. Here in Bengal, people are much too poised and composed to bother with moving their chins from side to side to side. Very simply, they just tilt their head to one side, “sure, okay, whatever, thanks, no problem,” end of discussion, move on. If you want to see what I mean, watch any of Satyajit Ray’s films. Even if you don’t care to see what I mean, still, watch Satyajit Ray’s films. He’s definitely one of my favorite directors. You’ll see it particularly in the third film of the Apu trilogy (1950’s). It’s called Apur Sansar or The World of Apu.

This film also had Sharmila Tagore in it, and it was her debut film. She is the great granddaughter of Rabindranath Tagore and also the mother of one of my heart-throbs, the actor Saif Ali Khan. Gorgeous, gorgeous woman. Those Tagore’s, I tell you, they are a damn good lookin’ family. Anyway, you’ll see her tilt her head at least once in the wedding night scene in which Apu confesses that he is a starving writer and cannot offer her the comfortable life she once lived. I’m sure it is done plenty of other times throughout the movie, I just remember that scene specifically because I just watched it. Rebecca and I have been trying to figure out what is authentic traditional Bengali wedding style, and what is the popular pan-Indian modern ‘traditional’ wedding style that the shopkeepers so assuredly keep telling us is tradition Bengali. Not so! We’ll just have to do our own damn research then. Anyway, so we pulled up a few classic Bengali films on Youtube with wedding scenes in them the other day, and this was one that we watched. It made me remember how much I love this trilogy and Satyajit Ray in general. If you like what you see, I also recommend Charulata and Satrang Ke Khiladi (The Chessplayers). You can’t lose with Satyajit Ray’s films, so any one you can get your hands on is worth a watch, particularly if you’re into film in general.

I want to get back to the topic of my Southern Market excursion with Baba. I just made a few notes so that I don’t forget some of the things I want to talk about. There is one item that I can’t remember the name of, but would like to write about. I was trying to remember the name of this snack that Baba purchased last minute before we returned home. It has such a funny name and I just can’t remember it. So, just now I went to the cupboard, got the snack container, walked over to Baba, and asked him in my baby Bengali, “naam ka?” which basically means “name?” That’s my token phrase these days. I ask it everywhere. Sometimes people tell me the English name and I have to clarify, “No, Bangla nam ka. Bangla.” Bangla is the Bengali way of saying Bengali. Anyway, once I say that, they will usually tell me… usually. Anyway, so Baba said to me in his cute old man Bengali-British accent, “Salty. Biscuit. Not sweet. Salty.” So, I said, “Naam ka? Naam ka?” And pointed to the container firmly, because I want to know the name of these specific ‘biscuits’. And he replied, “Salty. Very tasteful. You take.” So, gosh darn it, I can’t tell you the name of it. But they taste a bit like cheese-its, although a micro size of cheese-its, like tiny mouse-sized cheese-its. But they are called something funny like cheesies, or cheesefuls, or something.

Anyway, near the market entrance, we stopped at a general-store type stall, where Baba purchased wonderbread-looking packaged white bread. Oh god, I don’t even want to know the ingredients of that. It probably coagulates in one’s stomach and becomes a big glob of fake-food goo during the digestion process. Okay, moving on. Since we were there, I figured the vendor would probably also carry coconut oil. Since I’ve been here, my hair has gotten quite dry and coconut oil is a great remedy. So the vendor handed us one brand, Baba looked at it and promptly handed it back. They converse in Bengali, until the vendor produced a green plastic bottle called “Shalimar’s Coconut Oil.” Baba told me that this is a Bengali-made oil. So Baba supports local?! Awesome! That’s one thing I really like about Baba and Abhijeet. They both are very interested in supporting local projects, local textiles, local companies. Especially Abhijeet. He makes sure that we go to the saree shops that have been around for 100 years, or the government shops that provide fair-trade sarees and textiles, or khadi cloth which is Indian-made (khadi was made popular by Gandhi, as a form of protest against British-occupied India ,and to encourage and support Indian self-sufficiency). So, Shalimar’s coconut oil it is! Thank goodness for Baba, otherwise I would never have known!

And then we were off to our next stop. Through the alley which is the fresh fish market. Gag. That metallic-y, slimy fishy smell. Buckets with live fish swimming in them. Long stretches of freshly dead fish laying out on display. Fish flopping around here and there, contorting their little bodies with all their might, “Water! Water!” they seem to scream, as they thrust their bodies violently to-and-fro. Ugh. I really regretted not bringing a scarf with me. In Indian cities it’s always nice to have a scarf to cover one’s nose when the smells get too bad. It didn’t occur to me that I’d be walking through a fish market.

Ahhh! Yes! Passed the fish market. Now on to the fresh veggies and fruit. I can handle this. In fact, I utterly enjoy this part. All the beautiful colors, shapes, sizes, textures. Hurray for fruits and vegetables! There are many that I don’t know the name of and many that I do, I just don’t see them fresh back in America – like fresh fenugreek. Delicious! I’ve only ever eaten and cooked with the seeds. Baba totally spoiled me because every time I asked what the name of something was, he bought it for me. And every time I tried to pay for something, he firmly pushed my money-filled hand away, saying “No, no, no. I pay.” Because of the language barrier and particularly because of his way of refusing me the opportunity to pay, I didn’t argue. In fact, I felt that he would be insulted if I insisted. That’s one of the things here. If you are offered something, it is generally considered rude to refuse. Like if a fruit vendor gives you a fruit, or cuts a fruit open for you to taste, you pretty much have to take it, refusing seems to be considered a bit rude or ungrateful. At least that’s the general impression I’ve been getting around here.

I loved the vegetable layout of one of the vendors in particular. So, feeling conflicted about taking pictures without getting permission, I timidly asked the vendor, “Photo, ok?” That really made him laugh. I don’t know what about it made him laugh, but I have a few guesses. I think it just tickled him pink that I would want to take a picture of vegetables. Anyway, he tilted his head casually to the side, which I took as an okay and he proceeded to help the next customer without moving an inch out of his reclined position. Yes, I got a picture – hopefully it will upload properly into this post.

We left the market through another alleyway. To our right were chicken vendors and, of course, right as I walk by, the chicken is grabbed and, quick as a flash – beheaded, it’s legs still pumping away. Of course – right when I walk by. Well, I guess it’s just a reminder of the unpredictability of life and death. To think at that very moment, something alive is no longer there, no longer conscious, dead. What kind of life did that chicken live? What should I think about all this? What do I think? I’m not sure. Thank god I don’t have to do that for a living.

By the time we left, Baba’s reusable bag was overflowing and I was carrying a plastic bag full of fruits. Aww! I have a Baba who spoils me! I’ve always wanted a baba who takes me out and spoils me a little. So very endearing. Anyway, Baba decided we would take a bicycle rickshaw back home, even though it’s only a few minutes away. As we reached the rickshaw stand, one of the rickshaw wallah’s said something to Baba with the word Memsaab in it. Pronounced and/or spelled either Memsaab or Memsahib, the word comes from the Arabic word Sahib, which in the various Indian languages has been translated as ‘owner’ or ‘proprieter’. It was used particularly during British colonization of the Indian sub-continent. And memsaab is the female version of that word. It feels very weird to be called that. Very weird. Definitely uncomfortable for me. It’s a term of respect I guess, and doesn’t literally connote ‘owner’ or ‘master.’ Still, it’s hard to stomach. I’m called madam around here too. Which is also really common in South India. So I’m more used to being called madam, although in my mind I’m thinking, “My god, how old do I look?! I’m not anybody’s madam!” Baba later told me that Rebecca and I are well known around here and that people recognize us. The man was asking if I was the ‘memsaab’ who lived around here. Well, he might have actually been referring to Rebecca, since I’ve been here a week and she’s been here almost 5 months. I guess it’s kind of like that cliché stereotype where it’s said that to an American all Asians look the same. Around here, particularly among certain groups of people, I think all white people look the same. For example, Rebecca and I look nothing alike, but we’ve been asked if we are sisters. I could be wrong, it’s just a guess.

So, Baba hired a bicycle rickshaw and waved his hand from me to the rickshaw seat. Well, it was a narrow seat, tiny narrow Baba and skinny little me could barely squeeze both of our butts onto that seat. So I thought, ‘He’s a old rickety man – better for him to go on first and me to squish myself in there once he’s already settled.’ So I indicated for him to go on. He wasn’t happy about it, but he went. Once we were on the rickshaw, he says to me (if you know how A.C. Bhaktivendanta Swami Prabhupada speaks, just image that tone of voice, with those same pauses for emphasis), so Baba say to me with firm conviction, “The rule i-is… ladies P-haurst! (aka. Ladies first but in a Bengali accent). What a gentleman! Wow, Baba’s really making a good impression on me these days. :-)