The first part of this memory isn’t the prettiest. We were talking about the abattoir near my mother’s place, one that has stood there for years. It was supposedly from the pre-independence era. Growing up, my brother and I were unfazed by it all. Neither the stench nor the sight of meat bothered us—it was simply what it was back then.
So there I was, telling my daughter about the one time I went inside the abattoir with my dad to buy meat, and so on. Being an enthusiast like me, she now has her own share of curiosity. On our recent trip to India, her grandfather took her to a fish market—and nope, she didn’t like the experience. The smell was too much, and she stood outside with my nephew, still curious about what fish her grandfather would pick.
My next narration was something I looked forward to every week.
My mom and I would walk to the nearby vegetable market to buy fresh produce. A mere five-minute walk from home, and we would find ourselves amidst vendors shouting and calling out, each trying to beat the other in giving you the best price.
I can visualize it even as I write this. Pure chaos and confusion. There was no pattern or structure to the setup—getting a spot depended on timing. Whoever showed up first, stayed.
My mom and I would go in search of that one family who spoke the same native language as us. There was this young man, a charming face, and a voice that didn’t need to echo through the air. We were regulars at their stall. Everything always looked good, and the prices worked out just fine.
Unlike the stores we have today, where we pick our own items, bag them, and check out—it was the opposite back then. It was all trust. Trust that we would get the best. And even if we were short of cash, it was never really a problem. There was always a next time.
The market itself was awkwardly positioned, right beside the railway tracks. There was some climbing up and down too. But it all felt good.
We would hop from one stall to another, sometimes with no plan, just curiosity. It was like a ritual every other week. My mom carrying the bigger basket, and I had a smaller one. There was no plastic, no separating vegetables—everything went into the same basket. Vegetables, all together, feeding a family of four.
Today, when I look back, it’s a sense of nostalgia that I feel. Things may not be the same anymore—we’ve come a long way, true. Ordering groceries on an app for quick delivery fits right into our hectic schedules. Even going to a store now feels different. It’s all done in a more automated way. We know exactly where to find what we need.
I’m not missing those days. It’s just a lived experience that I take quiet joy in. Something so simple and satisfying—no rush, no planned list, nothing. Just the act of buying vegetables to cook.
And I remember this too—we would sometimes skip certain days or feel a bit disappointed if we didn’t see our charming vendor. At times, we would even go back the next day, hoping that family would be there.
What a strange thing to do now, isn’t it?
As I sit with these memories, I find myself smiling. Of all the people in this wide world, I ended up thinking about my vegetable vendor.
His face still sits fresh in my mind as I write this.
He could be anywhere now, with absolutely no clue that someone thought of him today.
Strange are the ways my mind works, I tell you. This is how stories come about. Who knows, I might one day tell this to my grandchildren too—provided my memory serves me well enough.
Do you have a milkman, a postman, or someone else that came to mind while reading this?
Just curious.
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