Photo Essay: ‘These modern fossils speak a different language from the Market, and are an out-of-place eye sore. They only remind us that the municipal corporation has failed to consider who is really served by this supposed beautification.’

- Pranava

Growing up in Bengaluru, Appa would take me to KR Market every other Sunday. “You’re growing up now,” he would say. “You should learn how to buy house items.” But instead of heading down to the shops, we would begin by walking the other way, towards the many blue carts that stood opposite the Jamia Masjid, where the yellow glow of towering naans lent their brilliance to the setting sun.

Appa wasn’t allowed to eat sweets at home; we both knew that these trips were to fulfil his hunger, but I played along, pretending that the visit were for my cravings instead. “Let’s eat first,” he would say. “You must be hungry.” For him, it was a healthy enough compromise to give up the khova naan for the slightly less sweet chobi naan, the latter loaded with tutti-fruity. But after eating just one, he would stroke his chin while staring at the khova naan, and then look at me and ask, “Shall we share one more?”

Recently, when I stepped down from the 143 to the bus stand on NR road, I remembered it had been four years since I had been to this part of the market area. A buzzing bee called my attention to the only naan cart which had managed to survive the ambitions of the Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike [BBMP]—the city’s municipal corporation—and the pandemic. I had always assumed these buzzing sounds came from flies. I thought maybe these bees were lost, heading to the naans as if they were the honeycombs the bees called home. Noushad bhai at the naan stand, however, told me that it’s not all that. He said that these bees are “Kaamchor… they don’t want to work a flower, when they can get all the sugar from my khova.”

On my way to the flower market, I heard Pasha bhai’s knife sharpener. At first, I thought someone was mocking the krrm- krrming of my sore throat, but it had a rougher buzz, one that smelled of Thatha’s toolbox. I was staring at his hands like a 10-year-old when he noticed me and asked “Photo?” by clicking the air. I nodded, and we both smiled in excitement.

There was something in the way he relished them—launching each peanut into his mouth from a distance—that one couldn’t tell if he liked the taste more, or the action. All I knew was that he ate each bite with the enthusiasm of a child.

“I’ve been here 25 years now, this place will never change,” he says, pointing to the Market Dargah. I had asked how the Market had changed over the last four years. He grew bored with my city questions quickly, and said, as though to a child, “Photo lyoh, aag athi” (Take photo, fire will come). Then, he began sharpening a brand-new knife.

Pasha bhai proved to be a natural poser, skilfully presenting his expertise with the stone and a smile for the camera. After our session, he pulled out a tiny pocketbook with nine phone numbers written on the last page, and asked me to save the third one. It belonged to Mohammad, his son. “Kab thak hotha?” he asked. When will it be ready? “Night” I said. he looked at me suspiciously in response, “I’ll send, I’ll send,” I reassured him before crossing the road.

Going left from Avenue Road, the pathway with the fruits and vegetable stalls welcomed me with the familiar songs of vendors. From the general: “Apple, apple, apple,” to the rate specified: “Carrot kilo bees, bari ip-ath rupai kg,” and the special attention package: “Apple sir?” These vendors are the busiest during weekends, so as soon as they sniffed that I wouldn’t pull out a single rupee, they lost interest in me, and turned to entice other potential customers.

Veeramani, a fruit seller, tentatively agreed to speak with me. However, just as I asked him why they have covered the pathway with tarpaulins, a line of customers arrived and never left. Must be the sun, I concluded. Appa had always brought me to the market in the evening, when the sun had calmed down after its mid-day assault. Then, the earth hugged one’s feet with a cat-like warmth.

Taking another left from the tarpaulined vendors, I went into the basement of the Modern Market building. Here, the carrom lights turn day into night. More than 100 years ago, the first street lamp in Asia was set up in front of the Old Market building, switching night into a different kind of night. I imagine that it must’ve been much the same back then. My camera is useless in the dark here, so I headed back into the day.

At the Kalasipalyam bus stand, I heard a surrrr sound. The boys at Savera Chai Point were dropping freshly folded samosas into the bubbling oil. I had a cup of chai and stared at the samosas, as they soaked in the oil and the sunlight in equal parts. I resisted giving in to its temptations, and clicked a photograph before heading back.

The platform to the bus stand has thin stone barricades, arranged like medal podiums. The BBMP tries to put on a new dress for the Market from time to time, under the guise of ‘beautification’. But these modern fossils speak a different language from the Market, and are an out-of-place eye sore. They only remind us that the municipal corporation has failed to consider who is really served by this supposed beautification.

When I returned to the bus stand, the evening Azan began playing out the Jamia Masjid. A concerned peanut seller asked me “Yenik photo?” Why are you taking a photo?

I told him that it looks pretty, but he wasn’t convinced. When I showed him my picture, he said “Ohh, Minar idithaidira… e-side banni innu chanag barthe” (Oh, you’re capturing the Minar… Come front you’ll get a better picture).

He helped me capture the minaret from a new angle. I thanked him, and he thanked me in return.

The exchange reminded me of Appa. He had always had a ready friendship with peanut sellers. He would go stand in front of a cart and begin talking with an old familiarity. I never understood why the vendors returned his love, especially since he would whack a few off the mound for free. But there was something in the way he relished them—launching each peanut into his mouth from a distance—that one couldn’t tell if he liked the taste more, or the action. All I knew was that he ate each bite with the enthusiasm of a child.

I watched this vendor until he crossed the road with his cart. Tired, I sat down at the bus stand where buses were peen-peening at each other. I would wait for my bus, too—No. 143—to take me away.

***

Pranava is a student of English at St Joseph’s University. His work has been published in Agents of Ishq, The Open Dosa, Muse India, and The News Minute. You can find him on Instagram: @frontspace_backspace and Twitter: @whine_entrprise.

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