The Indian Bazaar and Lament for my Loss of Anonymity

A trip to Lajpat Nagar for my shopping needs left me dazzled. It was my first trip after my return to an Indian bazaar. The initial reaction to the sheer population aside, the immediate impact is that of color. Vibrant hues of yellows and blues, greens and reds, black and white and every color in between, paint a veritable rainbow on the streetscape. Patterns, weaves, fabric and texture agglomerate to clothe the urban mass. Observing the dress code, it brings forth to light the ease with which India blends and morphs the old and the new to come up with something novel and unique yet undoubtedly Indian. Other than saris, kurtas, jeans and skirts- a lot of fusion wear can be seen. Jeans, sleeveless tops matched with an exquisite and intricate dupatta. Short kurtis paired with skirts or jeans; tops, shirts, skirts and trousers in bright traditional patterns. The sheer style, beauty, craftsmanship and distinctness of design make India a shopping haven for fabric and ready-to-wear garments.

In India a huge population is multilingual. Being from Delhi I am comfortable with Hindi and English but my mother tongue is Bengali. The language I am probably most comfortable with would involve a kichdi or a mixture of the above – Hibelish! That rhymes with gibberish doesn’t it? The advantages of speaking a language that the majority of people in the streets don’t understand cannot be emphasized enough. In India where space is at a premium, it provides you precious minutes of privacy with your chosen ones and blocks out all the strangers trying to push through that barrier. Particularly while shopping with my mom, it would be a big asset to discuss price, general attitude of shopkeepers and other sundry details right in front of the person in question. Hence with this comforting knowledge I stepped inside a shop to buy a hair conditioner. The salesman while showing a few products was extremely insistent on a particular brand, a brand I had never heard off. After a few vigorous attempts to sell us the conditioner I smiled wryly and told my mother in Bengali "it seems that Mr. salesman here owns the company making the conditioner!" To my shock and dismay the man behind the counter responded indignantly in somewhat broken Bengali…"madam do you think if I owned the company I would be working here?" I made the best of the situation and brazened my way out of this awkward moment and ended up buying the unknown brand conditioner. Sacrificing a few hairs on my head seemed like a small price to pay at that time. I had barely recovered from that incident when we landed at another shop to buy gifts for some kids, the salesman had a distinct northeast- Nepali look, definitely no Bengali lurking behind his innocent façade, or so I thought! Hence while taking a closer look at pencil boxes I told my mom that we shouldn’t buy them as the quality was not top notch. Well you guessed it, of course he understood Bengali and enthusiastically denied my statements. He proudly stated not only could he understand Bengali but could even speak a spattering of the language! All I could do was shake my head in absolute desbelief. On my way back home from the shopping trip sitting in an auto-rickshaw, I grieved for the loss of my anonymity!!!