The market that has disappeared
K S S Pillai
Several changes had taken place in my native place, which I was visiting after many years. It appeared quite different from the village where I had grown up. Memories flooded my mind. Most of my classmates in the primary and high school classes were from the same place. They were also my playmates. My host told me many of them were no more alive. Though settled far away, I blamed myself for not even trying to contact them. I decided to spend some days there and meet as many survivors as possible.
I was in for a surprise at twilight. The village had a mixed population of Hindus, Christians, and Muslims. They all lived in harmony, and religion was never a cause of conflict. As all dressed alike, it was impossible to tell the religion of someone from his or her appearance.
In every Hindu house, children and sometimes their parents used to sit together on the floor in front of a lighted lamp and recite Sandhya Naamam (twilight prayer) loudly. I didn’t see any such activity in my host’s house that evening. Instead, I saw almost all members of the family sitting before the television, watching some programme.
At about ten in the morning, I heard the musical sound of a horn from the roadside. Soon afterwards, womenfolk rushed outside, calling out to those still inside their homes. Seeing my bewildered expression, my host said, “It’s the tempo bringing fresh sea fish.”
“What happened to our fish market?” I asked in confusion. That was the place from where people bought fish in the past. Only the river fish was brought to the village in the morning by the fisherwomen from across the river.
“It was closed some years ago. A housing colony stands there now. As everything is available in shops, there’s no need for such markets.”
During my childhood, someone from every house used to go to the fish market, about two kilometres away, in the evening. Though it was called the fish market, all things of everyday use were available there. If people had wares to sell, they would take them there. Buyers would start arriving by four in the evening, and the market would soon be chockablock.
Those who had not yet gone to the market would stop those returning from there with their purchase. “What fish is available today?” they would enquire while going through the contents of their basket. They would also ask about other things available in the market that day. If they included some items of their liking, they would hurry to the place. If womenfolk were busy, they would send children like me, giving instructions about the things to be bought.
There were no carry-bags or other kinds of shopping bags those days. People of all ages would walk to the market, carrying small bamboo baskets plastered with cow dung. Since fish would be one of the items bought, they would place pieces of newspapers or large leaves at the bottom of the basket. Shoppers without any pre-planning would either borrow some old newspapers from nearby shops or houses or pluck some broad leaves of trees standing nearby and buy fish in them.
That was the time when money had high purchasing value. The fish sellers didn’t keep weighing scales. They would dump handfuls of popular varieties like sardines into the buyer’s basket without counting or weighing them. Those who preferred fish caught from rivers, canals, and ponds would go to the area earmarked for them. Since schools were closed by four in the evening, peddlers of sweets, parched groundnuts, grams, and such items near schools would head towards the market. All merchants were required to pay a small fee to the owner of the market land.
Though changes are to be expected over time, I wished I could spend some time in that market, reliving the past once again.
(The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to The Kashmir Vision, his articles and short stories have appeared in various national and international publications)
