I shielded my bleary morning eyes from the blinding 7am sunlight that beat down on the bustling vegetable market. When I told my host mom that I would love to accompany her on one of her early morning market expeditions, I couldn't have imagined the energy level possible at that time of day. I have explored the Paota sabzi (vegetable) market countless times before, but never had I waded through the maze of chilis, eggplants, and cabbage before 8 am; a time when everyone and their sister (and daughter, mother, and aunt) tries to get in on the early bird sabzi specials... loudly and all at the same time. The outdoor market was sprawling with men and young boys perched among their overflowing baskets of ripe glistening vegetables. Between the calls for the 'Best pudina!' 'Cheapest loki!' or 'Ripest bhindi!', the groans of tractors that were all together too large to be navigating the winding spaces between carts, and the shouts of those who were nearly crushed in the midst of it all, the air was ripe with life.
Energy pulsed through the restless crowd as we tried to push our way through the clogged passage way, or 'jam road' as my host mom called it in her minimal English, caused by an encounter between one cart pulled by a camel and another by an ox. That's what I call green energy! Finally freed from the sweat and stare laden chaos, we perused the vibrant displays of each sabziwallah (vegetable vendor), smelling and feeling for the freshest pick. Kilos of palak, aloo, and khria were tossed onto metal scales and balanced to perfection by little boys who barely sat taller than their piles of bengain. We passed ginger and spices sold by men wearing turbans in hues of green brighter than their neighbor's peppers and chaiwallahs pouring steaming cups of chai from portable thermoses. One must be mindful both of what is underfoot and overhead- careful to not slip on the various slimy banana peels and mango pits that littered the straw-covered street or to get knocked unconscious by the crates of tomatoes precariously balanced on women's heads. After a lively hour of bargaining and shoving, I, with the 10 kilo bag of veggies, and Mrs. Sharma-ji, with a huge watermelon, ducked and weaved our way out into the street and sighed as the cool morning breeze met out sweaty faces. And now I have to go to work?
Energy pulsed through the restless crowd as we tried to push our way through the clogged passage way, or 'jam road' as my host mom called it in her minimal English, caused by an encounter between one cart pulled by a camel and another by an ox. That's what I call green energy! Finally freed from the sweat and stare laden chaos, we perused the vibrant displays of each sabziwallah (vegetable vendor), smelling and feeling for the freshest pick. Kilos of palak, aloo, and khria were tossed onto metal scales and balanced to perfection by little boys who barely sat taller than their piles of bengain. We passed ginger and spices sold by men wearing turbans in hues of green brighter than their neighbor's peppers and chaiwallahs pouring steaming cups of chai from portable thermoses. One must be mindful both of what is underfoot and overhead- careful to not slip on the various slimy banana peels and mango pits that littered the straw-covered street or to get knocked unconscious by the crates of tomatoes precariously balanced on women's heads. After a lively hour of bargaining and shoving, I, with the 10 kilo bag of veggies, and Mrs. Sharma-ji, with a huge watermelon, ducked and weaved our way out into the street and sighed as the cool morning breeze met out sweaty faces. And now I have to go to work?
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