Its unlikely a new comer to Hyderabad will ever find his way there. Similar to those of El Dorado's, the directions to Begum Bazaar have never been documented, but are simply passed down through generations of hyderabadis. Its the kind of place you would rather accompany someone than give directions for. Autowallahs shudder at its very mention and despite much cajoling and coaxing (and a hefty premium over the fare) they rarely agree. Despite all this, I ventured into this place in a car and ended up angry enough to blow it to smithereens.
It all started with an innocuous traffic jam, the kind that most hyderabadis are accustomed to. Dust, fumes, scraping metal and loud horns intermingled with expletives referring your female folks. Anyway, just when I thought the worst part of the day was over, we entered Begum Bazaar. The 400 metre, 45 minute drive must've consumed a liter of fuel and sweat. We finally drove into a makeshift parking lot. It was basically a stretch of demolished shops with the rubble pushed back to create some space. Drenched in sweat despite the A/C I quivered at the thought of having to go back home again through the same traffic. I prayed fervently that the traffic may clear up when we returned.
Next up was the hunt for the shop which would offer the best bargain for what my mom wanted to buy - a huge plastic drum. The previous drum had lasted the whole of last decade and my mom was looking for a worthy successor. Ahead lay an array of shops with huge piles of plastic stools, drums and everything else one could possible manufacture with plastic. The streets were dotted with handcarts selling 'coolfi', 'famous ice cream', 'nimboo soda' and of course 'chaat'. They were swarmed by customers and garnished dishes materialized one after another at an astounding pace. Believe it or not, but streets of Begum Bazaar have the pedestrian equivalent of traffic jams. You could find yourself in a spot with the goods on one side and the traffic on another and people everywhere else. But nobody seemed to give it much thought and simply continued as if they just stepped out of a trance. You also had to duck now and then to avoid the aerial onslaught of huge cartons some people carried over their heads.
At the first sight of a prospect, my mom darted towards the shop and started inspecting it. The owner materialized and suddenly my mom's expression changed from one of interest to one of sheer indifference. Its a common tactic deployed to give the impression that one isn't terribly interested in the good just to ensure retention of bargaining power. The owner rapped the drum - as an acid test of its durability and quality - and started a narration extolling its virtues. At the end of the owner's narrative my mom wore a look of disapproval as if buying the drum in itself would be a favor. It was the final act. The owner, now almost sure of a lost customer, would quote his best price to salvage the sale. If his quote was good enough, the ordeal would end right away. Else, the search would start all over again.
Thankfully, the owner's quote was good enough and we were the proud owners of a brand new 125 liter plastic drum. I panted my way back to the car with an uncomfortable clasp on the huge drum. Perhaps out of sympathy, but people just gave way and my walk back to the car was way smoother except for the brief halts to catch my breath. My prayers were answered and there was much less traffic though the expletives were still around. Every morning the sight of the gleaming drum, my hard earned catch, leaves me with a beaming smile.
It all started with an innocuous traffic jam, the kind that most hyderabadis are accustomed to. Dust, fumes, scraping metal and loud horns intermingled with expletives referring your female folks. Anyway, just when I thought the worst part of the day was over, we entered Begum Bazaar. The 400 metre, 45 minute drive must've consumed a liter of fuel and sweat. We finally drove into a makeshift parking lot. It was basically a stretch of demolished shops with the rubble pushed back to create some space. Drenched in sweat despite the A/C I quivered at the thought of having to go back home again through the same traffic. I prayed fervently that the traffic may clear up when we returned.
Next up was the hunt for the shop which would offer the best bargain for what my mom wanted to buy - a huge plastic drum. The previous drum had lasted the whole of last decade and my mom was looking for a worthy successor. Ahead lay an array of shops with huge piles of plastic stools, drums and everything else one could possible manufacture with plastic. The streets were dotted with handcarts selling 'coolfi', 'famous ice cream', 'nimboo soda' and of course 'chaat'. They were swarmed by customers and garnished dishes materialized one after another at an astounding pace. Believe it or not, but streets of Begum Bazaar have the pedestrian equivalent of traffic jams. You could find yourself in a spot with the goods on one side and the traffic on another and people everywhere else. But nobody seemed to give it much thought and simply continued as if they just stepped out of a trance. You also had to duck now and then to avoid the aerial onslaught of huge cartons some people carried over their heads.
At the first sight of a prospect, my mom darted towards the shop and started inspecting it. The owner materialized and suddenly my mom's expression changed from one of interest to one of sheer indifference. Its a common tactic deployed to give the impression that one isn't terribly interested in the good just to ensure retention of bargaining power. The owner rapped the drum - as an acid test of its durability and quality - and started a narration extolling its virtues. At the end of the owner's narrative my mom wore a look of disapproval as if buying the drum in itself would be a favor. It was the final act. The owner, now almost sure of a lost customer, would quote his best price to salvage the sale. If his quote was good enough, the ordeal would end right away. Else, the search would start all over again.
Thankfully, the owner's quote was good enough and we were the proud owners of a brand new 125 liter plastic drum. I panted my way back to the car with an uncomfortable clasp on the huge drum. Perhaps out of sympathy, but people just gave way and my walk back to the car was way smoother except for the brief halts to catch my breath. My prayers were answered and there was much less traffic though the expletives were still around. Every morning the sight of the gleaming drum, my hard earned catch, leaves me with a beaming smile.
2 comments:
I learnt meanings of almoooost 20 new words going thru ur blog!
Cannot stop myself from 'extolling' ur writing skills :)
Post a Comment