THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 2024
N J Ravi Chander
During my school days in the 1960s, I would often accompany my father, M N Jayaraman, on his weekly shopping excursions to the bustling Shivajinagar market in the Bengaluru cantonment. Bengaluru then was a one-horse town, and this colonial-era shopping paradise was a popular hangout, drawing people from far and near. The vendors advertising their wares, the mounds of fresh fruits and veggies, and the hustle and bustle made it appear like a mini wonderland. I always fancied these weekly trips for the sheer thrill they gave me!
Father's humble Raleigh bicycle was our chariot, with the carrier in the rear serving as my saddle. So, armed with a few colourful cloth bags – hand-stitched by my parents out of discarded trousers – we would wheel down to the market, navigating through the leafy avenues of Fraser Town en route. In those idyllic days, the streets sans pollution or traffic made cycling a pleasure. Motorised transport was scarce and often unreliable. But buses ferried passengers from Fraser Town, where we lived, to the marketplace with stops at Excelsior Bakery and Russell Market. Dad would park his bicycle in a nearby lane before we melted into a sea of people!
Hawkers peddled their stuff on the narrow, crowded by-lanes, making one jostle and sway around. Mouth-watering biryanis were always a hit at the nearby Taj Hotel. But it was the balloon seller that kids sought out and forced their parents to buy the rubber toy. The magical sights, sounds and smells of the marketplace would have me in thrall!
The hawkers were eager to make a sale, but my father would haggle the price down. Scores of other shoppers also adopted a similar ploy to get a proper bargain. Appa had an eye for quality, something he never compromised on, and he handpicked and double-checked every commodity he bought. Since most merchants were familiar faces, dad always got good value for his money. He seldom ventured into the famous Russell Market nearby, as he felt that the prices there were prohibitive. Instead, dad revelled in chatting, joking and making friends among the roadside vendors. He had his favourites among them and greeted each one by name. This ploy enabled him to strike the right chord. There was also the 'gujri', the Bengaluru version of the 'chor bazaar' which peddled second-hand goods, and he would often go here, too, looking for tools, mend a worn-out lock or fix a kerosene stove.
A shopping list dictated by my mother, Padmakumari, always accompanied papa on his errands, and the items bought were housed in separate pouches. Heavier bags adorned the handlebars while I held on to the lighter loads on the carrier where I parked myself. Dad had a penchant for chit-chatting.
We would round off the market expedition by gorging on snacks at the Excelsior Bakery on Seppings Road. The cakes and puffs sold at just 50 paise apiece, and we would pack some goodies for the folks back home. The eye-popping cinema posters that stared at us from the roadsides were another attraction. Indeed, 'star gazing' was a pastime that kids of my generation enjoyed. But that was another era
