A Delightful Little Trip to a Fruit and Vegetable Market

Recently this uncle of mine dragged me along with him as he went to buy fruit and veggies from this place he knows where everything is cheap. Now I have nothing against this uncle of mine. He's a great man. Served with honours in the military, played his part in the war, got a medal for it and served out the rest of his term with the ISI. He also has like the coolest collection of guns ever. He even lets me fire some when I visit him in the village. The only thing that bothers me is the fact that he always take a shot at me whenever I'm with him. Usually that means he discusses a) my love life (of which there is none, but that does'nt stop him) and b) when I'll get married (never). Sometimes an in-house version of Shaadi Online is not my idea of fun. I cursed my luck as he pointed to the passenger seat of his battered Peugeot, but you really can't say no to your elders and betters, now, can you? At this point, I didn't even know where we were going, which was good I guess, cos ignorance is bliss.

When I got out of the car, the first thing that assaulted my senses was the smell. Think rotting vegetables plus caged chickens and birds with all their excrement plus horse shit on the roads plus the gravid odour that permeates your very being when a seething mass of humanity is left together for too long. My uncle seemed unfazed as he started off briskly. My respect for the man increased ten-fold. What lay ahead was something truly out of this world. Nowhere else but in Peshawar will you fruit stalls and parked cars atop railway lines. The filth of the place was just incredible, yet the fruit and veggies were all immaculately clean and tidily arranged. So far so good I thought. The place was huge. It just isn't a fruit and veggie market. It's has garage sales, bird shops, spice vendors. The wares for sale were varied and far too many to list. The interesting thing was the Sikhs in their little turbans always tended to the spice shops, the bird-keepers were all Afghans, the fruit and vegetable people were Pathans and the garage sale people were urdu and/or hindko speaking, or Peshawaris (Contrary to popular belief, peshawaris actually speak hindko. This is because during British rule no self-respecting Pushtun would work for the English in the capacity of a peon or a clerk, so people were transported from all parts of the sub-continent so as the fill the peon-clerk vaccum. The descendants of these people now call themselves Peshawaris and still speak urdu-hindko. Sometimes they're very nice people, I'll tell you why some other day).

From a short little sikh guy my uncle bought like a whole lot of powdered mustard. I found him to be very courteous and that was a whole ton-load of mustard for just 20 ruppees. I was beginning to see the charms of the place. There was also a whole lot of food on display. My uncle asked me time after time whether I would like something to eat, but I couldn't say yes because of conventions. Everything is so complicated. Why couldn't have the conversation gone something like this:

Uncle: Would you like some of those 'tikkas' Ahmad, they're very nice.
Ahmad: You bet your boots I would, and throw in a glass of a orange juice while youre at it, will ya?

Conventions be damned :(. Oh well.

Our next foray was into the bird shops, of which there were many. We did'nt buy anything but it was amazing. There were little huge parrots which cost like 200 a pair and then there were these little tiny multi-coloured birds, whose name I do not know cos, hey, I'm no birdman of the alcatraz, that were worth 5000 a piece. There was even a mongoose in a little cage, slinking around. I thought it was well cool and would have bought the bugger had I money on me at the time. The next destination was the fruit and veg stalls. A whole lot of stuff was bought here, of which I had no intention of committing to memory, except that it all cost something like 80 ruppees. More vegetables than two people could carry and all for less than 100. The shopkeeper was even nice enough to return the money my uncle over-paid him by mistake. Great place I thought as I walked back to the car.

With both my arms full of plastic bags and bundles of veggies, I looked back and realized that I was wrong when I first stepped out of the car and looked down at the place. That one market place defines my city and my culture better than a thousand books. It's what I am, it's a part of me and I was so so wrong in denying it at first. It only takes an old guy in a bird-shop to offer you some green tea for you to realize that you're part of something truly great and you're slowly but surely losing it.

If only the damned place did'nt stink.