this was a post published a year back, when my blog was still in it's infancy. Here's it again for all those who missed it
the following write-up is meant to be mere cheap humour, with not even an iota of deep insight. The topic is derived from one of my school English language exam essays, which I had attempted. A few people who had read it, might recall. Nevertheless, the write-up is fraught with complex sentence constructions, and you are requested to give some time, in reading it carefully and slowly. If you like it, do let me know!!!
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If someone were to ask you, which is the most happening place in town, what would your answer be? Well....if you are the typical...er...type, you might blurt out something like, say, the Forum, City Centre, or some other similar stuff....or if you are the slight daring sort, you might just vote for nightclubs, and discotheques. But, if you are not aware by now, I tend to be slightly obtuse in my opinions, which turn out to be quite acute, to others. Whether they are obtuse, or acute, they seem quite right and straight to me. So I would cast my vote in favour of the market-places, for which our city is so well known.
Yes I mean those market places, that shout out loud, that this is India or better (worse?) this is (quite ironically) the City Of Joy. The same market-places that bring to the thousands of hawkers, a daily meal, and an income. The same market-places that seem to denounce, every bit of the government's 'Save the Environment' policy. And the same market-places that have today, given me a topic to write about.
Now, first, let me clarify your doubts, regarding my alliance, or better allegiance ... whether I'm for these markets, or against these markets. For one thing, in no way do I have any affinity for these popular hotspots, neither do I intend to in the foreseeable future, but coming back to where I started off from, there IS reason enough for me in casting a vote in favour of these historical monuments.
I happened to (quite unfortunately) visit one of these masterpieces, a few days back, which provided all the reasons to do so.
The market place under our forthcoming experimental discussion, sprawls over 10 acres, of fertile alluvium, and black pitch, of the Lansdowne Aveneue, and like most other markets, does not possess, a name of its own. It had been there for the past fifty plus years, and owing to the prevalent confusion, regarding its nomenclature, it got quite unanimously, named as the
The Lansdowne Market. It is this name we shall adhere to, during the latter course, of this fascinatingly boring journey.
Coming back to the story of my visit, it was a not so cloudy Monday morning, when I was sent by my folks back home to buy tomatoes, and not knowing any other shop in my locality, that sold tomatoes, I headed straight for Lansdowne Market. The same market, which my grandmom sanctified every other morning during her groceries, which needless to say, should have tomatoes to satisfy the whims of my kitchen ... and it did. The good old market lived up to its name and reputation, and I was pleasantly surprised, at the quantity of redness, I beheld in almost every shop.
This calls for a clarification. The word 'shop' utilised in the previous line, happens to be an exaggeration, because these were more of... bivouacs (those who went through the ICSE in 2007, may recollect this word from the far-flung reaches of their brain .... it essentially means a temporary battle camp ... where in this case, it refers to the hawkers' ... mad battle, for possession of more territory for enhanced display of their inventories. Whatever they may be, I headed for the nearest establishment, where a grumpy old woman, sat squatting on a low stool. She looked rebellious, and seemed more inclined to fending off customers, than welcoming them in. Naturally, I succumbed to her repulsion , and headed for the next shop, which looked, equally repulsive, but slightly less offensive. It was here, where I obtained my tomatoes, and had no sooner turned about, to head back home when the thing happened ... (to be continued)
The market place under our forthcoming experimental discussion, sprawls over 10 acres, of fertile alluvium, and black pitch, of the Lansdowne Aveneue, and like most other markets, does not possess, a name of its own. It had been there for the past fifty plus years, and owing to the prevalent confusion, regarding its nomenclature, it got quite unanimously, named as the
The Lansdowne Market. It is this name we shall adhere to, during the latter course, of this fascinatingly boring journey.
Coming back to the story of my visit, it was a not so cloudy Monday morning, when I was sent by my folks back home to buy tomatoes, and not knowing any other shop in my locality, that sold tomatoes, I headed straight for Lansdowne Market. The same market, which my grandmom sanctified every other morning during her groceries, which needless to say, should have tomatoes to satisfy the whims of my kitchen ... and it did. The good old market lived up to its name and reputation, and I was pleasantly surprised, at the quantity of redness, I beheld in almost every shop.
This calls for a clarification. The word 'shop' utilised in the previous line, happens to be an exaggeration, because these were more of... bivouacs (those who went through the ICSE in 2007, may recollect this word from the far-flung reaches of their brain .... it essentially means a temporary battle camp ... where in this case, it refers to the hawkers' ... mad battle, for possession of more territory for enhanced display of their inventories. Whatever they may be, I headed for the nearest establishment, where a grumpy old woman, sat squatting on a low stool. She looked rebellious, and seemed more inclined to fending off customers, than welcoming them in. Naturally, I succumbed to her repulsion , and headed for the next shop, which looked, equally repulsive, but slightly less offensive. It was here, where I obtained my tomatoes, and had no sooner turned about, to head back home when the thing happened ... (to be continued)
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