The vegetable vendor is be there at the crack of the dawn . I mean , it seems like the crack of dawn to me .
I normally finish my reading at 2 am . Then this crackpot starts yelling downstairs , "Baby , baby !!" The desi brother of Justin Bieber . I bury myself deep into my quilt .A sliver of sunshine has invaded my room, which means it is 6 am , and Mom has come , parted the curtains and gone . While I was in "another dimension ".
In our colony , this vegetable vendor is alarm clock cum whatever for all the residents . He brings aloo , pyaaz , milk , bread , eggs and gossip to lonely housewives imprisoned in their respective towers , or so I am told . I can hear Maa shuffling towards the window in her flip-flops , as she peers down from her doubly barred windows.
Then a complicated , noisy process is set into work . A bucket with a rope attached to it is lowered from the fourth floor where I stay . Whatever needs to be bought , or discussed , is talked and discussed and dissected in two languages . Bengali and hindi . Small talk and greetings in bengali , haggling in Hindi , bordering with hysterical "Purabiya " , a mixture of bhojpuri and bollywoodese . Terribly complicated to the uninitiated , unintelligible to most , and a total pain to people taking their freshly bathed, clothed and taught -by -rote kids to school , whose path the vendor blocks , and also to people like me , who would rather be left in peace in "other dimension".
Fruit , vegetables , other supplies are loaded onto the bucket , which is laboriously pulled up by the rope .
There are some , like my Mom , who being a person of few words , dictates her wish in sign language ( In which the vendor is proficient too , talk of polyglots ) , specially on days when I lie asleep there . On other hand , there are people , who just cant have enough of this curious intercourse , and lower the bucket , a second time , with the rotten/unripe /imperfect stuff , and berate the guy to their hearts' content .
Now the conversation breaks into a rash of rural bengali , as the shouting comes mostly from top , and the Bihari vendor quietly replaces the offending fruit.
Then comes the payment part . Money is lowered , and many a time the banknotes fly off in the early morning gust , or are drenched in the early morning drizzle .
Some enterprising souls (my Mom included) put it in a transparent polythene bag and weigh it down with a stone , to be left in the bucket for further transactions .
Muddied and occasionally wet banknotes notwithstanding , the business is good in this part of Behala , and the vendor is going to be around even tomorrow , without fail .
Invariably , he is going to blare my name ("Baby , baby ") , poor me who has nothing to do with his vegetables . I lie , teeth clenched , inside my quilt, waiting for his early morning rousing wail.
I normally finish my reading at 2 am . Then this crackpot starts yelling downstairs , "Baby , baby !!" The desi brother of Justin Bieber . I bury myself deep into my quilt .A sliver of sunshine has invaded my room, which means it is 6 am , and Mom has come , parted the curtains and gone . While I was in "another dimension ".
In our colony , this vegetable vendor is alarm clock cum whatever for all the residents . He brings aloo , pyaaz , milk , bread , eggs and gossip to lonely housewives imprisoned in their respective towers , or so I am told . I can hear Maa shuffling towards the window in her flip-flops , as she peers down from her doubly barred windows.
Then a complicated , noisy process is set into work . A bucket with a rope attached to it is lowered from the fourth floor where I stay . Whatever needs to be bought , or discussed , is talked and discussed and dissected in two languages . Bengali and hindi . Small talk and greetings in bengali , haggling in Hindi , bordering with hysterical "Purabiya " , a mixture of bhojpuri and bollywoodese . Terribly complicated to the uninitiated , unintelligible to most , and a total pain to people taking their freshly bathed, clothed and taught -by -rote kids to school , whose path the vendor blocks , and also to people like me , who would rather be left in peace in "other dimension".
Fruit , vegetables , other supplies are loaded onto the bucket , which is laboriously pulled up by the rope .
There are some , like my Mom , who being a person of few words , dictates her wish in sign language ( In which the vendor is proficient too , talk of polyglots ) , specially on days when I lie asleep there . On other hand , there are people , who just cant have enough of this curious intercourse , and lower the bucket , a second time , with the rotten/unripe /imperfect stuff , and berate the guy to their hearts' content .
Now the conversation breaks into a rash of rural bengali , as the shouting comes mostly from top , and the Bihari vendor quietly replaces the offending fruit.
Then comes the payment part . Money is lowered , and many a time the banknotes fly off in the early morning gust , or are drenched in the early morning drizzle .
Some enterprising souls (my Mom included) put it in a transparent polythene bag and weigh it down with a stone , to be left in the bucket for further transactions .
Muddied and occasionally wet banknotes notwithstanding , the business is good in this part of Behala , and the vendor is going to be around even tomorrow , without fail .
Invariably , he is going to blare my name ("Baby , baby ") , poor me who has nothing to do with his vegetables . I lie , teeth clenched , inside my quilt, waiting for his early morning rousing wail.
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