Anarkali Bazaar

Ever since she could remember, Mari felt there was no other place in the world quite like Anarkali Bazaar. Located in the older part of the city, it was named after the young courtesan who stole Prince Saleem’s heart, according to legend. Mari dreaded making the trek to Anarkali though. Her allergy to shopping dictated that she had to be in the right mood to make the trek across the city.

Going to Anarkali was never dependent on Mari’s mood however, but rather on her ammi’s needs, or someone else’s needs. She found it to be too crowded, and felt that someone would trample over her or hit her. She never felt comfortable wandering off alone because she could never remember where all the shops were. Her mother was very familiar with the place, most of the shops and the owners still being the same as they were when she lived in the city as a young woman.

As they entered Bano Bazaar or Paris Market, the first thing Mari came across was a cornucopia of glass bangles: black, red, and turquoise, burgundy with gold sprinkled on top. One of her Muslim friends always treated her to a fitting of bangles before any Eid, and she always had them for Christmas. Across from the bangle merchants, she followed her mother slowly past the jewelry stalls, hair accessories booths with stylish colorful parandahs hanging from them. She practically leaned on ammi, causing her to cringe, ‘Itni garmi main chipak rahi ho,’ as they entered further into the market.

They stopped at one of the shops and Mari was mesmerized by the fabrics: silks, georgettes, flowery prints and solid bright colors. She was enthralled by the way the fabric wallah lifted one of the rectangular shaped spools from against the wall and flung it on the platform, the fabric unfolding before their sight. Her mother could not resist the saris. A few were wrapped around mannequins, rich in their gold brocade borders, or without. Scents from the cosmetic shop across the way assailed their noses, as they touched the gilded border, felt the richness of the cloth, felt a timelessness of sorts. Her ammi asked a price. Mari sat back and watched as ammi told him it was too much. The shopkeeper smiled. He gave his price, ammi gave hers. He stood firm, ammi did as well. He’d try to explain something about the fabric, where it came from, ammi did not budge. He lowered his price just a little bit. It wasn’t quite what she wanted. He maintained his price; ammi suggested politely that perhaps she could go somewhere else. It was hers. Game, set and match to ammi!

Outside in the foyer, a wrinkled elderly man with a case of potato chips strapped to his torso called out continuously, ‘Baby, po-tay-to cheeps!’ They walked by one of the cafes, Mari wanting to give in to the seduction of the aroma, but forbidden by her mother to eat food from outside cafes. Back in the sunlight, in the insufferable heat where veiled women walked in heavy, long black or blue coats, and men with their bush shirts bared not so impressive chests, Mari and her mother weaved their way through the crowd, flailing away flies with their packages, the humming of bees and people changing tones and rhythms.

Mari stopped, and yelped silently as her mother kept walking.

A faceless man had come right at her, his elbow piercing her breast, and then he disappeared in the crowd. Mari stood stunned for a moment, her legs almost giving way, the flow of shoppers continuing on.

‘Haraaami!’ She wanted to hug her tender breasts, to shield herself from any further attacks. What she wanted most of all now was to leave. She could still see ammi and frantically rushed to catch up with her. She could not be the only girl this happened to, and yet, she thought it was pointless to cry and complain about it. This was not the first time Mari had been elbowed in the market. Whoever these faceless men were, they were very good at causing pain and leaving the scene, and from what the fourteen year old Mari had seen of the police, she had no faith that they would do anything other than to say their hands were tied. Her breast still smarted from the bastard’s elbow.
There was no place in the world quite like Anarkali Bazaar, she thought bitterly.

Mari began the question that normally annoyed her mother if asked more than twice, ‘Can we go home now? Please?’