The Night Market

By Dr Avlokita Sharma

It was last Thursday of the month and Suhasini was getting ready to go to the night market. She stayed a few kilometers away from the Farmers Central, as it was popularly known. Once every month Suhasini drove alone to the market and bought supplies for the month. Groceries, spices, vegetables, nick knacks. Like most Indian homes, it has been her responsibility as lady of the house to budget, plan and buy. How much top pay to the milkman , how much to deduct from the house help’s salary for breaking that imported fine china plate , when to ask cleaner to discontinue services and how much to haggle with the guy who does ironing for the family. Families staying in metros have access to the services while back in the small towns, women folk still do everything on their own. The men are only obligate to bring home money. 

It has been four years since Suhasini moved to the coastal town after her husband’s retirement. Subhash worked with university as a professor of literature for 35 years and after retirement, he chose to live a private life spending the days working on his next book. Like with most individuals retirement means life of tranquility with veiled agenda of finding purpose of their remaining life. 

Subash felt his purpose in life was to write as many books and win as many awards. He wrote well and had some recognition to his name but was not content. Subash was an ambitious man and Suhasni was aware of it. He coerced her to quit her job of scientist with govt organization so that they both could focus on his career. Moreover, his accomplishments were hers too to boast of. The three children had long flown out of the nest and Subash chose to spend their sunset years in this sleepy coastal town. Not surprising enough it was Suhasini who surveyed the area innumerable times, prepared the documents, took on lease, set up the house, designed her husband’s reading room, acclimated to the humidity, and learnt the lingo only to watch the sunset from the deck ..alone. Four years and together, they had rarely been outside the villa. 

In Indian system of marriage, one unconsciously becomes the possession of the other. One allows and the other accepts. There is an unsaid agreement, and inadvertently the earning partner transforms into the assertive one too. 

Subash noticed his wife getting ready in one of her favorite sari. Soft blue cotton with paisley hand blocks print. Suhasini had aged well. She took good care of herself physical health but had also embraced her age with grace. 

“Seriously! Dressing up to buy asfotedia” Subash said while throwing a casual glance at his wife. 

“Why not”, Suhasini replied calmly, tightening the clasp of her grey pearl necklace. 

Suabsh did not respond and went back typing on his laptop. The final chapter needed more focus than what his wife wore to night market. 

“See you” she said and without waiting for the reply sat in the driver seat of her hatchback. 

Going to the night market was her favorite part of the month. She always parked at the same spot reserved for her by the parking lot manager, shopped from the same sellers; she bought homemade ice cream from the same old woman. The pleasant faces she interacted with for a few moments once a month bought balminess to her soul. These people enquired about her health, the welfare of her family, shared their daily mundane problems, helped her to the parking lot and she did not even know their names. There was no arrangement, no agreement, and no compulsion. 

To Suhasini the night market depicted life in many ways.  Some wander alone, some with loneliness in their hearts. Each looking for something special. The old mother buying fresh fish to cook for her son the only earning member of the large family. The father holding the hand of his toddler in a tight grip. The two lovers meeting at the same flower shop as they did every time. The old man sitting on the bench just to beat the vagaries of empty home. 

Mysteries of the night market.  

Some here to sell, Some here to buy. 

Each making choices they hope they will not regret. 

By Dr Avlokita Sharma