The Street vs the Shop

In Dadar West, hugging the railway station a bustling and beautiful flower market breathes the city to life every day. Most flowers there, sold for the purpose of worship, others for you to keep, or to give to those you cherish.

From stacks of lotus and bundles of roses, to mountains of assorted petals and large garlands of marigolds, sold at a wholesale price that nobody expects, to people from all walks of life. Here, there exists a large rift between the vendors, that evades the perspective of the average person, there in a hurry to haggle and to leave. 

The rift, as it would stand, is between the sellers of the streets, and the ones sitting in their shops. This came to light once to me, as I crouched to the ground, haggling for a bundle of roses with a sweet old lady, smiling and telling me how cheap her roses already are.

As I inquire about her business (trying to bond with her and lower the price further), she remarks at how bleak her everyday has to be to earn enough for a roti. I ask her why that is and she answers, “ye dukan wale hai na, inki badi gaadiya le aati hai phool, aur humein kuch bechne nahi dete”.

I inquired further, but the damage was done, her mood was ruined and she would speak to me no longer. I then began to spark another conversation with the young man at the forefront of his shop. He was seemingly uninterested in my charade and would not entertain me unless I bought from him, so I left.

It was a remarkably memorable day, one that would draw parallels once again in a few months.

In the Crawford Street of South Bombay, one cannot even walk at one’s own pace. The street would normally be almost completely encroached upon by the street vendors who would lay out their wares for all to see, hawking, observing, and spitting betel. Even monsoons would not stop them, as they would create makeshift tarps to protect their products, and even in the rain, produce an item you desire at an obscenely high price till your words weather them down, because the climate never will.

That is how I grew up observing this street, and found myself dumbfounded and surprised when the streets were empty and barren, like a war-stricken wasteland, a few months ago. I would venture deeper into the market, into the cramped alleys, still no sign of vendors on the streets. Why? I couldn’t fathom.

Of course, the streets were not completely empty, they were still filled with people zig zagging across, so I went where they went. I went to the shops, and just as I normally do, I inquired. Once again faced with uninterested and half hearted replies. 

They would all say, “hamein nahi pata bhai”, when asked why the street vendors had been displaced. Later, I found a man who was carrying jhumkas on a carousel, which he hid inside a shop, presumably owned by a friend. There, while I spoke to him and admired the variety he had, a duo of police officers taking rounds in the alley noticed him and threatened him with confiscating his entire stock if he didn’t put it away right that minute.

I then left the market soon after and got in a cab, heading to the house of a friend. In conversation with the cab driver, I asked once more about the circumstances of the market road, and he answered: “police wale ko jab hafta nahi milega, toh yahi karenge”

Then I had a realization, and to confirm it I asked him, “inka toh hafta bhi zyada hoga na, raste pe baithe hai toh?”

The cab driver simply nodded.