Bazaar

 

The lazy dust that no one bothered to sweep under another man’s door now covers every ware on display, the pretty hair clips and ribbons, glass bangles and ladies brassieres all hang in a powdery veil beneath the traditional awnings with Rajasthani prints that depicts stories of prince and princesses, of their wars and escapades. These colorful canvases mushroom overnight to form shop boundaries. The noise of motorcycles, rickshaw hooters, sizzling food, shouting shopkeepers, laughing children to the loud radios all blared one above the other as people tuned their ears to its source, each to their own liking.

The aroma of kebabs that dangled about its skewers within the small glass compartment of the wheelbarrow-stand attracted a regular stream of drooling customers.

The smell of food that wafted from each shop clashed as one walked along, baked cinnamon on bread, roasted cumin on curries, herbs on barbecued lambs, ripe pineapples and tangy coconuts, mixed with smoke from motor cycless and sweat from men all ran riot adrift the bazaars of Chandni Chowk in old Delhi, which lay near the famous mosque, the sacred Jama Masjid, from where the evening prayers or the Azaan was now being aired and if one fine tuned their ears they could hear a beautiful quartet.

 

 

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