Actuality Report Visit to Mandai For someone who possesses a very conventional image of a sabzi mandi in his/her mind,

, Mandai also known as Mahatma Phule Mandai in Pune is a different world altogether contained in form of a vegetable market. Stepping towards this place, entering the old colonial structure with a tower like top, white windows and turrets, housed upon numerous other smaller structures with rooftops slanted and rusty, one finds the entire structure summed up in shades of blackish browns- the color of the stones it is made up of; crimson red- the color of the roofs where the red has almost turned black with time; whites- pale almost reaching shades of yellow in the frontal arches of the structure and on the turrets, but intact in the huge semi circular arched windows on the tower top. The market place has its gates open for everyone, the rusted black and red painted gates with all kinds of shapes on them circles, straight lines, squares and rectangles. But one immediately does not enter the premise. The gates will lead to another assemblage in the market. Shopkeepers are sitting with temporary tents overhead, the vegetables and fruits placed neatly forming an abstract collage of colors. The baskets in which the vegetables and fruits are kept are adding to this collage. Not only that, they make a wavered path to the inside of the premise. A dingy, humid environment, quiet and peaceful and an expansive view of scattered vendors with majorly vegetables stacked in pyramids, in baskets of colors blue, red and yellow and bundles of coriander adding zing to the grey atmosphere. There are bulbs with head lamps on their top, some even without them, hanging aimlessly on steel wires yet highlighting the colorful, fresh products. There are also decorations, all shiny and bright and tattered and old and in faded pinks and reds and goldens that hang from a few stalls. One can also see a faded military print pair of earmuffs worn by a vendor. With a bright red tilak on his forehead, Shekhar Kadam adjusts his earmuffs to protect himself from the chill while rubbing his hands. He has worked in the mandai for 30 long years amidst hot winds, humid winds and cold winds these days as they freely flow through the space and escalate the assorted aroma of chillies, tomatoes and aubergines. Shekhar contently recalls the old association with the space- his grandfather, his father and then him and everything has been going on fine. Its a part of him he says, a routine he would never like to miss and so he dresses perfectly for it- brown checked shirt, dark grey trousers, earmuffs, and the tilak. Hes enthusiastic to tell new people about how a curry could be made out of green tomatoes and that dark purple is not the only color to brinjals for he holds pride in selling the yellow and green ones too. Kadam being a part of the mandai has seen its journey, its spirit of being one of the busiest markets and also its lows, distressful ones of being taken over by other mandis. Kadam sits right in front of a dusty wall with an almost faded light blue paint, each brick of which has accumulated dust and have also settled several spiders as their webs shine from the light that comes in its diffused form from the glass almost browned from the corners above the slant wooden ceiling. The towering dusty wall harbors numerous power pints and messy wires that travel all along the space- through the delicate folds if the black brick stone arches, sometimes

forming curves dissecting doors and then reaching the same height sometimes straight, sometimes falling in abstract ways but reaching all gathered in the corners. Corners that arent isolated- with all their blackness in the form of dust, the levitating spider webs and the wires and amidst the interlocked wooden blocks that form the foundation to uphold the ancient architecture, what dominates the corners are the jumpy, active sparrows, so many of them in number, flying across taking many gazes upwards with them in swift movement and suddenly getting lost in the hollow space, only their koohoos resonating. One looks around and finds solace in the atmosphere and hence sounds are so dominantly heard- straight ahead of someone cracking coconuts, of sparrows, little murmurs and some louder voices conversing in Marathi about weights and prices, of flipping of newspaper pages. Most of the vendors are reading- some sitting cross legged on their stall, some keeping the paper aside to attend to a customer while some holding on to their page and stacking their stock that comes jute sacks inked in blue at the center creating bumps on the outside of the rough and hairy texture of the jute. Mohammad Akram also stacks lemons, some scattered in non uniform heaps on the surface that looks identical to a small round table but instead is a cemented semicircular cubicle with a broken stone base on top almost creating a black mosaic pattern and is a storage space for the tons of lemons that he is to store in the coming time and latch them by closing the two window like cupboard doors with intricate wood art on them; the intricacies being hidden by the unkempt state. He pats at the tattered stone surface and says how historically important the place is, being 127 or 128 years old showing uncertainty in the correct numbers. From a distance one would mistake him as someone from Kashmir because of his Pathani suit, a sweater with embroidery generally form the north, the golden rimmed square framed spectacles resting on his nose and his hair dyed with henna. But he shows pride in being a Puneri with an ear-to-ear grin, Mandai was not a commercial space solely, he recollects. The place is not about buying and selling, its about sharing a culture, sharing interests, being together in thick and thin- being bhai log. A smile comes across his face as he tells that artists as honored as Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhonsle and Amitabh Bachchan have been here. Lata jis show is an unforgettable memory for him. He looks settled in that corner dominated by the yellowness of the lemons and their citric fragrance and is excited, has a zeal to wake up and reach the mandai at 6 in the winter mornings just for the love of doing something hes always cherished as there is no monetary gain he gets out of it. Its the familial warmth he says that is the magnet pulling him from ears even after there is no need for him to work there with his family settled and kids earning well. Anybody could easily get lost here, he says while pointing out in eight different directions acquainting one of the new customers with the directions of the place. Remember which side you enter from and youll be an expert at it he says. The sale of lemons is quite good this time, lemon pickles will be made this season and he credits the corner he got for the sale. Every vegetable has its own space in the mandai because its an old institution and more so like the supermarkets of today with the same amount of work and rarely a day off which is tasteless without the company of friends who have their adda at the Anil Snacks Corner for some piping hot Puri Bhaji on days when they feel the need to chill.

About a stones throw distance from where Mohammad Akram sits, there stands Anil Snacks Corner. In such short a distance, one discovers an array of fragrances, a fusion of incense, the pungent smell of onions and garlic, the raw blend of chillies mixed with aromatic roses. Arriving at the Prakash mala wala is reviving ones olfactory senses. He makes garlands, about 40-50 a day, of roses and jasmine and the unique element- parsley. Prakashji show how damp his index finger gets when he has to work all day and it takes two days of now wok to have a normal finger back. The parsley, he says adds to the beautification of the mala, he gods consider the offering and the customers come back satisfied. He sits under a stall, which is ideally a batata stall with green doors, and a big hoarding hanging on top on top of it that says its a batata stall but there is no sign of any potatoes. Rather, it has an old rack with mirror sliding sections and old decorative items kept in them. The doors are complimented by lighter green walls, which are painted red up to the one-fourth section of the walls. There are crisscross shadows on these walls made by the light that peeps through from above the rooftop space and it gets further reflects on to the bottom stone surface. There is a lot of greenness around in the color of the banana leaves that are being cut by a man who gives it to a customer. Ghatpandey aunty comes from far away to the freshest and economically viable vegetables and also the puja samagri that she now takes wrapped in a newspaper tied with a jute rope for a Brahmin Bhoj at her. Green is also the color of coriander heaps kept at stalls, in the scattered unusable banana leaves, in the peels that stick to the long knife of the vendor, the chillies that form absurd patterns lying around unarranged and the sari of Ghatpandey aunty who unintentionally wore the color. The zone is not at all of constant buying and selling. There is playfulness around. Playfulness is a man beating the pillars with a stick, its a vendor trying to shoo away a sparrow from his stack of beans, a small boy making his pet chicks eat leftover herbs, fruit stall vendors enjoying a cricket match under their display of fruits. There is playfulness in the way onions have been arranged in symmetric patterns in blue and yellow baskets and their peels scattered outside in huge amounts. Newspaper shreds made into balls, two old cycles and a shimmery handmade airplane hanging on the ceiling. There is playfulness among the vegetables being emptied from jute sacks, their free-fall on the ground and then the sieving of the chillies by a woman who happens to wear a green similar to the chillies. Mose chalki ye jaaye is playing on the radio of one of the vendors and seriousness also coexists. Vendors sit on their sacks waiting for customers, some sit idle on the porch above their stall looking and staring into nothingness. Some fill in their storage spaces, while one vendor of peanuts shuffles the heap. With sunlight coming from a slant angle towards his backside, the illumination makes the husk dust of the peanuts emerge adding to the brownness of the place. The husk dust as it rises directs itself to the huge grills and their patterns circles, lines, triangles, rhombuses and then to a window- the ancient kind, flowers of cement embossed, the old pieces of glass attached, some broken letting light in from corners. Corners that also have a places for nests above the meshed wires. From that corner emerges a silhouette of a woman. There is also a man counting money quite swiftly. The woman is Sonali, aloof in the corner and with a beautiful smile to greet. She has a story, a simple one that explains her presence in the place, Death of the father made circumstances difficult and after her B.Com, she is here feeling a sense of safety, one that she says she would not feel even after marriage. She holds pride in the fact that she is one of the few women

around the place. Laughs are being exchanged, smiles are being passed, conversations happening and at a glances stop there is a board that says bin vasache joone batate. The board hangs in the air, dancing to the flowing breeze all light hearted just like the one who hung it. Krishna Kant Jaktey tells that mandai is a legacy in itself because if there was to be search mission here, one could find the oldest of generations. He explains he sells fertilizer free potatoes and also as a hobby hangs an onion to his stall to see how long it survives. The one hanging right now has been there for six months and counting. Theres a market across the road says Jaktey and says that its 45 years old being an extension to the mandai. There is a change of spaces- from a peaceful murmuring ancient market to a hyper active, yelling its lungs out market, sweating to sell people the best bhaji at the best price for both them and the customers. Decorations exit here too but in form of larger heaps decorated with either artificial flowers or flowers made out of beetroot. Men peel corn and there is now a variety in the kind of vegetables being sold- from no cabbage in the previous market to red cabbage, baby corn and barbeque seasoning being sold. The center spot of the market houses a tiny stone tomb, the Mahatma Phule Mandir and a glance throughout the expanse of the new market that is supported by some odd number of pillars, each pillar backed by a stall has a mandir. One of the vendor offers onions, banana, potato and chilly to his deity. Why chilly when asked, the man responds bhagwan ko bhi thoda getup dena mangta hai- that even god needs a getup in his offerings and nothing better than the green of the chillies for it. The Gods will be happy and everything will be fine he reassures. Shashi kala also believes that everything eventually will be fine. She says selling vegetables makes her feel powerful and independent which is a quality she imbibes from her mother who started the business here in mandai a few years back. Abusing her drunkard father and smiling with confidence she says the family could never force her into marriage as she was determined to reject them all. Freedom is more lovable than complications and she feels free here she says. She comes to her professional behavior and ask if any vegetable are to be bought and does not get offended with the negative response. She instead points out at the chai wala, recommending savouring it. Sipping the tea with strong fumes of gauti, cardamom and ginger in the hot aromatic steam, one thinks of how simple larger things can be. Coexistent, unified by love, emotion, food, sports, films, TV and songs, el=exploring Mandai was grasping its spirit, its uniqueness and contrast which it offers at the same time and more importantly the plethora of stories contained in it. Two hours in Mandai was worth it!

By: Manind Bedi