Travel writing. I enter the Indian marketplace, a bombardment of flavour culture and routine. As I enter the pungent flavour of spices travels through my nose and fills my brain, giving a tangy feeling that shoots through my spine.

As I stroll by, I see wooden carts, uniquely modified for the convenience of each vender; the patch job made the carts look like old people whose bodies are deformed due to extensive strain and pressure. A small area is saved for the kerosene lamp, half rusted and finding it difficult to monotonously produce that bright sun yellow light that camouflaged the true colour of the vegetables. The carts are covered with a dirty cloth with stains made by a combination of things one could never imagine; they are used to remind customers that they are in India. It also proves as an illusion to the money hidden under the cloth, that a vender frequently counts and very innocently lies that he doesn’t have the change. The carts contain a buffet of fruits and vegetables. They range from rotting, blood red tomatoes to bright green spinach leaves grown beside the railway track. Shapes vary from cubes and spheres to shapes that can only be imagined. Spices are sold separately in tons and tons, a resource too precious to the Indians that it cannot be compromised.

The chat walas provide for thousands of people ‘s snacks, the meal an average local could enjoy and take a break from work. Shamelessly scratching his back like a dog, the chatwalas continue to provide the delicious meal to the customers, who are used to the normal behaviour of the Indian community. Small roadside restaurants take advantage of customers who flow into the market, like water gushing into empty space. Cousines range from the authentic south Indian food to the pungent chats.

Illegal sellers make good money setting up toy shops that sell plastic cars which work for a day and then brake. Balloons looking like all kinds of animals are sold to eager children restlessly fighting with their parents for a balloon.

 I walk past, an eager vender wearing a cream kurta and a mud stained topi screaming across  advertising his product, his voice faded away in the gigantic decibel level produced by a dozen similar vendors. Sweat dripped from his dirty skin onto a bunch of coriander that is picked up by one of the busy customers who is unaware of the salt solution on her garnish. I was engrossed in exploring the place as a man with heavy load on his head walks through me, like any other person on the road, his dark skin glistened as hundreds of kerosene lamps lit the market. A beggar attired in what looked like a thin cloth covered by mud and curly hair that is as thick and hard as a thorny bush comes to me with curled palms and asks  for 2 cents! I look ahead, for me the market never ends. For the people, it is just another day in the market.

 Word count = 667