A journey through markets: Where the heart finds home

The marketplace has always been more than a bustling hub of trade for me. It’s where I first learned the art of human connection, watching my father weave magic with his words on our Sunday trips to Dinbazar in Jalpaiguri town. The smell of fresh produce, the clinking of coins, and the occasional laugh of a shopkeeper still echo in my mind, grounding me in a world that has changed so much yet stayed the same in spirit.
As a teacher at a local college, my father’s weekdays were consumed by lectures and administrative tasks, leaving little time for household errands. Sundays, however, were sacred—a day for unwinding, for spending time with family, and for a ritual he rarely missed: visiting the market. I would tag along eagerly, drawn as much by the lively atmosphere as by the chance to watch him in action.
“Baba, why do you always go to the same vegetable seller?” I once asked, curious about his loyalty.
“He knows me, and I know him,” my father replied with a smile. “A good relationship is worth more than a few saved paisas.”
It wasn’t just the items in his shopping bag that mattered; it was the connections he nurtured. His bargaining was never harsh or demeaning, but a graceful dance of give and take. Watching him interact with the vendors planted in me a love for the marketplace and the subtle art of negotiation.
When my father passed away untimely, those market trips became my responsibility. I thought I would feel the weight of the task, but instead, I found a strange comfort in those familiar aisles. By then, I knew what to buy, how to bargain, and how to handle the shopkeepers with confidence. These visits, far from being a chore, became a source of strength. They taught me lessons beyond the textbooks—about resilience, responsibility, and the beauty of human interaction.
When we moved to Gorabazar in Berhampur town, near the Bhagirathi River, life shifted gears, but the marketplace remained a constant. Unlike Dinbazar, which had been a rickshaw ride away, from our house in Race course Para, this market was just a short walk from home. Each morning before school, I would pick up vegetables or other essentials. It was here that I began to see the market as more than a place to buy and sell—it was a living organism, pulsating with life, stories, and secrets.
A classmate, the son of a shopkeeper, became my unofficial tutor in the art of trade. He shared insights about pricing, profit margins, and the tricks vendors used to entice customers. “Never judge the quality of rice by the top layer,” he’d warn, lifting a sack’s corner to show the hidden grains underneath. Through him, I glimpsed the world behind the counters, learning how shopkeepers navigated the delicate balance of fairness and profit.
Later, when we settled in Kolkata, first in the southern part of the city and later in the northern suburbs, my relationship with markets deepened. The sprawling bazaars of Kolkata, with their labyrinthine lanes and kaleidoscope of sights, felt like a world unto themselves. Yet, whether I was navigating the packed alleys of Gariahat or strolling through the quieter streets of our local market, the sense of familiarity was always there.
Now, in my retirement, the market holds a different charm. What was once a necessity has become a cherished ritual. A late-night stroll to fetch a forgotten spice or a leisurely midday visit to browse the stalls feels like a small adventure. The sights and sounds—the sharp calls of vendors, the soft rustle of paper bags, the gentle clatter of scales—are a comforting symphony.
Walking through the market is a joy for the senses and a balm for the soul. The silent streets come alive as vendors open their shops, transforming empty lanes into vibrant pathways of colour and energy. Each visit reminds me of the lessons my father taught me: the importance of connection, the value of trust, and the joy of small exchanges.
Reflecting on my lifelong bond with markets, I see them as a grounding force in my life. From a curious child at Dinbazar to a retired man in Kolkata, the marketplace has been a stage for countless small stories—a place where I have learned, grown, found companionship and picked up materials to build up stories.
For me, the market is more than a place to shop; it is a place to belong. As I wander its lanes, I hear the echoes of my past: the voice of my father bargaining with a smile, the advice of my friend lifting a sack of rice, and the countless conversations that have made me who I am. The market has taught me about life and people, about patience and resilience, and about finding joy in the simplest of moments.
And so, as I continue my walks through its lively aisles, I carry with me the wisdom of those early days, grateful for a journey that began long ago in the bustling heart of Dinbazar on a Sunday morning with my father.
Authored by: Arun Kanti Chatterjee
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