The Cloth Market

The little cloth market on Gandhi St is an oasis of peace nestled in the centre of the chaotic fish and vegetable market. Built around a clock tower,  tailors and cloth merchants sit in their white tiled shops constructed on raised cement platforms,  waiting for tourists and prospective buyers. They fold and unfold bales of cloth, gossiping with young salesgirls who potter around the shops, anklets jingling, putting back or drawing out clothes and material from shelves stacked from top to bottom with fabric. The front of the shops are festooned with bags , shawls and saris hanging  from the ceiling.

In spite of all the hustle and bustle there is a sense of timelessness about the place, a feeling of old India where the concept “time is money and money time “ is alien .  It comes perhaps from the   bonhomie of the shopkeepers, the cups of steaming coffee which are offered to clients whether they buy anything or not, little knots of people sitting in nooks and corners and chatting away. They are there neither to sell nor buy, but  spend a moment of the day in a place where life constantly swirls around them offering them a live performance free of cost. Modern India with its chrome and glass windows, air conditioners, fixed prices and exclusive clientele have not yet set its foot in this space. 

Business is brisk from 10 to 12 a.m and 4 to 6 p.m though the shops close only at 9 in the evening.

A young man wanders by  in baggy pants, linen shirt and floppy hat, the inevitable camera of the tourist in hand. An old, bald shopkeeper whisks away imaginary dust off the floor and pats the space in front of him, inviting him to sit down. The young man nods affably and moves on. The shopkeeper, unfazed, turns towards his friend and continues from where he had left off .

A young couple, a child straddling the hip of the woman, the man carrying a brand new stainless steel bucket sit down in front of a shop. The woman rifles through gaudy, sequined saris while the man looks at chequered lungis. The child attracted by the colours and designs tugs at a pink sari with silver sequins which tumbles down followed down by an avalanche of saris.

An elderly Tamil-French couple walk in accompanied by a young girl whom the lady repeatedly addresses as “my darling.” They settle down in front of a shop often frequented by tourists for its attractive assortment of bags, shawls and tunics and the charming shopkeeper who speaks English and some French.  While the women are busy choosing tunics, the man leans on his umbrella and looks on indulgently.

And soon as if in order to honour the man’s foresight in bringing an umbrella while nobody else is equipped for rain, unexpectedly the air freshens, the sky darkens and big drops of rain come pelting down. The man whips open his umbrella. Everybody hurries to take shelter in the shops. The shopkeepers make place for people to settle down and while the rain drums on rooftops and creates puddles on the ground,  lively discussions on politics, family, the cost of living break out, making waiting more bearable. 

Arunima Choudhury