There is many a written word on the beauty of Colaba, the allure of Bandra, the homeliness of Matunga. But, what about Dadar? Dadar deserves an essay of its own, if not a book.
As I sit in a cab that’s unmoving on top of the Dadar bridge overlooking the station, some things are hard to miss. An entire army of people that might pass off for the population of New Zealand on that foot over bridge jostling towards (or away from) the train station - if there’s an award winning claustrophobic site / sight in the world, that’s the one. Up ahead, a decrepit building is being refurbished. Rather, attempts are being made to salvage a room and cement it in white. Windows in other parts of the building are open, giving a sneak peak into those lives, their TVs and their file cabinets. Yes, it’s a mish mash of work and home, papers and paper dosas. Then comes the flower market. One shop is enticing, at least from the bridge. The board proclaims “SNB flower designer”. Quite a connoisseur this one must be. No ordinary flower vendor but a boutique designer, a stand out amongst mere mortals.
Traffic is at a standstill, and I let my thoughts wander beyond the views of the station and its vicinity. I have never really got a hang of Dadar, the market. Which road leads to the highway and which one my way, has always been cause of great consternation to me. So I walk through the roads, mingling amongst the cars and bikes, and the never ending human populace, playing a game of elimination to extricate myself from the maze. Not before ‘intricating’ myself within, because there are things to be purchased. Do you know that a single store in Dadar (perhaps 100 sq ft in size) houses all the things on my list at any given point of time, ranging from screw drivers to scissors, paper clips to tea strainers? There’s another store with all the cooking utensils I will need in life, in brass and stainless steel, with copper bottoms and insulated handles, suiting the cooking styles of the South and the North and the home ground of Western India too. There are rows and rows of shops selling children’s tricycles in all colours and styles, genial shop owners encouraging kids to sit on them and try before buying. Fabric stores and saree shops beckon, with bright coloured and sequinned wear, that the South Indian conservative in me would never wear but would love to ape at from the windows. There are jewellery shops hiving off from the main market where one can buy that quick silver (not quicksilver), a gift for someone, or perhaps even gold.
It is futile trying to drive through Dadar market, obviously because there is no space. Not so obviously, because Dadar has sights and sounds you don’t want to miss, where the lane leading off from the flower seller has knick knacks that you urgently want, even though you may never need them in your life.
The only time you can drive through the market is after 11 pm, but the time I like the most is 4.30 am. The market doesn’t really sleep, but it wakes up from a quick nap then, with the industrious sellers setting shop already getting their wares from wherever they get them from, fresh flowers and vegetables and fruits, as they get ready to hustle and bustle around for the day.
Apparently there is a paan kulfi fellow somewhere there, that I haven’t encountered yet. His kulfis are to die for, I am told. Perhaps this weekend I will die for them, lost in the labyrinth and not finding my way out.
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