There was an evening market just a few minutes away from my house. There used to be local sellers selling various types of fruits and vegetables grown in their fields, local vendors selling street food, which was the most delicious I had ever eaten. I used to go there with my mom twice a week. We had specific vendors from whom we would buy our goods, mainly because we knew them or because they gave us pretty big discounts. I remember carrying heaps of goodies on one hand with extra chillies and coriander, and sometimes even small cherries, while on the other hand I held street food like sausages, shyabhaley, or even a small kulfi.
The market would start from a specific red house and extend to the temple at the far end. The red walls of the Indian Embassy had a specific white stained number for each vendor. For extra security, there was a police station. Every vendor would shout out their daily stocks, using either an electric or manual scale on the floor. Many aunties and uncles with their children would stand and haggle over the price of food, but most of them would go back home with heaps of vegetables and a small dent in their pockets.
I was quite young when the evening market still existed. In my memories the fluorescent light and the sound of crickets are still imprinted, along with the specific smell of vegetables and fruits. Many people would scatter and push through the crowds to get the best price from the best vendors. Various small talks between sellers and buyers about how things were going and what happened buzzed in the air. But after I grew up, the evening market came to an end. Accidents on the roads due to the market, with vehicles colliding with people became frequent. Many complained about the discontinuation but it had to be done.
Now I walk by the same place every day on my way to college . Every time in the evening it reminds me of those memories that I had with my mom and every relative I went there with. You guys might be wondering, “Why relatives?”. Well, there is a specific superstar’s house as per the rumour in that place. The superstar is none other than Mr. Rajesh Hamal. For every new relative, we would go there for the market and to show them that specific house.
Though a little insignificant in scale, the memory and the place reflect the daily mundane life of every Nepali. I wish I had phones or cameras back then so I could have clicked even the mundane things which now only live in my memories. It is said you will miss it only when you lose it. And those small things are what I miss now. The haggles, small talks, street foods, Rajesh Hamal, white markings on the red walls, fluorescent lights, and I guess the innocence of a childhood memory. Now I have cameras and phones but not those memorable things at the same places in the picture that I click now, only emptiness.