satire : Delhi Chor Bazar-childhood reminiscence

 

 

Every big city has one of those magical places where books spill out onto the pavement like a public library gone rogue. For book lovers and ever-broke students, it’s heaven on asphalt — where literature, dust, and destiny meet.

 

During my childhood, Delhi’s version of this wonderland bloomed every Sunday behind Edward Park (renamed    Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Park). The market stretched from Daryaganj all the way to Jagat Cinema — or ‘Machhi Theatre’ due to its being in the vicinity of fish market. The books spread on footpath, lined both sides of the street, selling everything from overcoats and trench coats to novels, comics, and occasionally, things that made absolutely no sense, like manual film projectors and half-used rolls of cinema reels.

 

Mumbai has its own Chor Bazaar, the legend is British, it seems, couldn’t handle the noise and referred it as Shor Bazaar (the Noisy Market). Over a time, the shor politely dropped its “s” and became chor, which probably made it sound more exciting — and adventurous.

 

Every Sunday, my friends and I made a ritual pilgrimage there — not really to buy, but to stare and dream. Window shopping, they call it. Except there were no windows, just open air and piles of someone else’s memories. My treasured choice was Phantom comics — The Ghost Who Walks, published by Times of India group. Each comics had a serial number, and owning a continuous series gave you a prestige roughly equivalent to owning a Lamborghini today. We proudly declared what all numbers we were not in possession of.   

 

So, for us, every Sunday became a treasure hunt in search of those missing numbers. The thrill was real. One day, I found a rare issue and picked it up reverently. ‘How much? I asked. The shopkeeper, without even looking up, said, “Those with covers intact are fifteen paise. Without covers, twelve.” The one I picked was with cover but I had exactly twelve paise.

 

So, with the confidence of seasoned Negotiator, I offered, ‘You can keep the cover — just give it to me for twelve paise’ The man froze. Then burst out laughing. Then called his neighbour soon both were amused no end what kind of offer was this remove cover and keep. I stood there, confused, wondering why this was funny. I can’t even remember if I got that comic — but I do remember the laughter echoing longer than the story of Phantom itself.

 

I stored my growing comic empire in one of my father’s retired leather bags. Each issue arranged neatly, by serial number, like museum pieces. When friends visited, I’d unzip the bag like a pirate showing off his booty. We’d trade comics like diplomats swapping treaties — except our treaties had jungle princes and masked hero or magician (Mandrake) with flowing red cape.

 

There were other fascinations too — like those tiny hand-cranked projectors that promised to bring the movies home. One day, after weeks of saving and heroic financial restraint, I bought one. The salesman even offered a free roll of film. That evening, my siblings and I turned off the lights of our room, drew the curtains, and got ready for cinematic glory. We fiddled with the focus, spun the handle, but nothing worthwhile happened. The screen stayed blurry. The heroes stayed fuzzy. The only thing that moved clearly was our sweat.

 

Years later, when I watched Ziddi starring Joy Mukherji and Saira Bano, I realized — that this was the movie on our reel. Just five minutes of it. We had spent hours and hours rotating a handle to watch two faces swim in and out of focus like ghosts.

 

Then there was the single-ear headphone — five rupees for one ear, ten for two. I, obviously, went mono. It played the radio, but only if you held it at just the right angle and dangled an accompanying antenna wire from the roof. For hours, I sat there, holding the earpiece with one hand, the other chasing sound waves that never quite arrived.

 

And then, two tragedies struck together. The market shifted behind the Red Fort — and I grew up. Growing up has a tragic fall out. You outgrow your fondest toys and obsessions for far more serious pursuits of life. Phantom and Mandrake faded out. The projectors gathered dust. The headphones broke. The magic drained quietly, replaced by harsh real life. Now, it wasn’t me cranking a projector to see moving pictures — life itself had become the unpredictable reel, spinning endlessly, frame after frame, serious, solemn and full of surprise after surprise turns.

 

Those small joys rolled away somewhere along the road — maybe behind the same pavement where the market once stood, waiting for another kid to find negotiating with them for twelve paise and a dream.