The Market
A sensory maelstrom led ablitz our olfactory centres. Sweet floral scents of exotic perfumes and incenses, earthy tones of vegetables that were only recently unearthed from their slumber in the shallow soil, the soft blends of newly-spun fabrics and linens; all formed part of a puzzle that gave this market its identity. Even the ammonia-ridden stench of the fish markets played their part; an identity includes its flaws. The sun was setting, which was usually a signal of slumber enveloping the world, but here specifically, night had lost its grasp over society. As the last milky streaks retreated into the horizon, flickering lamps of oil and wax shared their dim glow with the darkening yet ever-bustling channels and canals of people that flowed through the markets, weaving, and meandering between stalls of sorts.
It was this variety that gave the market its integrity. Truly, if there was something in the world that one could need (or even not need), it could be found here, nestled between the glimmering, etched sea of freshly ground spices. Mama calls this place the epicentre of cultural integration, and I couldn’t agree more. As soon as you enter the market, your identity is left at the cobbled pavements by the side, and you simply become one within an army of shoppers. The pantomime of selling was akin to a ballet; hagglers would strike back and forth with carefully crafted offers whilst vendors, wise and experienced in their trade, would give them the illusion of a good deal. Well, the deal they wanted at least. Just like a movie, it was all pulled together with a beautiful soundtrack composed and orchestrated by a few charming buskers and their instruments.
The sounds of this market, this melting pot of society, are my favourite. Again, the buskers would strum a delicate song from their violins and guitars with such tenor and grace that one could become lost in their melody if you weren’t careful. If not affected by the rhythm, it was the hubbub of voices. The way a voice, so individual and magnificent, a trademark of a person, would somehow still manage to become part of this general background noise. An orchestra of voices if you will.
It was a cocoon- a multihued capsule, a pocket of life weaved with meticulous intricacy into the fabric of society. Stumble upon it fortuitously, and your every sense would be ensnared, grasped and beguiled by the tantalizing dissonance of a hundred aromas. The hollers and bellows, the puffs of anise, cayenne or cinnamon, the silk tsunamis in every shade, hue, tinte and tinge would each play their way masterfully, until they consumed your state of consciousness and enveloped you into their domain. The sheer incongruity of the sight that unfolded in front of you was entirely to blame. Dare to walk along the aged pathways and pavements of the labyrinth, and your eyes would instantaneously be subject to the sheer bustling vivacity of all that there was to see. For the gilded ornaments and trinkets, the ensemble of synthetics, cotton and hemp all breathed in unity.
At least, that’s how I remember the market. It’s just a memory I hold close to my heart, that’s only grown bitter and obstinate over the months. Today, the market is a husk. The stalls remain, but the life of the market is well and truly gone. It’s an abyss compared to what it once was, completely devoid of any and all activity. How can you look at something once so noble and stoic and not feel utter despair? It’s because of that virus. The virus that stole everything. The virus that put freedom on life support. The virus that not only took lives, but stopped them too. Unfortunately, the market was forced to shut down. It makes sense of course; places like this are where the invisible killer thrives. It spreads its ugly tendrils across the unknowing shoppers and vendors, passing itself from host to host before they even know they’ve been infected. For a moment it was as if nothing ever happened, but as the weeks passed, we started noticing the dwindling of customers and shopkeepers. Those who coughed would disappear the next day, retreating into their homes out of necessity. Sadly, it was often too late by then. The rumbling thunder of a thousand voices slowly diminished and decayed. Now, there are no voices. Just silence. Complete deafening silence.
The air is clear too, and it’s putrid without those smells; paralleling the hallways of a hygiene-zealous hospital where all you can think about is the miserable endurance of those behind closed doors. It’s strange to think that under normal circumstances, humanity would celebrate the lack of pollution.
All I desire is for the market to be returned to its former glory. I wish to not be able to run through the empty aisles freely uninterrupted, but to be stopped by vendors marketing their spices and fabric. I wish to bump shoulders with strangers, with whom I’d only be able to share a fleetingly apologetic smile or muffled sorry, before we were once again absorbed into the mayhem of the market. I wish to be bombarded with that overwhelming, but comforting smell of everything and anything. I wish to be lost in the place I am most familiar with, but instead, I stand here gazing into the completely vacant labyrinth of the market. I wish for that dance of chaos
