A good many years ago in high school, Mariam, Sana, Siko and I realized the wisdom of avoiding car journeys on Chaand Raat and elected to walk through the throngs of people and knots of honking cars to KDA Market in Gulshan. It was coincidentally the first time that KDA market had also attempted to set up a chaan raat bazaar by blocking the main street of the market to make it a pedestrian zone and double parking makeshift stalls. We had a great time that winter chaand raat. We sipped doodh patti chai from one of the tin stalls; hit out at one of the wastrels who pinched Siko's butt (boys of all shapes and sizes gravitate like magpies to a jewel fest at the chaand raat bazars to tease women and occassionally start a relationship); ordered "may-roon" choorian after stall holder couldn't understand I had wanted maroon bangles. Since that year, KDA market has a bazaar every chaand raat with more stalls every year.
Last night, at 11 pm Sana and I, finding ourselves in the same city and country for chaand raat after so many years, walked to KDA market again. The scale was much bigger than I had expected. For one, my residential street was double parked with cars whose occupants had not found a place near the market itself. When we crossed the manic road and got to the bazaar we found a tent set up by the municipal police to make announcements like "Ayesha, please be informed, your mother is waiting at tent for you ready to leave." And more than that, the male stall holders had appointed themselves guardians of women's freedom to roam and jostle in the stall by kicking out every single male who was not accompanied by a gaggle of females; an indicator of his "family status". We witnessed at the stall of chooridar pyjamas a burly stall holder physically hauling a young man out of the street with the bazaar, yelling "Where is your family???"
Family status was like the new National Identity Card. Having been at the end of who is your husband/father at driving license and passport offices many times, I thrilled to hear it served the other way round for once.
We walked around. Sana bought lots of bangles, peach, lime and silver and I bought a sea-green mirror embroidered neckline for my chachi. We got chicken rolls and sat down on the edge of the street halfway down the market to eat it it and check out the crowd. A motley one it was too but my attention was completely captured by the women in burqas.
Sana pointed out one girl who burqa had a Chanel trademark inscribed in swooping crystals on her back. The burqa fashions was the most interesting to observe; no one uses thick cotton cloth anymore. The burqas were made of chiffon or georgette and all the ones I saw were black. Few women covered their faces, the nose piece was replaced by a separate triangular scarf which slipped quite easily off the head. The ornamentation of the burqa was extreme compared to how stark they used to be. It currently seems to be based on using Swarowski-copy crystals or diamantes to edge the sleeves, the cloth framing the face, the hemlines of the burqa and of course to pattern designs along it's length (usually petals and leaves).
It kind of reminded me of girls and women I had seen in St. Petersburg. Their sense of style is quite different, something I would be tempted to call garish. As we had watched a young Russian women in dyed black hair, black suede pencil heel boots and some mink/orange fur contraption for a top go by, Sofia had said to me "You know I would judge. But then I think, she actually got up in the morning and thought about what to wear and put in all that effort and it is a look she really likes."and that made me feel quite differently about taste. I admire people who bother to invest time and thought into how they look; so much more than those who will wear whatever is handy at the moment and can't be bothered to coordinate or focus on something in their look. That engagement is quite an affirmation of life and self-love.
So we watched some more, watched girls get mehndi on their hands; watch them buy bangles at 30 rupees for 2 dozen (all prices brought down because of chaand raat) as we sat behind a stall holder and ate. When we had finished eating, he turned around and offered us a jalebi wrapped in a newspaper. Sweet gesture but the oil in the jalebi had leaked to the extent of making liquid ink out of the newspaper print. It reminded me of the book "38 Bahadurabad" where a woman rejects the proposal of a man she loves because he comes from a family she hates and in frustration drinks a bottle of ink.
Sana I weren't quite up to masticating oil, ink and jalebi in one lip smacking go yet so we shrank politely and sauntered our way home to get ready for Eid morning.
Last night, at 11 pm Sana and I, finding ourselves in the same city and country for chaand raat after so many years, walked to KDA market again. The scale was much bigger than I had expected. For one, my residential street was double parked with cars whose occupants had not found a place near the market itself. When we crossed the manic road and got to the bazaar we found a tent set up by the municipal police to make announcements like "Ayesha, please be informed, your mother is waiting at tent for you ready to leave." And more than that, the male stall holders had appointed themselves guardians of women's freedom to roam and jostle in the stall by kicking out every single male who was not accompanied by a gaggle of females; an indicator of his "family status". We witnessed at the stall of chooridar pyjamas a burly stall holder physically hauling a young man out of the street with the bazaar, yelling "Where is your family???"
Family status was like the new National Identity Card. Having been at the end of who is your husband/father at driving license and passport offices many times, I thrilled to hear it served the other way round for once.
We walked around. Sana bought lots of bangles, peach, lime and silver and I bought a sea-green mirror embroidered neckline for my chachi. We got chicken rolls and sat down on the edge of the street halfway down the market to eat it it and check out the crowd. A motley one it was too but my attention was completely captured by the women in burqas.
Sana pointed out one girl who burqa had a Chanel trademark inscribed in swooping crystals on her back. The burqa fashions was the most interesting to observe; no one uses thick cotton cloth anymore. The burqas were made of chiffon or georgette and all the ones I saw were black. Few women covered their faces, the nose piece was replaced by a separate triangular scarf which slipped quite easily off the head. The ornamentation of the burqa was extreme compared to how stark they used to be. It currently seems to be based on using Swarowski-copy crystals or diamantes to edge the sleeves, the cloth framing the face, the hemlines of the burqa and of course to pattern designs along it's length (usually petals and leaves).
It kind of reminded me of girls and women I had seen in St. Petersburg. Their sense of style is quite different, something I would be tempted to call garish. As we had watched a young Russian women in dyed black hair, black suede pencil heel boots and some mink/orange fur contraption for a top go by, Sofia had said to me "You know I would judge. But then I think, she actually got up in the morning and thought about what to wear and put in all that effort and it is a look she really likes."and that made me feel quite differently about taste. I admire people who bother to invest time and thought into how they look; so much more than those who will wear whatever is handy at the moment and can't be bothered to coordinate or focus on something in their look. That engagement is quite an affirmation of life and self-love.
So we watched some more, watched girls get mehndi on their hands; watch them buy bangles at 30 rupees for 2 dozen (all prices brought down because of chaand raat) as we sat behind a stall holder and ate. When we had finished eating, he turned around and offered us a jalebi wrapped in a newspaper. Sweet gesture but the oil in the jalebi had leaked to the extent of making liquid ink out of the newspaper print. It reminded me of the book "38 Bahadurabad" where a woman rejects the proposal of a man she loves because he comes from a family she hates and in frustration drinks a bottle of ink.
Sana I weren't quite up to masticating oil, ink and jalebi in one lip smacking go yet so we shrank politely and sauntered our way home to get ready for Eid morning.
1 comment:
wonderful post!
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