Dim Memories

(with the price of tomatoes, onions, eggs, etc. getting much attention again... first posted Feb 2023)

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

 

Man, so much seems to have changed from my younger day when our eggs were from our local desi chicken - not affected by the malicious clucking of envious westerners and their chicken$hit biased media coverage. Just natural. Cage-free, stress-free, and forever free. Ms. Henny Penny and her ilk had no issues with the pecking order and carrying on with the loudest Bollywood numbers of the day blaring from local loudspeakers. Newspaper was just raddiwala material, used to line the coops. They managed just fine , thank you. Except for one dubiously attributed story, I do not recall any pouletsurprise winner articles about any chicanery other than the Sky Is Falling about a certain Mr C Little. No Hendenburg Research. No Andani. 

The neighborly street canines patrolled near the chicken coop of our local vendor, and they kept a close eye on the errant f cluckers. These self-appointed street patrol units barked regularly between 2am - 4am in unison, egged on by other distant units only they could hear, singing the song of their kind for the benefit of us hoi polloi and for the occasional ruminating bovines on the streets. There was peace and harmony in the world otherwise, and evil warmongers stayed in the shadows with only occasional hatching of evil plans like Breggsit. 

I vividly recall Dabdaba Khan bhai, or the Andawalla, as he was known to us. He always claimed he had the freshest eggs from the healthiest desi murgi's. None of the pharum raised monstrosity for his favorite customers like my mom, Babul's mom, mashi ma, and others on our lane. All the Auntie ji's on the lane gathered at one spot for the grand bargaining games during his weekly visits. 

The haggling over the price per dozen remains a textbook example of business negotiations, barely covered in MBA programs. It was not unlike the nuclear disarmament talks. There was the opening bid. The low-ball counter offer from some lead Auntie ji on behalf of the Auntie ji gang. Then came the sales pitch about the largest, brownest, cleanest, best, freshest, most nutritious, UNESCO cultural heritage site produced eggs in the universe. The cajoling for lower prices for his most loyal patrons. The reminders about the bargaining power of all the neighborhood Auntie jis together. The threat of never ever conducting any more business with him. Much hand-wringing. Talks about finding egg substitutes and vague hints of going bhej-eatarian. The grumbling that he was losing his shirt at these prices and that his family would go hungry, his kids would be thrown out of school for not paying their fees, etc. 

In the end, there was the grudging nod of agreement. The exchange of eggs vs. crumpled currency held in anxious hands was a fascinating weekly ritual to us kids. Smiles were exchanged. The Auntie ji's departed to their respective kitchens clutching their baskets, triumphantly basking in happy thoughts over having bested Mr Andawalla yet another week. And Mr Andawalla moved to the next the neighborhood on his converted bicycle laden with eggs hanging on either side, with a big smile having wrestled with the most fearsome bargaining gang yet having extracted more coins for his eggs than he had feared.

There is only one other item to add here... the one and only time I was entrusted with the task of carrying the eggs to our kitchen. Babul was not given any such responsibility by mashi ma. I wasted no time in proclaiming my superiority and jauntily marched the few feet towards my house, only to be tripped by an unusual geological formation that sprang up under my feet unexpectedly. The basket flew out of my grasp. About half a dozen of the slippery little ovoids cracked open in the dirt, inviting the doggie scavengers for instant clean-up. They were always hovering around waiting to prove their usefulness for just such an event. My mom wasted no time in declaring my clumsiness and irresponsibility as world-class. Babul wasted no time in cackling at my misfortune and mortification. My only defender was mashi ma who reminded my best buddy (and my mom) about all the unintended world-class disasters that he had participated in. Both moms came to the swift conclusion that these boys were destined for less than great futures unless they really really shaped up. We were sent away with wiggling fingers to study and make something of ourselves. To this day, I look at the carton of eggs (and even eggplants) with awe and horror. And there is no truth in the rumors that I walk around on eggshells in the presence of mi sposa. 

Anyway, such are my scrambled thoughts on this topic. Enjoy your cage rage outrage-free weekend!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆