28/6/2013 8:30pm

Sabji Mandi

The wind beats past my covered head as Aunty takes me through the various intersections to the Pimpri Sabji Mandi (vegetable market). I am no longer a foreigner, I am just another person in the mass of cars, bikes, and buses. We pull into the entrance of the market and Aunty tells me to wait as she parks the bike. People don’t stare like they normally do. My salwar-like pants and raincoat allow me to blend in to the crowds of vendors and people buying their groceries. Aunty comes back with two cloth bags and beckons me towards the brightly lit entrance of the Mandi.

We enter and I am surrounded by thousands of vegetables and fruits. Even though 8pm is an off time for shopping, my Americanized brain is shocked by how many vendors and shoppers there are. Aunty tells me that she has to buy some vegetables and that I should tell her what types of fruit I like. 
“Aam (Mango).” I say immediately, forgetting that Mango is a warm season fruit and that they have been out of season for two months. She looks at me and smiles,

“Okay.” She takes me to a stall that is filled with various colors of vegetables, she points to a basket of small yellowy-green colored Mangoes and asks, in Marathi, what the cost is. The vendor quickly responds and they proceed to have a quiet barter as to how many Mangoes she should buy and what a good price is. They decide and the vendor places the precious fruit the left side of an old scale and a two kilo weight on the other. He adds and detracts a few of the little treasures until the scales match and then pours the fruit into a plastic bag before handing them to my host mother.

“Thik Hei?” Aunty asks me, I nod. “I will now go to get the other food.” She tells me in her soft Marathi accent. I shake my head and we continue through the body of the Mandi. As we finish at each stop, I begin to feel more and more comfortable and even start to touch some of the food.
Although my scarf begins to fall off my head, people still don’t seem to recognize me as a foreigner. As we walk towards the exit of the Mandi, I can feel the light rain hitting my head. I reach for my scarf and cover my forehead, nose, and mouth as Aunty has instructed me to do.

Aunty places the bags of food into the scooter and she nods her head, telling me to sit on the back to the bike. Aunty starts the engine and feel the same wind come over my head. Rain water hits my glasses as we race through traffic. I place my hands on the sides of my legs and as the wind once again whips past my body, I feel at home.