Subzi Mundee
jahan phaloon or subziyon kay saath gharib ki mehnat bhi sisti bikti thee
سبزی منڈی
جہاں پھلوں اور سبزیوں کے ساتھ غریب کی محنت بھی سستی بکتی تھی
If it was only Razzaque or Zaman (our family helpers) and I, we would take the Karachi University public bus and get off at the station called Subzi Mundi (Vegetable/Produce Market). It was the second stop after Sui Gas station once the bus left the university campus. In my childish, joyful impatience, I would get ready to jump off just after the roundabout of the green apartment complex of Hasan Square. If Ammi would come along then we would drive to Mandi, as that meant shopping the whole extended family. Unless Razzaque and I were just going for something seasonal, it was not possible to haul everything and walk home from the bus stop. Regardless, going to Sabzi Mundi was a ritual I looked forward to as much as visiting my cousins and loved ones. Always with eagerness and excitement to see what was on display. It was a sense of lapsed familiarity, the seasonal appearance, that created the anticipation of our reunion.
Each visit was an adventure that has me rooted with immense respect for Mother Earth. It wasn’t just a produce market, it was a theme park, a museum, and a field trip. It was an experiment of human tolerance, of visual inequities and learning to live with what was meant for you. It was a lesson in wants and needs, and bare survival. It displayed human misery, generosity, kindness, hunger, misfortune, wealth, poverty in ways that one rarely sees them come together. In hindsight, it was also a cultural window to the numerous social strata that called Karachi home. But to anyone who walked in, it was a marketplace full of life, and chaotic vibrancy. You navigated your way into a cornucopia of fresh seasonal vegetables, fruits, verdant fragrances, and so much more. Yet getting through this collection of emerald mercantile wasn’t for the dainty and faint-hearted. To get to the golden fleece you had to walk by small hills and valleys of rotting refuse of garbage. The composting mass was exposed to illustrate the end of life for many, beginning for others, or just some junction in the cycle of life. The stench was hard to miss as you would walk across the sewer drains that were full of decomposing fruits, vegetables and whatever had been thrown or brought in by the rivulets of rain overflowing from the drains around. One could tell you were at the Mundi bus stop without even looking outside. The whiff of breeze laden with aromatic esters and ketones released by fermenting aged fruits, vegetables and manure from stray animals would hit you a few blocks away. Its subtle transition that even the diesel fume spewing from trucks and busses couldn’t suppress, it was distant and yet with an undeniable presence. A cacophony of smells that could not be singled out but was a morgue for the sugary fruits and vegetables or the display of their youth in prime shape. They were prideful of the lands they were born in, ofter associated with a town or city they were raised in. This was my first lesson that even fruits and vegetables have ethnicities and domicile. Sindhi Chillies and Nisarpuri Onions, Punjabi Tinday, Peshawari Phulgobhi, and so on. Each with their own symbol of elitness or humble presence. This class separation was further elevated among fruits. Mangoes from Mirpurhkas, Guava from Maleer, Hunza Apricots, and names of lands that seemed so distant and exotic to those of us mortals who would not be prviliged to travel and see them, while for many others they were the taste of their home that had to be left for economic betterment. I guess it just added to the exoticness of a produce that would otherwise be “just an outcome of plants completing their life cycle “.
Wandering cows, dogs, puppies, kittens, cats, sheep, and goat walked to devour whatever was salvagable, and edible while adding to the recycled detritus that could be called fertilizer. Occasionally the disdained rats or mice could scurry through these mounds and disappear in obscurity. Poverty, hunger and hope brought people and stray animals to the same mess, and to their knees in dumps of rotting garbage, and it was just business as usual for most who ignored it. Numbness and callousness of heart were displayed shamelessley with disregard. Before you got to the leafy, verdant stalls there would be a plethora of small mounds of decaying cornucopia. If you went during the rainy season, you would walk through a stream of discarded packaging, corn husk, sugar cane stalk, mango peels and pits, cracked watermelon that appeared to be laughing at you, and whatever didn’t sink in the flowing water. Disposable plastic bags had not been commonly available so everyone brought their own grocery baskets and large carrying bags. Needing to survive, to eat, perhaps desperation, or simply the outcome of unending hopeless poverty, showed up as elderly men, and young boys, some much younger than me, walking carelessly barefoot, while shoppers worried about soiling their shoes, they would walk over the garbage dumps to be the first ones to catch you so they could carry your grocery bags for tips while you shopped. Impoverishment, hunger, and those who capitalize on mankind’s suffering, love to hummer around food as it is the most exploitable of the basic human needs. There would be a mountain of food all around the “have-nots” and they could only afford to look at it while the “have-all” purchased them without awareness of this inequity. I always wondered why Ammi sometimes hired these kids but still made me and Razzaque carry some of the loads instead of letting them do it all. Ammi once explained that she wanted them and me to honor the dignity of labor so she paid them the best we could afford, bought some fruits for them, and made sure that I didn’t think I was better than them in any way. I was just fortunate that my parents were not poorer than their parents. I didn’t understand the concept so I wanted to show off that I could carry the heavier bag myself and didn’t really need them. I carried my bag with pride. I didn’t see the bounties of the earth as a heavy load but as a source of excitement, wonder and mysterious gifts of nature.. Whatever earth could produce that was considered edible in that season was on display for sale. Each visit, it was impossible to imagine the diversity of colors, shapes, smells, textures, sizes, and varieties of the creations that would end up in kitchens, and those who could afford more than daily meals would fill their pantries.
Razzaque taught me though hard to believe but there was a hierarchy to this mayhem. Auctioneers, wholesalers, restaurant suppliers, large retailers, exporters, daily hawkers, and street vendors, all made their living through this mega outdoor mall. The first rows were the temporary stalls, just four branches of kikar wood (mesquite) that would be inserted in the ground along with the burlap tarp as the roof and another one as the floor covering. All of the produce would be on the ground laid or stacked, depending on what it was. This was a zone of early bargain hunters, and opportunist shoppers as these unlicensed hawkers would be forced to move out as the day went by. They were in for a hard-earned yet fast-in-fast-out strategy. Whatever was left would be sold to the daily street-walking vegetable cart hawkers who were the lifeblood of the vegetable trade in the streets of neighborhoods throughout the city. The subzi wala (greengrocer) would strategically load up their carts with the produce of daily meal preparation, along with seasonal attractions, and some risky bets such as kohlrabi that could occasionally bring them good returns. These guys knew what the housewives wanted, needed, and purchased to prepare their daily meals. You could always count on potatoes, tomatoes, cilantro, ginger, chilies/peppers, garlic, lemons, and onions no matter what. They understood the various neighborhoods, their tastes, the ethnic delicacies, and the nuances that made the customers feel special. It was the simplest of commerce that thrived on mutual understanding. It was a relationship that was fostered on knowing that subzi wala would remember to bring what the household matriarch was planning to cook today or perhaps most knew but would never accept that he was the real designer of today’s menu. It was harmony, and most of the households bought from the mobile cornucopia that walked by, showering them with the bounties of the earth for very little. A few chilies, lemon, and a small bunch of mint or coriander were just a bonus handed generously as a token of appreciation. It was amazing, how the seller would diplomatically hold people from buying too much as others depended on him too. Just enough for the various households so the neighbors on the next street would also have enough left for them.
The next rows in the mandi were stalls, followed by small warehouses, and larger godowns that were for the auctioneers. Small Suzuki pickup trucks loaded with vegetables in stacks, sacks, and bunches would start arriving very early. Traders would offload their produce in their stalls and stores. It was chaotic to an untrained eye, but the system was entrenched in customs and traditions that had invisible boundaries. Give and take was the currency and each of the traders looked out for the neighbor’s stall. Small warehouses with roll-up doors belonged to established vendors that were probably commodities of single produce such as potatoes, onions, and tomatoes, which were the main staples of the home cooks everywhere. The joy and surprises were tied to the arrival of the seasonal produce. Gourds, radishes, carrots, beans, cauliflowers, cabbages, mustard greens, spinach, amaranth, kurfa/kulfa purslane, red spinach, kohlrabi (gath gobi), loki, luffa (torai), okra, and sweetest pea pods or the garbanzo pods were the highlights when available. Seasonal deprivation would create a sense of delayed gratification and anticipation. All produce came in its good time, on nature’s clockwork. The joys of different seasons in a tropical city are only tasted through the produce that is harvested once a year.
Occasionally, I would go alone with Razzaque who was the gentlest of a soul I have known. He was so much more than Papa’s lab assistant. To me he was a beloved mentor, a beacon of experiential knowledge, in touch with nature, plants, vegetables, the etiquette of dealing with hawkers, and people in general. He taught me so much more than just how to identify fruits, or if and when they were off-season or coming from cold storage. He would show me how to tell if the produce was at its peak of flavor (without even tasting it) from the external markings, smell, shape, color, firmness, textures, season and size. He ingrained the importance of local, seasonally harvested produce. He taught me how to respect the farmers who cultivated the produce, and those who sold these goods. He taught me to overlook the aesthetics and appearance but to recognize the value of fragrance and taste. Cost was never the only deciding factor in negotiating with the hawkers. He taught me that every honest work is meaningful and that judging the work and worker would rob me of a great life lesson and experience. I would watch him as he picked the sun-dried shallots and show me how they had gone past their prime. The green sprout on the onion would indicate that it had been picked much too late or was stored too long exposed to light. The sprout would alter the flavor when cooking and the inner layers would be soft and placid when chopped would rob the chef of its texture. The eyes of potatoes with a light green shade would tell a similar story, but he would never discard a vegetable by its appearance. He would show me how a scarred vegetable had blemishes as I had scars from my cuts and wounds, but it had no impact on my character nor would these marks have an impact on the taste or the character of the produce. They would be a bargain to get and once you have peeled and carefully diced them, you would not even know that these products were anything but perfect. One could save a lot of money that way. Rooted vegetables such as carrots, radishes, kohlrabi, turnips, and beets, are best bought as a bunch with their green intact. You could cook both the greens and roots. The greens would be a good indicator of their freshness, however, if the leaves were wilted you looked for the firmness of the root and strength of the tip of the root. If the tapering root was flaccid, then it was best to avoid it as it had seen better days. Hydrating it would not bring back the crunch that is the signature of these colorful inverted domes and spires.
Just as in life, each vegetable has its infancy, youth, prime, and sunset stages. He shared his love for nature with humility and respect for every fruit and vegetable we would purchase or just walk by.
Just adjacent to the vegetables were the rows of fruit stalls which operated fairly similarly, except some of the fruits came from much farther in the country and had very short shelf life. The slim finger-like green sunder khani grapes would arrive in keekar (mesquite crates) packed with straws. The Hunza apricots, plums, and peaches were a rare sight but in season were abundant. Apples, pears, and citrus were seasonal. Kinnow tangerine, Mosambi (oranges), and sweet lime (mitha) would arrive late in the year. Watermelon, melon, surda, gurma, kharbooza, and in the season the cheeku, bari baere, persimmon, guava, jamun, and phalsa, would show up in heaps. I don’t know how far they traveled, but they appeared fairly fresh when sold. Refrigeration was not affordable so they had to be sold very soon.
The most awaited of all fruits was the Mango, of course. But that’s only available in summer. Typically, mangoes are sold picked and packed to be ripened after a few days. We normally brought langra and sindhri sold in a wooden crate was packed fruits wrapped mostly in hay and newspaper. You could notice the faint scent of the ripening mango which is a good indicator for its
We had a few trees in our backyard, a langra/malda, safeda, chaunsa, and a small variety that no one really could identify but it was pulpy and we enjoyed it thoroughly. Home mangoes were always harvested later than commercial varieties as Karachi mango season would begin with the moonsoons. The cooing sounds and the rains would be the arrival of Koel (cuckoo) and it would also be the start of the mango season. Each year we received some langra, sindrhi or chaunsa that was a gift from Papa’s industrialist friend who had mango orchards in Sindh. At the mandee, Sindhri, Dasehri, Anwar Rathol, Chaunsa, Langra, and sometimes Fajri and Totapari would also show up. Packed in crates these mangoes were picked early and ripened in storage. They would still be green or partially yellow depending on the variety. Anwar Ratol and Dusehri were fairly expensive. They both were a bit long, and pointy and were mostly yellow in color fading into shades of green.
Much like Karachi and its inhabitants, life has changed to a point where these are distant memories embedded in the tastes, smell, shape and experience of holding the beauty of nature. Nostalgia is biased with perception and sometimes better left as a pleasant memory. Subzi mandi is no longer where it used to be and neither am I. Life has taken me far away but the memories remain.
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