I fell in love with the bir bazar the first time we tried it the winter we moved to Delhi. Heaps of fresh vegetables in assortment of colors line the roadside, peppered with ironsmith shops, spice vendors, plastic basket vendors. It’s still humid and hot, not exactly the time to walk the length of Bir Bazar but we have been making time so that we can eat better than we have this summer.
The vendors now recognize us. I like to chitchat, ask questions about strange vegetables, and overall happenings of the day. Today was a good day. We found Vali bhaji (Malabar Spinach) at our favorite leafy veggies vendor at the end of the bazar. I have been looking for a cutting to start my own vine. Now I have one. We also found Desi varieties of pumpkin and white gourd. Expensive but worth it. Everything now-a-days otherwise is hybrid and huge. Other vegetables were expensive too. Apparently, flooding of Yamuna a couple weeks back destroyed the vegetable crops. I had read about it in the newspaper and had wondered if our vegetables came from these farms in the floodplains. It is a scary thought, given how polluted the water is.
Every year Yamuna crosses the flood line, policemen inform the basti to gather their belongings and move into the makeshift tents built on higher ground that the government provides. The news item said that the people were trying to save their produce till the water was almost ankle or knee high, risking their lives as the policemen urged them to move to higher ground. It seems it happens every year and Delhi looses chunk of its vegetable supply. Many of our veggies today came from Rajasthan and Haryana. After the river recedes, the riverside farms will crop up again and we will start getting vegetables in a couple of months, depending on what they sow. The cycle goes on in the same exact way every year.
It was very intersting how the vendors talked about the river reverently. “Yamunaji” they called her. Our neighbour Tauji also calls the river Yamunaji I remembered. Just the other day he was telling us stories of major flooding in 1970s when the water came as far as his house and the ground floor was underwater.
For the last year and a half we have been in Delhi, I have tried to stay away from the river. To me it is just a polluted stinking mess. Listening to the stories and the way people talk about Yamunaji, has whetted my apetite to explore more about the river and how the people relate to her.

















I arrived the night before the beginning of the fair to see the procession and the first day festivities. The taxi left me half way in the bazar as the roads were blocked. The enthusiasm was overflowing, and it seemed like the entire town was in the street. I walked down the familiar road of our childhood. The Lakshmi temple, the cold-drink place where my mama once treated me with ginger soda, the Vithoba temple -our summer vacation stomping ground, surprised at the changed facades of the houses we knew so well, and then the comforting first glimpse of my grandparent’s front door and the house, unchanged. Eager hugs as I enter the house, giving each other a loving once over, barrage of questions, comments, offers of food, tea. A welcome assault on all senses after a long time away.





