Shopping with mum

Helping a mother with her shopping

Being the eldest of two other siblings, I had some serious family responsibilities. When I turned ten, my father was posted to a remote town. I became the man of the house by stealth, albeit at that tender age. Our family was large, with two grandmothers living in our home. Running a large household was a big business in a village in Sri Lanka in the sixties. I helped my mother with many things in the household.

On weekends, I accompanied my mother to shopping, helping her carry the shopping bags. We went to the markets and clothing stores together. I was her travel companion in a country dominated by men. Probably, her guard.

I loved going to the Pettah market in Colombo with her. We took the trip, a ten-kilometre ride from our village, by bus. The groceries, fresh fruit, and vegetables from the main market in Sri Lanka were bound to be cheap than in the local town centre.

The Pettah market was busy with buyers, traders, go-betweens and workers. Dark-skinned bare-bodied men wearing knee-length sarongs shuttled up and down the streets with cargo on their shoulders. Some men pulled their long trolleys, overburdened with gunny bags of merchandise. Lorries plied the roads, bringing fresh produce from country towns in Sri Lanka. Slow bullock carts slowed the traffic movements on tight and narrow roads. Shoppers, hawkers, coolies with baskets on their heads, and all kinds of men and women jostled in the tiny spaces in massive mass movements.

It was a bustling market, full of everything one could need or want. Fresh and dried fish, fruits and vegetables, grains and spices, all piled up in colourful heaps. The shoppers bargained with the vendors, comparing prices and quality. People from different backgrounds and places, urban and rural, crowded the narrow lanes and tight corners, filling their baskets and bags. They passed by snake gourds of light green, eggplants of deep purple, lentils of bright red, and dry fish of pungent smell. The air was thick with the mingled aromas of produce and labourers’ sweat, amplified by the tropical heat of Sri Lanka.

For a small boy, watching the market was a lesson in commerce, both wholesale and retail.

Amongst these commotions, I helped my mother to carry the shopping, walking close to her on the narrow paths in the busy market.

My mother held my hand in case I lost my way as she jostled with the crowds, navigating the tight passageways among a myriad of humanity in this constricted market, where personal space was a novel idea.

An unforgettable thing happened one day. I was looking at toy cars at a vendor, as my mother was buying vegetables. I got carried away and drifted admiring the toy cars, a boy’s wonder.

After a few minutes, I looked around, searching for my mother, but I could not find her. I panicked. It was the fear of my life. I walked up and down to find her, but she was nowhere to be found. I thought of what I could do to go home alone, but I had no money.

My mother had instructed me to return to the last place in case I was lost. So, I stayed in the same area near the toy vendor, hoping my mother would turn up. I looked up and down everywhere, hoping to glimpse her or her saree.

To my absolute luck, my mother turned up after a few minutes. I felt it was a lifetime of waiting. She gave me a blast for not staying with her. She was red with anger. She nearly hit me that day, and I was lucky to escape her punishment. Nevertheless, I was happy that we found each other again. She must have seriously worried about losing her eldest boy.

As I was still reeling from my shock, my mother took me to a drinks stall. She bought me a cool falooda drink. It was the tastiest drink I had ever drunk after those few minutes of angst only a short while ago. Maybe, that was how my mother expressed her joy in finding her boy.

I learnt my life lesson and never drifted from my mother when we shopped from that day.

As I got older, I shopped alone in my local town family. My mother gave me ten rupees and a list of things I had to buy. My mother was always organised, with a list of things. She knew the likely prices of each item.

I visited the shops, fish stalls, vegetable stores, and groceries with her list. I learnt the art of negotiating prices with the vendors. I rode my bicycle with a huge bag of groceries on its handle for the family.

I continued to help my mother into my teenage years, often shopping with her at the weekend markets in Colombo. I was bigger now, and I could carry a bigger load. I had earned her confidence so much that she could send me alone to Abdul Rehmans, a famous appliance store in Pettah, to buy our family’s first electric iron by age of fifteen.

I loved being her helper and her proud shopping companion.

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