Gandhipuram
Street lamps illuminate the faces of shoppers; some excited, some nervous. And there are also the calm, smiling faces of those who do not actually belong to this city, yet feel connected to it. They quietly observe everyone around and soak in the festive fever. One of them is Talim Hussain, the Bihari flute seller, who woos the children in the vicinity with his melodic notes on the bansuri.
“This is so much like my home town. We celebrate fairs and festivals there with equal gusto!” he says. Talim comes to Coimbatore every Deepavali. He says he misses his hometown all the more, seeing all this excitement.
Talim’s soft voice and music soon gets drowned in the clamour of vehicle horns and haggling vendors. At eight in the night, Cross Cut Road teems with life and activity. Vans bearing fresh stocks of saris, churidar materials and dresses halt in front of Shree Devi Textiles. Aadiraman, the sales boy, jumps off the van. From inside the shop, three other boys rush to collect the parcels from him.
Aadiraman places 10 boxes on his friend’s head; he struggles to balance the weight. He says: “It is our 30th trip of the day. It’s been a busy week.”
Inside Shree Devi, ladies shout out their choice of saris to confused salesmen. They rummage through the maze of saris heaped on the tables while their bored husbands saunter into the men’s wear section. “Amma, I want panjumittai,” screams a kid and is instantly silenced by his father who hands him a balloon instead.
Outside, vendors sell toys, sweets and masks and entertain the exhausted customers, some of whom squat on the steps of these outlets.
“Orama ponga…Give way to the vehicles,” the voice of the city police blares through the loudspeaker from the control room. Young police officers patrol the streets, asking the people to not linger too long on the road.
One accidently eavesdrops on two young police officers. “People are crazy about shopping as ever. Earlier, they would come to buy just new podavais for Deepavali. But now, buying one podavai involves choosing matching accessories for it. Another reason to shop,” he laughs.
“It’s good for the vendors’ business,” his friend agrees.
With vandis and pavement stalls cluttering the roads, there is barely space to walk. A young girl checks her reflection in the pocket mirror as she tries out an earring from Arul Raj’s roadside fancy store. “Business is good because of the festive season,” Arul smiles.
He has neatly arranged hair clips, mirrors, nail polish bottles and jhumkas on a tarpaulin sheet spread on the pavement. Arul carts everything from Town Hall. Ashwini, a young employee at Cognizant, combs through Arul’s wares for an earring in black metal. Unlike big malls, here people do not run behind you to buy their products, she says. “You can shop at peace.”
Shinu K Verghese from Kerala loves to roam around Gandhipuram and enjoys nocturnal shopping here, “unlike in Kerala where every shop shuts down by 7 p.m.”.
And, then, suddenly: “Thengai,maangai, sundal..” a chorus rises in the air. The customers rush in the direction of the sound. The sundal vandis lit up by tiny tube-lights roll in. The tired cops and pedestrians halt here for a quick dinner before they resume their second round of purchase.
Vanitha and her son relish a plate of steaming hot sundal after a long day’s purchase. Vanitha, who is from Narasimhanaickenpalayam, runs a steel shop at her hometown. It is her self-declared holiday, today, she says. “Today, my husband is taking care of the business. It is a day for me and my boy to enjoy. We have great fun travelling together on the bus and getting a glimpse of the city life. Deepavali is a day we all wait for.”
