A light rain falls, turning the mud on the roadside slushy, but that just adds to the fun of shopping at Pallavaram’s Friday- chandai . Walk through the bollards, and you’re on a more-than-one-km-long shopping expedition that is grounded, rich, colourful, warm, funny, exhausting and addictive. Plants, saplings and flowers of every description greet you in the first few shopping spots and you are hooked. You step into a landscape dominated by reasonable household goods — they are on the floor, on rickety benches and inside tempos. You can buy goods to build/furnish/stock a house and still have money left for wearable goods and gadgets. “Just get the cement and bricks outside,” says my companion.
The Pallavaram Friday bazaar, which now spreads on the road to Tirusulam Railway station, goes back nearly 200 years. “This was a cattle shandy for the surrounding villages in the 19th Century,” says historian Varadarajan. “It was a place for the first ( seeyam ) milk from cows, that’s said to cure cold andcough in infants. Heifers, old and injured — all cows got sold, traders concluding deals with code-words and fingers under a towel. East India Company’s cooks from the St. Thomas Mount barracks came with interpreters to buy meat. The market expanded to include fowl, dried fish, vegetables and fruit.” The foreigners needed tableware and cutlery, it was brought in; they asked for antiques, brass mementos, and that too became part of the street-side inventory. “ Mattuchandai morphed into Mahachandai .”
Soon, it became two-way trade. Servants appropriated the furniture and fixtures of officers who returned home or got posted elsewhere and unloaded them at the chandai at throwaway prices. This is perhaps how the market became a second-hand haven. Books imported and issued to soldiers reached the shops. Leather reins were sold, horses were shod, soldiers bought horse-polish. Clothes that the gudu-gudu-paandi brought were cleaned and pressed for resale. Racing pigeons were quoted at Rs. 3,000 a pair.
“Fifty years ago, you could get inoculated against cholera and small-pox,” says Varadarajan. “Children crowded around paalgova counters and the youth looked for body-building/special medicines.” Today, the cattle is gone and the historic shandy has gained notoriety as a fence and spurious-goods market.
For more than a century, the chandai assembled on Defence property. With the Department of Atomic Energy acquiring the land, the bazaar of 600 registered, 400 non-registered shops moved to its current location. People troop in from the city and surrounding towns just hours after it opens at 3 a.m. Vegetables and fruits arrive in bags, dried fish is measured out in padis , onions go for Rs. 54 per kg, toor dal is Rs. 190 per kg. Furniture can be bought for a whistle. In an inevitable make-over, electronic goods — old and new — occupy large spaces on the floor and tables.
“The bicycle is branded,” says Karunan, “I can sell it for Rs 10,000 because I pay a rent of Rs. 500.”
It’s all part of the joy of chandhai -shopping. Shoppers become instant friends. Naresh from Kalpakkam brags that he bargained and bought a Rs. 4,000-worth pedestal fan for Rs. 400. He suggests I try out the basic mobile at Rs. 300; a smart phone is Rs. 4,000. Jagan and Seetha from Tirunelveli buy dresses, toys and books. “You should have an eye to detect defects,” Seetha cautions, “These come from year-end sales of big stores.” Senthil and friends are here for old machine parts. They will dismantle these for their mechanics class. Amudha has brought her children for an outing, Sami is buying electronic goods to sell in his town. Keeran picks up a Davy’s lamp that reads “Permissible flame-safe lamp, made for the Royal Navy, London 1920.” Antique? The shopkeeper shakes his head. Lakshmi, married to a Chennai-based Gujarati family, adds a handful of kismis and kaju to the spices I buy, saying, “Go to Surindernagar in Gujarat, my place; it is very clean, not like this.”
The chandai is eco-friendly — goods, especially electronics that might end up in landfills, are recycled and reused. It brings electric kitchen appliances within the reach of the lower middle-class. Yes, you’ll be taken on an imitation-goods ride, the washing machine won’t turn at home, the Rs. 100 Surat sari will probably have holes, but old doors, flex boards and shelves have stood the test of use. “But one thing is sure,” says Varadarajan. “You need to bargain to be shopping savvy. Consider yourself a super-shopper when the shopkeeper quotes an item worth Rs. 50 for 500 and you buy it for 200!”
