The market is a breathing, murmuring, living organism.
It calls out to me.

Hands in curry powder. Paper exchanges. Dog eared notes.
Stains red.
Between rounds of tea and generous fistfuls of cashew I travel with her through her pockets of memory. She calls out to me.

Parvathamma, the lady selling spices in one by lane of this monster of a market leads a life of parallels. One fine morning I pointed at her life a camera lens in her face. She never refused.

Being her shadow was never too intrusive.
You do your work and I will do mine, she said. I sometimes look at her portrait and wonder if a life is stored in the shape of a face. Or in the wisps of the silvery greys of hair.
I offered her some money once.

She did refuse. Invite me to your wedding she said.

Exhibited at Gallery Samuha, Bangalore on the 27th, 28th and 29th of Jan 2010 as part of the Flower Project by Smriti Mehra.
Details here.