If anyone were to peer into my soul every other morning as I float into the little para bajaar, they would spy a Bengali babu.

You know the kind you see in Kalighat patachitras? My bajaar soul is just such an old-world dandy. Immaculate dhuti-panjabi, hair glistening with oil, twisty moustache, hint of aator... Basically, a hedonistic creature, borne by an impossible sense of well-being and a voyeur's zeal.

Purchases are secondary; the bajaar is my GetFlix, streaming through my mornings and setting the tone for the day.

There are many approaches to the bajaar, but I don't like to experiment there. The lead-in has to be just so.

And here's the running order, as I like it. First, the missing keymaker. Honest, in all my countless exits and entrances, I have never known the little wooden contraption with its concentric garlands of keys to have a minder. Next, the food stall and in it, the little girl with the bad eye. The same who always has trouble finishing up breakfast - a plateful of watery rice. Between chopping up heaps of potatoes, pale chunks of pumpkin or aubergine cut in longish slices, the mother hollers. Ears get boxed. Yelps follow. Beyond them, sits the very zen woman with her marigold and hibiscus heaps. Then, the sunbathing felines. Thereafter, the man stitching Mother Hubbard nighties.

And then, just like that, the bajaar bursts upon the eye. Sunlight and square skies, decibels and decimals...

Most weekdays I head straight for the fishmonger's, a hyper man called Torab, who calls every other morning. Instead of a "hello" he sputters - " Pabda, tyangra, bagda, golda..." His pitch climbs with every utterance, as does the urgency in his voice, words meld into one another and clang like alarm bells, till at one point I realise he has transferred his anxiety to me. And suddenly I am this semi-primeval creature, a hunter who has to have her fish. I must. I must. I must. I fear for my heart and Torabda's.

Tarapada next to him is the opposite. Wise, smiling, composed, he is the live advert of his wares. I go to him for my supply of rohu or katla. Torabda's sulk deepens.

Often, a little woman will appear and put down amid gills, fins and silver fish scales, red tea in thick glass tumblers, two rusks covering the mouth. Tarapada da's assistant Bachhu slices and dices fish and cleans up their insides between noisy sips.

Most shopkeepers have their sons and grandsons assisting them. It is interesting to see how face cut, eyes, nose, build, gestures even, repeat themselves. A geneticist's live fest. The fathers are dressed in vests and lungis, their rubber chappals put away, at attention. The sons are in tees, ripped jeans, feet encased in croc-alikes. They have highlights in their hair, ear-phones plugged into fair-sized phones, eyes on screen. They are doing their fathers a great favour just by existing.

The customers are mostly elderly, long retired people. Unlike the younger crowd, they do not haggle themselves hoarse over a head of cauliflower or a packet of mushrooms. They spend their money with care, bordering on reverence.

Awaiting my turn at Bablu, the vegetable vendor's, I watch them. The frail woman picking one drumstick or one bitter gourd for her shukto. I have seen her break a green chilly and sniff attentively before proceeding to purchase five rupees' worth. I watch the nervous senior in the smart blazer refer to his list from time to time and call home the minute he fears things are out of syllabus.

Bablu's stall faces the shop selling chicken. I keep my eyes averted, draw in my breath. I have learnt to tune out the frenetic squawking. The old man running the place looks like an old bird himself. They say much married couples resemble one other. Perhaps it happens when you have been married to your profession for long.

But I cannot apply this theory to the grocer, Baapi. He keeps a wooden face. The only time I saw him animated was when a customer asked for star anise. How was she going to use it, he had asked hungrily.

On Sundays the bajaar speaker breaks into song - Roop tera mastana, Ghazab ka hai din... I get butterflies in my stomach. One time, I was enjoying song and spectacle, when I bumped into Torab da. Surprised to see me around, he said delicately, "Mamoni, I hope you are doing something else with your life other than groceries?"

If only he could peer into my soul...