Creative 4
- Submitted by: nikhilthirumani
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- Category: English: Creative Writing
- Date Submitted: 10/14/2013 01:12 AM
- Pages: 5
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Creative 4
Every Saturday Papa and I would venture out to garage sales from Fremont to Sunnyvale. We’d set up camp bright and early on a Sunday morning at the San Jose Flea Market, to sell the Junk we brought. Including one-eyed Barbie dolls, loose legged mahogany tables and sewing machines; for a small, desirable profit. Entire sections of Flea market were filled with Indian families. The aisles would be filled with loudspeakers playing Indian music, the banging of tabla’s (Indian drum thing), and the constant chirping of small talk.
There was an unspoken code of behaviour among Indians at the flea market, you greeted the guy across the aisle, you invited him for a bit of your potato curry, or a cup of chai, and you chatted. Men would banter about their childhood, corruption & politics, the Indian cricket team and alike. Mothers would chirp about the prospects of their ‘gifted’ children, scandalous Bollywood news, and make endearing friendships by gossiping about the other ladies down the aisle.
Papa was a well-spoken man; he’d saunter down the aisles, clasping both his hands around the people he greeted. There were many times where Papa would be seen re-kindling friendships with people he knew from his home town Madras; mechanics and tailors alongside educated MBA’s, MBBS’s and out of work surgeons, lecturers and accountants, all of them selling substandard goods such as ‘hand me down’ wool coats and half melted candles, all for a bit of extra cash.
One Sunday morning, I went to grab two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Papa talking to an older, distinguished-looking man, wearing a bright red Sherwani, with a white scarf draping around his neck till his knees.
“Son!” Papa said, motioning me over, “This is Professor Khan, I knew him when he was doing his PHD in literature in Chennai. He ended up working in the university; he was a first class professor- you should ask him to...
Every Saturday Papa and I would venture out to garage sales from Fremont to Sunnyvale. We’d set up camp bright and early on a Sunday morning at the San Jose Flea Market, to sell the Junk we brought. Including one-eyed Barbie dolls, loose legged mahogany tables and sewing machines; for a small, desirable profit. Entire sections of Flea market were filled with Indian families. The aisles would be filled with loudspeakers playing Indian music, the banging of tabla’s (Indian drum thing), and the constant chirping of small talk.
There was an unspoken code of behaviour among Indians at the flea market, you greeted the guy across the aisle, you invited him for a bit of your potato curry, or a cup of chai, and you chatted. Men would banter about their childhood, corruption & politics, the Indian cricket team and alike. Mothers would chirp about the prospects of their ‘gifted’ children, scandalous Bollywood news, and make endearing friendships by gossiping about the other ladies down the aisle.
Papa was a well-spoken man; he’d saunter down the aisles, clasping both his hands around the people he greeted. There were many times where Papa would be seen re-kindling friendships with people he knew from his home town Madras; mechanics and tailors alongside educated MBA’s, MBBS’s and out of work surgeons, lecturers and accountants, all of them selling substandard goods such as ‘hand me down’ wool coats and half melted candles, all for a bit of extra cash.
One Sunday morning, I went to grab two cups of coffee from the concession stand and returned to find Papa talking to an older, distinguished-looking man, wearing a bright red Sherwani, with a white scarf draping around his neck till his knees.
“Son!” Papa said, motioning me over, “This is Professor Khan, I knew him when he was doing his PHD in literature in Chennai. He ended up working in the university; he was a first class professor- you should ask him to...