Lovlyanup

‘Hey! Be careful with those tomatoes, else they might get damaged," a middle-aged woman with a forehead dripping in sweat speaks inside a bus loaded with sacks full of vegetables. Dressed in a colourful maxi and draping a shawl, the woman is just one of the thousands of neighbourhood hawkers we encounter every day in the capital. Yet, her concerns for her goods show a dedication similar to any other individual business owner.
Dawn hasn't broken properly today, even though it's nearly 6. But the bus is packed with vegetables sellers transporting their wares from the Valley's biggest market at Kalimati to several other points inside the capital. As the driver gets ready to push the pedal like a super-express train, the early commuters take care to not trample on the vegetable sacks inside the vehicle. However, there is limited space inside, which means some of the hawkers must ride on top — a free-fall, if you can call it that. The conductor seems to have practised carrying the sacks on top — after all, he has been doing this everyday.
The biggest vegetable market in the country at Kalimati sees thousands of vegetable traders from different parts of the country gathering together for a round of haggling every morning. Over the million different shouts, one can barely figure out what's going on. However, there is a semblance of order in all that chaos. It is in the stories of these hawkers who toil long and hard all day long.
Parmananda Shah came to the valley 25 years ago from Birgunj in search of a better life. "I have been selling vegetables for the last two decades," says Shah, who has finally set up his own shop in Boudha after several locations. As could be imagined, it is a similar tale that one hears from Shah. The only bread winner of a family of seven, he still has to ask for money from home if he falls ill. What about his savings? "I made a profit of Rs. 1,000 one day." The next day, he made none.
Since one consumes vegetables everyday, the hawkers must bid for the lowest price every day as well, come rain or shine. Parbati Ghimire explains, "I come around 4 in the morning for the best of the stock, no matter the weather. I have been coming here since the last 13 years — even when it's pouring cats and dogs, as well as in the freezing cold." Parbati is 56 and has married off four kids, and currently lives with her youngest son at Jorpati.
The hawkers want to arrive at their respective destinations as early as possible, but the driver is a bit slow today. Dharma Raj Maipati, a grocer from Golfutar comes to the market around 4:30 and is in a hurry, despite it being only 6:15. "People start coming to buy milk early morning," he says.
The vegetable-selling economy is as unpredictable as the share market. For example, the current price of potatoes inside the valley is Rs. 160 a Dharni (2.5 kg), while just a week ago, they cost Rs. 80 for the same quantity. Though protests, strikes and political problems create a supply shortage, even the seasons are an important factor in deciding the prices. Basu Maharjan, a grocer since the last 18 years at Bafal, says, "These days, I make nearly 20% less profit as vegetables go dry in a day." Similarly, if a political event is a prolonged affair, hawkers begin to feel the pinch, as the supply itself dries up. Maipati says "normal people" think vegetable sellers make a lot of money, which isn't true at all. True, the profit element is not overlooked, as the hawkers have to pay the coolies and the vehicles' fares. But most consumers are aware of that, according to Ghimire.
However, there are others like Sita Khadgi who has learned to improvise and survive the hard times. In her late thirties, Khadgi says whenever a shortage occurs, she gets green vegetables like spinach and broccoli from the locals farmers. "These vegetables show immediate profit, as they have to be sold within a day or they will go stale," Khadgi says.
This cycle of their morning haggling amid the chaos, and on the bus to the local market continues everyday. They are among the city's lifeline, an essential part without whom the common man's meal cannot be completed. Yet, they struggle everyday — sometimes with the weather, sometimes with political volatility, and other times, with the fluctuations of daily fortunes. As expected, resentment brews here. A woman in her 40s who places her load carefully amid the back seats of the bus gives a vitriolic reply when asked about difficulties in the profession. "I don't want to talk about it because nobody can do anything to help people like us."
It is broad daylight by now, and the sun has risen hard over the valley. Residents wake up from their slumbers and begin to trot towards their neighbourhood hawker. And a new cycle of bargaining begins.