Dr Wayne Dyer famously said, “The greatest gift that you were ever given was the gift of your imagination.”

                  Every child has limitless imagination, and so did I. This imagination was stoked by an unregimented childhood where I was allowed to explore and learn on my own.

I remember my first visit to the ‘haat’, a temporary market, bursting to its seams with life.

The ‘haat’ was held on the sands of the Mayurakshi river that neatly folded the three edges of the small town of Sainthia. People from the nearby villages brought fruits, vegetables and earthen pots to sell in the bazaar.

                As a three year old child, I gazed in wonder at the colourful hustle bustle, where you needed to stretch your vocal chords to itshighest pitch to be heard. Yet before me unfolded a market place about which I would be studying in my Economics class years later.

                There were rows of men and women selling fresh leafy vegetables, fruits and earthen pots of different shapes and sizes. I felt vulnerable and lost in the bazaar not knowing what was really expected of me. My Man Friday carried large cotton bags and he knew exactly what to do. I was lost in the world of haggling and hassling over prices. The poor sellers sometimes pleaded with folded hands while I tugged at my companion’s white dhoti, urging him to stop this unfair bargain. Even at that tender age, somehow I understood that we were far more privileged than those poor men and women who travelled on foot for miles to reach the local bazaar.

              Oblivious of the elements of the market, I stared at some cages which sold parrots and small white rabbits. I wanted to have two snow white rabbits, but was denied right away. The denial stole away the colours of the day as I trudged along with a tear stained face. 

Soon the maelstrom of activities wiped my tears. There was a tea stall under a huge banyan tree where the aroma of the freshly brewed tea attracted many customers. The shop sold butterfly biscuits in glass jars and local made tiffin cakes. In those days, paper cups were unheard of and so the poor villagers slurped the pipping hot tea from earthen cups, while exchanging notes about their simple existence.

              Ages later, maybe in another world, I was taught the word ‘grassroot level.’ They were the sons and daughters of the red soil of Birbhum whose laboured sweat mingled with the red earth to bring food to our tables. I often keenly observed their simplicity which was as rudimentary as the ancient Earth.

Years later, my love for ‘Economics’ grew deep roots into my heart as I understood that it told the story of ‘those’ people who were many lightyears away from my easy existence. The technicalities of a ‘market’ perfectly blended with the ‘haat’ where white dhotis andwhite sarees with red borders graced my sellers who set market prices ‘perfectly’while understanding the underlying principles of demand and supply even without having the privilege of sitting in a classroom. If you ask me ‘how’, my aging heart will tell you that it is the task master called life whotaught them the cardinal principles of survivalso perfectly.