The Loudest Vendor in Bangalore
Every morning around 10a, she didn’t just arrive - she took the stage. You always heard her before you saw her.
Her voice rose blaringly loud above the incessant traffic, beeping horns, buzzing engines, chattering conversations — it was a full-bodied call to behold the delectable treasure trove of fresh fruits and vegetables she was selling.
Every announcement had an operatic quality to it. Expansive enough to fill a concert hall. Then, she would turn the corner.
She was as thin as could be. Her skin weathered from the blazing Bengaluru heat. Hair unkempt in the definition of a messy bun. Her slippers were broken, barely protecting the bottoms of her feet from the hot asphalt.
Every day she pushed a massive cart — heavy, wooden, and not particularly road-ready but piled high with fresh produce. She was strong. Determined. And she laughed easily.
There is something about seeing someone living so visibly on the edge — economically and even physically — that can make you uncomfortable.
To see… Struggle. Hardship. Inequality. And yes, all of that is probably true. But what I got to see was the opposite of defeat. It was determination.
Her voice was not apologetic for the intrusion. It was authoritarian, with an edge almost like an order that you must obey. Crying out the tempting vegetables on offer. Each word launched into the air like a missile trying to find its target.
I found myself anticipating her arrival. Not just for her delicious produce. But because she embodied something I didn’t expect. Joy.
Not the carefully designed joy of planned retreats and blissful, mindful meditation. But street joy. Sunburnt joy. Joy that coexists with hardship.
There is a temptation, when witnessing someone toiling so hard under difficult conditions, to pity. But she did not ask for pity. Nor did she deserve it. She commanded attention. Took up space with her voice.
Over these past few weeks, I have been thinking a great deal about healing. About compassion and hope.
There are people whose circumstances look objectively hard. Yet they remain expansive.
There are people whose circumstances look objectively comfortable. But they live their life in contraction - never truly claiming their joy.
The correlation is not as simple as we would like it to be, but watching her each morning, I began to realize that she was not joyful because her life was easy. She was joyful because she was present. There for every moment.
She pushed that cart with conviction. With determination. She will never know that she became a part of my healing those days. But she did. A life lived on the edge can still be filled with joy.
Note: This text originally appeared on my Substack here: https://www.mindfulleaders.info/