Bhutta Le Lo

The Internet is arguably full of unsolicited advice on relationships, skincare, parenting, and whatnot! It often leads to this constant tiff in the mind when you suddenly want to apply what you just read, forgetting the advice you read the day before, right? Oh, and let's not forget the priceless family reactions of “whatttt” and ‘not again’ that follow after trying out that wisdom! For me, more often than not, it results in ‘are-you-doing-the-right-thing-for-your-child’ doubt and guilty introspection of my parenting choices.

Assuring myself that my parents’ generation was deprived of such advice and yet led happy, contented lives, I consciously unfollowed all those accounts one day. After all, they managed just fine without being told how to boil an egg in twenty different ways! I decided to go the old-school way of learning by doing and relied on instincts rather than stressing about exposing my kids to six languages before the age of six or forbidding ourselves from ever saying 'no' to our children.

I got a good chance to apply the old-school way when I went to my small hometown Kunkuri this summer. Remembering how my childhood Sundays were filled with fascination at the sabzi mandi—the colorful bangles, freshly picked small piles of fruits and vegetables, the irresistible aromas of samosas and puchkas, and the vibrant pots and handicrafts, I decided to recreate this core memory with my daughters. So, one Sunday—as it had to be—I took them to the mandi, eager to share this slice of my past with them. Little did I know, this trip would unfold into an adventure none of us would forget.

At the mandi, I saw the same spark in my daughters' eyes as they beheld the freshly picked field corn. We approached the vendor and asked for the price. My motherly teaching instincts, having signed off from the internet, rose again. "20 Rs per kg," he said. "Not that bad," I thought. "An opportunity to teach on a good day is not something to be missed," I mused. I asked my daughters if they would be interested in becoming vegetable sellers for a day, which they gladly accepted.

I sent my daughters to do market research to see if anyone else in the mandi was selling corn. Finding no competitors, we negotiated with the vendor and bought his 80 kg of corn for Rs 15 per kg. Looking at his face we were certain that it was the best deal he had seen in his years of selling. With a mix of confusion and amusement, finally led him to ask, "kaha se ho aap log, idhar ke nahi lagte?" We smiled and took over his spot under the tree with our mats, gunny bags, weighing machine and gullak (piggy bank)! Our makeshift shop was ready, and we were excited. We decided to sell the corn for Rs 30 per kg.

In the first hour after setting up our stall, we saw only a trickle of customers. Most of them were acquaintances or intrigued passersby curious about our unusual presence in the market. With 75 kg of bhutta still waiting to be sold, my daughters were already showing signs of boredom. Not wanting to be too hard on them, I let them take a lunch break. As the market began to bustle with activity, more people streamed in to buy their daily essentials I managed to strike a few more deals before my daughters returned after a long lunch break. Their creative side kicked in, and they made a few selling banners to help our business grow.  One banner featured a beautifully drawn bhutta with vibrant yellow kernels, while the other boldly advertised a special offer: 2 kg for 50 Rs.

Intrigued by the cheerful artwork and the enticing offer, the customers started flocking to our stalls. The nearby sellers were also amused by our advertising idea, and I bet they will start using banners now. Admidst the bustling Mandi, two cute voices echoed, canvassing people to buy bhuttas. “Bhutta le lo; bhutta le lo.”

With each passing minute, our gullak grew heavier, and the smiles on my daughters' faces grew broader. They had mastered market research, advertising, and negotiation, but now it was time for the real-life test: meeting different types of people. Being cushioned amongst familiar faces at home, the mandi stint also served as an excellent chance to expose them to a variety of characters. There were some who looked drunk, stumbling through the market, others playing music to beg for whatever the sellers could spare, also a few people who were a bit kich-kich, haggling endlessly before making a purchase. One lady even managed to cheat them, claiming she had paid 100 Rs which she hadn’t. (My daughters are still not over giving that thug the bhutta and essentially paying her for it.) Initially startled by such people, by the end, my daughters were confidently sizing up customers based on their walk and body language. A great teaching, I swear!

After almost four hours, we had sold half of our bhuttas. Having secured our break-even amount, I asked my daughters if they wanted to close the stall and head home. Surprisingly, they refused! They were determined to sell all the bhuttas. Taking cues from other sellers, they bundled up some corn into khejas—accumulating them in bunches rather than selling by weight, and offering them at a discounted price of Rs 20 per kg. What a steal it turned out to be! Our business was on a roll by the sunset. After selling almost everything and gifting some to our nearby sellers (as a gesture of appreciation for their guidance), we folded our mats in triumph and called it a day!

Oh, the deep sense of accomplishment and triumph! With the day's hard work and earnings (yes, we did make a whopping profit of Rs 480!), it called for a celebration at a nearby stall. With every puchka we savored, we reminisced about the great time we had. Another colorful Sunday indeed. Am I proud of my uncoventional parenting style? Absolutely!