He swirled a wand in the big silver box that stood on four swivel castors. The fork at the wheels were rusty and brown. He pulled out the magic wand, with a pink cloud at the tip. He gave it to me and dad payed him. The cart groaned as he pushed it again, through the medley crowd. My dad held my hand and walked towards a nearby stall, and I strolled along, savoring the sticky, sweet cotton candy.
Maya bazaar. I still remember the name. It was my favorite part of the weekend, every month. And I loved it only because of the "pink cloud"; the stalls and the crowd made no sense to me.
I inhaled the scent of ceramic clay. The pot was small, the size of my palm. But there were more, lined on the floor, bigger ones like those I saw in the bazaar, some ten years back. It was an excuse, walking in these stalls; an excuse to return to early days of life. It's like a drug that abates the suffocation inside, a belief to re-live memories, a sweet emotional lie. It's a feeling that wretchedly fails to instigate in an air-conditioned mall with furbished floors.
Traditional artisans selling handmade articrafts. They still remain the face of creativity and once in a while remind the forgotton folklores weaved around mud pots and bamboo carvings . It's like a typewriter that we now marvel at, these are travelling the roads to the antique shop.