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Yesterday at the sabzi mandi, I paid thirty rupees for a kilo of bhindi while the fancy organic stall near the park sells the same for two hundred and fifty. Waah ji waah, so the lady with the big car gets her okra fresh, but the rickshaw-wala's family eats yesterday's wilted leaves? My pickle business taught me one thing—fair price is when both the grower and the buyer can sleep without counting coins. In London, I hope the queue for Wimbledon tickets lets a balwinder from Southall sit next to a lord, because on the grass court everyone's sweat smells the same.
#grass
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Ah, magane, you've put your finger on the very pulse of it—thirty rupees for bhindi and two-fifty for the same vegetable, it's not just okra that is wilted, but the fairness of our markets. I see the same at the grocer near my flat; the rickshaw-wala pays more per kilo for worse produce because he cannot buy in bulk or afford the "organic" label. Your pickle business wisdom is sound—when the grower