Of my many childhood memories, one has endured for half a century—I thought it would be better to write it down before Dr Alzheimer’s visit and save it in a storage, safer than the one between my ears.

If I had to choose one favorite Sunday activity during my boyhood days, it would be visiting the Chor Bazaar(Flea market) in the Jama Masjid neighborhood and the second-hand book bazaar in Darya Ganj with Baba(my father). For the unfamiliar, Jama Masjid and Darya Ganj were vicinities in Old Delhi that defined the syncretic essence of Old Delhi. I use the past tense deliberately, as both areas still exist but sans the Sunday Bazaars.

The flea market had its set of attractions—a list of not-so-usual suspects would include a horseshoe magnet made from a worn-out horseshoe; a wire puzzle; a Meccano toy set; 78 RPM vinyl records; gramophone stylus pins;  a mechanical combination lock; and uncountably more items. Baba, a radio enthusiast, would hunt for valves and aerials to repair his beloved(and proudly unbranded) radio. My apologies to the readers born in the 70s and after—you would need to Google some of the terms I used.

On alternate Sundays, we would skip the flea market and hit the book bazaar. It was like ignoring Phantom’s first treasure chamber, containing valuables(gold, diamonds,…) and going for the second, containing invaluable stuff(Solomon’s sword, Nefertiti’s goblet,…) while on a tour of the Skull Cave. Given the modest means and a large family, books figured lower in the budget line items below utility bills, rents, and school/college fees. But then, reading was deemed as essential as Roti, Kapda, Makaan in our house. Neighborhood libraries and second-hand book shops came in handy and filled the gap.