Proust flash.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

City of canals and bridges, Venice has no motor wali roads. Venicewale walk on paved streets; their city’s signature sound used to be the clack-clack of their footsteps. Eventually replaced by the boring hum of suitcase wheels dragged by tourists.

Surface in a city matters.

At the entrance to Khan Market, which turns seventy-five this year, the ground surface has recently been redone. The uneven tarmac is gone. Replaced by grey and red granite tiles, arranged like a chessboard, interrupted only by a manhole cover. The said stretch runs along the market’s front lane, from Fabphoto to Kama Aryuveda.

Khan Market of course gathers the VIPs, the famous, the well-heeled. The new flooring has yet to learn their weight. It overlooks the shops facing the market gate, staging the same ritual daily. Cars slide in, doors flap open, fashionable folks step out. Such scenes, especially in the evenings, drift into a kind of Belle Époque afterglow, with figures dressed for display, like opera crowds in Paris or Vienna, where privilege would step out to be seen. This small area in the market is in fact one of the few spots in the capital for a celeb spotter to freely see faces seen in HT City’s colourful society pages.

One afternoon, before the present paving, the elderly daughter of the last nawab of a former principality stands at the centre of the driveway, her coiffured hair swelled up like a crown. She was probably awaiting her chauffeured car. Another day, the stately, plump ambassador of a middling Schengen nation pauses there, suit and tie in place, holding a rani pink Good Earth bag in one hand and a pastel green Ladurée bag in the other.

Reactions to the new paving vary. A parking attendant likes it, saying the work was completed a week ago. A shopkeeper, who credits the project to the city’s municipality, isn’t enthused. Another shrugs: change, he says philosophically, is the only constant.

Whatever, the market’s front lane has two bookstores; both must stock Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. In the novel, the hero famously stumbles while walking on his city’s uneven paving stones. The stumble abruptly releases long-dormant memories within him; his body summoning those yaadein before his mind can.

By that measure, the new paving at Khan Market’s entrance shows promise. Over time, these tiles—if they last!—will gather the weight of footsteps, chance encounters, and passing years. One day, the foot of a Khan Market regular might harmlessly hit the edge of a loosened tile. In that instant, a Proustian flash might awaken long-dormant memories in her too. Already material memories are forming on the new tiles. A couple of them are bearing the red stains of paan spit.