A Day in Devaraja Market – Chaos, Colors, and a Clash of Thoughts

The Buzzing Heart of Devaraja Market

A place so alive it drowns out your voice. That’s Devaraja Market in Mysore, a heritage trading hub in southern India where villagers, traders, and families collide in a symphony of chaos. My wife and I plunged into this madness for a shopping trip, and believe me, you have to shout just to hear each other over the honking traffic and chattering crowds. Cows weave through the throng, their hooves battling for space alongside hawkers peddling everything—spices, fruits, vegetables, samosas, fresh juices, and fried potatoes. The air? A wild mix of aromas—dusty streets blending with the tang of cut mangoes and the sulfur sting of exhaust.

This isn’t a market for the faint-hearted. It’s loud, messy, and unapologetic—a lifeline for the middle and lower-middle classes who come here to make ends meet. The elite? You won’t spot them haggling over a rupee. They’re tucked away in posh enclaves like Jayalakshmipuram or Vijayanagara, far from this gritty bustle.

The Unseen Hands of Power

In the midst of this vibrant chaos sits a public square, a town center where people gather—and where the police lurk. Devaraja Market is a paradise for them, too—not for shopping, but for pocketing fines. I learned this the hard way. Parked my scooter, helmet in hand, guarding it while my wife shopped, only to get slapped with a penalty. No receipt, just cash straight into the constable’s pocket. Locals whisper that officers bribe their superiors for duty here—it’s that lucrative. I didn’t witness the bribes myself, but after my own run-in, I’m inclined to believe the rumors. Corruption isn’t new, but seeing it play out in this lively marketplace stings.

My wife's bargaining skills

While I stood watch over our two-wheeler, my wife dove into the fray. She’s a force of nature—bargaining so fiercely that sellers probably curse her name after she leaves. “Don’t follow me,” she warned, knowing I’d only soften her edge. I stayed back, helmet dangling, scanning the crowd—colorful saris, weathered faces, and the occasional cow nudging through. She returned with two heavy bags, smirking as I lunged to help. “I’ve got it,” she teased, brushing me off—only to command me to stand guard again as she tackled the fruit stalls.

Her skills are legendary. She’ll slash prices so low the vendor’s left dazed, plotting to dodge her next visit. It’s a dance of survival here, and she’s mastered it.

A Glimpse That Sparked a Memory

As I waited, my eyes landed on a group of Muslim brothers selling fruits. Their weathered hands stacked apples and bananas, voices rising over the din. Instantly, my mind spiraled back to a question my son asked days ago: “Why are Muslim areas dirtier than Hindu ones?” He’s young, impressionable, swayed by the Modi-worshipping Hindu right-wing chatter around him—especially here in Karnataka, where the BJP held power at the time.

His words hit me hard. I’d told him, “You’re wrong. It’s not about religion—it’s about opportunity.” To prove it, I took him to Nazarbad, a Muslim-majority area in Mysore. I showed him the cramped homes, the neglected streets—not because of who lives there, but because of what’s been denied them. Privilege, power, inclusion—these are the real culprits. I asked him: “Why are they like this? Who let this happen?”

Later, I shared this with his school deputy principal when she summoned me over his slipping math grades. I wasn’t just defending him—I was explaining the education I give him at home: to question, to see beyond stereotypes, to understand how society shapes lives.

Shadows of the Past in a Crowded Present

Back in the market, these thoughts churned as I watched those fruit sellers. My mind raced further—back to my childhood in a Brahmin family. My uncles and their friends despised the Congress government, cursed Nehru and the Gandhis, cheered the Ram Janmabhoomi movement. I still feel the sting of shame recalling how they celebrated the Babri Masjid demolition in ’92. A friend’s father, a cop, once showed us looted watches and clocks snatched during those riots—proof that chaos often lines the pockets of those meant to stop it.

That hatred wasn’t unique to my family. It pulsed through their Hindu circles—blaming Muslims, Pakistan, anyone “other.” They tried to mold us kids into their image, but I resisted. Thank God for friends who cracked open my worldview, who taught me to question the venom I’d been fed.

Back to Reality—and a Scooter Struggle

Suddenly, my wife snapped me out of it, striding back empty-handed. “They wouldn’t budge,” she grumbled, abandoning the fruit bargain. “Let’s find another stall.” I fired up the scooter, helmet on, as she wrestled to climb aboard—her height, the bags, and her extra curves making it a comedy of wobbles. The scooter groaned under the load, as if pleading, “Why me?”

We rolled out of Shivaram pet (Pete), past Mannar Market, where my wife pointed to a hotel her late grandfather loved. Nostalgia hit her hard, mingling with the market’s sulfur-dust haze. Our ride took us through KG Koppal, where hanging mutton and chicken stalls made her cringe—she’s from a vegetarian family and loathes the sight. She calls it “unpleasant,” but I see it differently: just another pocket of Mysore, underserved like Ashokapuram or Paduvarahalli, labeled “bad” by those who don’t look deeper.

The Message That Stays With Me

Devaraja Market isn’t just a place to shop—it’s a mirror. It reflects the hustle of survival, the weight of inequality, the clash of past and present. It’s where my wife’s bargaining meets my son’s questions, where my childhood biases unravel, where police fines and fruit stalls tell a bigger story.

To the world reading this: don’t judge a place—or a people—by its surface. Dirt isn’t a religion; it’s a symptom. Chaos isn’t failure; it’s life. And in the end, it’s on us to question who gets left behind—and why. I’m grateful I’ve learned to see it, even if it took a buzzing market to remind me.