Market time: Lost in Pondicherry’s Grand Bazaar.

“So far as I am able to judge, nothing has been left undone, either by man or nature, to make India the most extraordinary country that the sun visits on his rounds. Nothing seems to have been forgotten, nothing overlooked.”

— Mark Twain

There’s a certain calm to Pondicherry—to the old French quarter, at least.

But as I wander its leafy, cobbled streets, often passing the same other tourists again and again—here in the rooftop pizzeria, there in the Baker Street “concept bakery”—it almost seems a little too quiet. On my last morning, I ask a local shopowner where I can find a picture frame for my host parents back in Chengelpat.

“Not here, madam,” he says, “But try the big bazaar.”

Oh, yeah, I think to myself, that’s what I’ve been missing—or as Twain might say, that’s what I’ve overlooked in Pondicherry: a market.

And so I set off down Rue Romain Rolland with a new sense of purpose, passing the mural of a woman carrying water pots, besides which is painted Women is Life. I turn left onto Rue de Bussy, right onto Mahatma Gandhi Street, and finally left at Jawaharlal Nehru Street where I reach Pondicherry’s Grand Bazar and fish market.

When I enter the bazaar, there’s a man pulling two long blocks of ice down the muddy center lane, steam rising from the ground as he drags them along. The shopping lanes are a mismatched display of gaudy children’s clothing, even gaudier flashing frames of Ganesh and other gods, and cheap plastic toys.

The market leads me further in past the produce section, where a spectrum of colors awaits me: green coriander and curry leaves, red apples and pomegranates, and the distinctly vibrant shade of violet that eggplants always seem to have. The floors are wet with mud and grime and I take care over squashed oranges and flattened corn husks.

Whole shops are devoted to bananas, many still on their thick green branch, hanging upside down from the ceiling like three-toed sloths catching their afternoon nap. The tops of burlap sacks have been rolled down to hold green beans, peanuts, garlic, red onions, carrots and ginger. The musty smells of the burlap and potatoes is strong, mixing with those of the flower stalls where women and children thread jasmine buds and roses together at lightning speed.

But it’s the fish market where all the action is this morning. The volume suddenly jumps, as the sellers call out to each other and haggle with their customers. All the sellers are women—perched on raised concrete platforms, hacking at their wares on stones that have been worn down to a curve with time.

There are prawns, king prawns, slick pink squid of all sizes, crabs—legs on, legs off—what I take to be flounder and a thousand other kinds of fish—big, small, fat, thin, their iridescent fins glinting in the sun that filters in through plastic skylights above us. While the women sell, it’s men that shop—in what I happily find to be a unique reversal of roles. Chatter, chop, chatter, chop—the air dances with the clatter of metal buckets and knives athwacking.

Just like the back streets of Jaipur or the Lad Bazar in Hyderabad, I always find there’s a certain thrill in getting caught up in the buzz and activity of a market. And maybe in a way, markets have become one of the little keys I look for in getting to know a city—bustling markets, epic street art, or a memorable local.

So even as I hold my breath against the pungent smells of raw fish and watch my step through the grimy, grubby lanes, I walk on through the bazaar—knowing I’ll re-enter the peace of old town Pondicherry soon enough.

As my friend Paige would say, what are the little “keys” you look for in getting to know a city?