Chauburji Every month, the placid life in our home is transformed into tense activity because it is time for my better half to sally forth and stock our larder. This takes the better part of the day, at the end of which, the poor thing has depleted her reserves of energy. There was however a time, when the Lahori housewife did not have to go through this ordeal - this was a time when the proverbial well came to the thirsty. The first one to turn up was the sabzi wallah in his horse drawn rehra. He would trot up our drive in the morning, announcing his arrival with a signature jingle that could have put modern marketing whiz kids to shame. His produce looked and tasted fresh, but it was the extra treat that we children always looked forward to. As we watched in anticipation, he would pick out a juicy radish, cucumber or kakri and wash it from the nearby tap. He would then slice the vegetable with a pen knife that was fished out from the depths of his pocket. Then magically, he would conjure up a tin full of salt and red pepper that would be sprinkled on the snack and presto - our day was made. An hour later, another sing song voice would slowly approach our house. This was Nazir, our fruit wallah. Balancing a huge basket on his head, this young man dressed in a white shirt and dhoti would engage my mother in conversation that ranged from his ailing wife to the latest gossip in the bazaar. His fruit, like the vegetables, was of the best quality and his prices would make a modern day lady of the house, swoon with shock. At midday once every two months, there would appear an individual, whose arrival was a source of awe and wonder to us - the qalai wala. He would set down his equipment under the cool shade of the dhraik tree and make preparations for 'the show. First to appear would be an iron brazier and coals, then a set of bellows that would be attached to the brazier. From another bag would appear tins containing 'magical powders and 'spells. We would all sit around with our mouths hanging open as our cook brought out pots and pans that needed polishing. These would be washed and put upside down on the brazier, which would be lit by now and going along merrily. The 'wizard would then rub strips of silvery metal along the heated insides and outsides of the selected cooking pot and rub it vigorously with a cloth dabbed in a grey powder. To our great delight, with a lot of sizzle and smoke, a silver coating would evenly cover the surfaces of the pot. The polished utensil would then be rinsed and set aside. The afternoon heralded the arrival of the double roti wallah. This old man had migrated to Pakistan during the events of 1947 and was now earning an honest living by running a bakery in his house and delivering the items to houses in the afternoon. I can still savour the aroma and the flavour of the babas home made bread and buns and have yet to discover stuff that tastes like them. He would walk up to our pantry steps that led down into the yard, pushing a bicycle with a steel trunk mounted on the rear carrier. We often asked him as to why didnt he pedal right up to the house and save the labour of walking a hundred yards or so of our drive, pushing his load. We got an answer out of him only once: I do this out of deference to the family that lives in this house. The answer humbled us and raised him in our esteem to no end. Evenings were reserved for two small, two wheeled white carts pushed by a couple of very energetic and talkative middle-aged men. One displayed the painting of a white rose with the words 'White Rose in bold letters, while the other announced itself as 'Snow Flake. These were our regular ice cream vendors whose companies were great business rivals as were their two representatives. We had however resolved their business conflict by even handed patronisation and the two always left happy as larks. This then was home delivery at its best, sans the driving through maddening traffic, finding a parking slot, trudging through aisles pushing a lop wheeled trolley only to receive a shock as the bill amount was flashed on the check out computer screen. The writer is a freelance columnist.