The smell hits first—cardamom and wet stone, mingling with the earthy sweetness of crushed jasmine beneath vendors' feet. I've wandered into Khari Baoli at dawn, when Delhi's spice market belongs to the merchants, not the tourists who'll arrive after breakfast with their cameras and careful steps.
Mr. Sharma doesn't look up when I pause at his stall. His hands move in practiced rhythm, scooping turmeric into paper cones twisted with the efficiency of forty years. The pyramid of golden powder beside him catches the early light filtering through the market's corrugated roof, and I think about how many meals this single pile will flavor, how many kitchens it will scent.
"You want to buy or you want to learn?" he asks in Hindi, still not meeting my eyes.