Memories of a city in the midst of supply chain disruptions

It would usually begin to snow by late evening. By the time we stepped out from our courtyard into the main tree lined boulevard, in anticipation of the trolleybus that came down the street in a leisurely pace, the streets would be piled high with snow. Weighed down by three layers of warm clothing and particularly gloves that resulted in a precarious grip over our bulky bags, our first stop (and indeed our last as we trudged back to our apartment) was to the store on the ground floor of the building. Manned by a couple of young girls, the shelves of the store would be mostly empty except for various sized jars of apricot juice that were readily and invariably available, along with the locally baked bread.

This first visit was an exploratory one before we boarded our transport to whatever was our destination for the day, an appointment with a media house, a visit to a library or archive, an appointment with a scholar, our weekly interaction with students who were brushing up their Bengali or on weekends, a visit to the museums or bazaars. This first visit of the day and a conversation about possibilities of what could be available later was important. It allowed us to take stock of what provisions were available and more importantly look out for items that would magically appear on a street corner in cardboard boxes precariously balanced on the hood of a car. This could range from eggs, baked goods, fresh fruits, herbs or kaymak. It also explained the empty shopping bags that were habitually carried by both men and women as they hurried along their daily chores and business.

The disruption of supply chain and its effects on day to day life that we recently encountered and about which there is now so much that has been written, was an accepted way of life in Tashkent in the mid 1990’s. While the larger bazars seemed to be brimming with fresh produce and tea houses did brisk business in steaming plates of pilov and kebabs, not everything was readily available in the local store all the time. There were days when the store would be piled high with crates of fruit, cartons of milk, a big round of cheese and bags of flour. And others when the standard bored reply to most queries about availability would be “ne znayo” (don’t know). And of course there was the mystery of the ready availability of what seemed to be a truly exotic drink, fresh apricot juice. In Uzbekistan, apricot orchards are common in the Ferghana Valley, Tashkent, Surkhandarya and Zarafshan regions. Early varieties of the fruit, locally know as urik begin to blossom by March when there is still possibility of snow. Blooming apricot trees are covered with snowflakes that melt in a day or two leaving cities and suburbs filled with the heady aroma of flowering apricot trees. Available in plenty locally, and I would guess processed nearby, it was the one thing that never went out of supply along with the bread that was locally baked and supplied to the store, often by ladies who baked them in their homes.

Memories of Tashkent surfaced recently when sudden and unexpected spike in the demand of certain items caused occasional stockouts in local stores across Kolkata. While access to basic food items and even fresh vegetables remained unchanged, the occasional luxuries that a Bengali indulges in, chanachur (a snack made from fried lentils, peanuts, chickpeas, flaked rice and spices) from Mukhorochak or sometimes the humble Maggie noodles (an easy snack when everyone is at home) would unexpectedly became illusive. Since rushing off to the local store multiple times a day was no longer an option one dealt with the longings till they appeared on the shelves again. What also changed was the marketplace as a space of social interaction. In Bengal and I believe across Asia where open fresh produce markets and local grocers are the preferred mode of daily shopping, the marketplace is as much the scene for regular early morning interaction among familiar customers and sellers, as a necessity. There is engagement over the freshness of produce, heated debates over price and whether the next vendor has a better supply at a cheaper rate. Once again not very different from our experience in Tashkent where shopping trips were punctuated by intense negotiations and more often than not spontaneous rendition of old Hindi movie songs.

Only a small percentage of food supply today is sourced locally, the rest is fed by a complex network that ensures that both wholesale and retail markets receive their supplies. Local production alone can no longer meet the demand for food given the current production methods and consumption habits. Disruptions in logistical connectivity and packaging and processing centres result in supplies slowing down and to generations unused to such sudden disruptions this presented a catastrophe. The poignant story of the simple Parle G by Alia Allana (“India’s Comfort Food Tells the Story of its Pandemic”, The Atlantic 13 June 2020) a biscuit enjoyed across cross sections of people as the ultimate comfort food, reflected on how restrictions affected supply chains and exposed vulnerabilities in food security. Reading through a range of articles on how food supply chains are likely to be transformed in a post pandemic scenario I was reminded of a city which took such disruptions in its stride, creating local alternatives that took the place of more formalized systems.

Anita Sengupta

23 June 2020