At six in the morning the heat was already rising from the
ground. Runnels of sweat ran down the faces
of the two passengers swaying to and fro in the rickshaw. Crows cawed ominously and flew down from the
trees scavenging the streets for carrion. A cow ruminated at the side of the
road and looked at them dolefully with its indifferent, watery eyes. Although together in the one place, man beast
and bird, they retained their separateness, each aware of the other without concern.
Being early for the temple, Tom suggested to Kumar, “Let’s
have a look at the market.” This was
Kumar’s chance to show Tom around the district as both felt they had languished too long in the village and welcomed
the chance to visit the nearby Keshav Dev temple in Mathura, the legendary birthplace
of Krishna. For the past six months, Tom
had been trying to introduce planting techniques as a Peace Corp volunteer but
had discovered very soon after his arrival that the old farmers knew more about
the land and the requirements for a high rice yield than he did.
In the market place, rows of stalls were covered in light
tarpaulins and old sun-faded newspapers.
Some of the owners sat around laconically smoking small bidis and
drinking milky sweet chai from glass tumblers. Only one stall at the edge of the lane
appeared to be open, its owner fussing over the array of bric-a-brac with a
large, black, feather duster.
Incongruously, he wore an oversized suit, a shirt and tie
that looked as if it had been bartered in exchange for goods from his stall at one
time. His face was sharp and
weasel-like, small eyes glinting from under heavy, black eyebrows. An oily layer of hair swept over his brow;
and sunken cheeks spoke of poverty he had endured during his twenty-odd years
of life.
As they approached, the stallholder brightened and became
more animated in his dusting.
Kumar enquired, “What time does the temple open?”
“Oh, be opening soon, my friend,” the man responded, looking
at Tom and ignoring Kumar. “Would you
see some fine jewelry...soapstone sculpture?”
Tom, feeling a little uncomfortable, declared, “We’re just
having a look till the temple’s open.”
Turning to Kumar and dismissing the stallholder, Tom asked, “What do you
think? Was Krishna really born here, or
is it just myth?”
The stall holder interrupted and started to reply, “No!
No! here he was born, certainly. He was a very good god. He loved by all milkmaids in Mathura then steal
their cloths when bathing. Now look,” he
insisted, “silver frames. Are they good
quality? Very good quality. No! Very nice.
Have a look! Just looking! Go on!”
His eyes pleaded, “You are my first customer. Please to be buying. I have little children. I lucky you buy. Very cheap price...for you...today my first
customer.”
Tom, by this time, was beginning to back off while Kumar
stood nonchalant and amused with his hands in his pockets. “Really, we don’t want anything. Just having a look,” Tom explained. But a tone of guilt was beginning to sound in
his voice and the stallholder, skilful in detecting any subtle evidence of
reticence in a prospective customer’s voice, lunged for the prey.
“You must buy.
Special price. Just for you. Look!
Look! Photo of Krishna. Here his peacock feather...very
beautiful...you buy for present...take home.”
The sales pitch was becoming more and more frantic as he
noticed Tom beginning to sidle away.
Bangles, bells, photos. garlands and incense were thrust before Tom and
in desperation he turned to Kumar.
“Guess this is a place of peace.
How to I tell him to go in peace?”
“What?” Kumar’s
bemusement increased.
“You know...go in peace.
I just want to get to the temple and get out of here.” Tom had the uncomfortable feeling of being
trapped and it was becoming more and more tangible to the stallholder.
Kumar replied turned to Tom and said, “Pisab gorkyo”
Tom practised this a few times under his breath, turned to
the stallholder and said a little shakily, “Pisab gorkyo.”
“Uh!” the stallholder
exclaimed, jaw dropping.
“Eh, pisab gorkyo,” Tom intoned more loudly.
A flurry of invective poured from the stallholder and,
although Tom didn’t know the language, he could guess that there was something
in the torrent of words about is personal life.
“What did he say?” asked Tom.
Kumar replied, “Some local language. I guess something about your sister and your
mother.
“Why’s he getting so angry?
C’mon, let’s go.” As the flood of
words continued, Tom was pulling on Kumar’s arm to get away.
Kumar, laughing, let himself be led away and said to Tom,
“Why did you tell him to go and piss?”
“Piss!” Tom’s
eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I told
him to go and piss...not in peace!”
As they made their way across the road towards the temple,
their laughter was joined by the sound of several crows, cawing in unison from
the wires above the stall. The
stallholder looked angrily at them, picked up a stone and threw it, but the
crows fluttered their wings, rose a few feet in the air and landed once again
on the wire, cawing and screeching more loudly that ever. The cows slowly raised and turned their heads
to watch the pair cross the road and disappear into the temple across the way.
