At 6am, the May heat was already shimmering on the road and sweat ran in runnels down their cheeks. They heaved themselves off the rickshaw while crows cawed ominously and flew down from the trees scavenging the streets for carrion.
Tom placed a five rupee note into the deeply lined palm of the rickshaw walla’s hand his head nodding slowly and, revealing a pair of pink gums, he staggered back on to the cycle seat, rang the bell a couple of times and went off back to the town.
Tom and Kumar approached a row of stalls with tarpaulins lying inert as their owners sat drinking chai from glass tumblers and smoking biris. Only one stall at the edge of the lane appeared to be open, its owner fussing over the array of tourist bric-a-brac with a large, black feather duster.
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 told of the 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, it’ll be open soon, my friend,” the man responded looking at Tom rather than Kumar. “Would you like to see some fine jewellery...some soapstone sculptures?”
John looked down at his feet and looked up at the stallholder, “We’re just having a look, waiting for the temple to open.”
Kumar started to add, “It’s probably open now...”
“That’s right,” the stallholder interrupted. “Open all time…never close. Birth of Krishna …very important to Hindus. He very good god. He loved by all milkmaids in Mathura
Tom began to back away but Kumar stood nonchalant with his hands in his pockets. “Really, we don’t want anything. Just having a look,” Tom explained. But a note 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.”
His pace was becoming more and more frantic as he noticed Tom's imminent exit. 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’s eyes narrowed as if resolving to free himself from a trap.
Kumar replied, “Pisab gorkyo”
T
om practised this a few times under his breath, turned to the stallholder and said a little shakily, “Pisab gorkyo.”
“Uh!” the stallholder said, jaw dropping, pupils rapidly dilating.
“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 his 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, 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
.
