Visiting the bazaar

Dear dedicated reader,

While assessing the end of the year while I was working for Citizen Schools, my supervisor had us write down a moment when we were knew we were in the right place. Today, I had that moment here in Kadod.

Priya and I decided after a long day at school that we would venture out into the bazaar, as we were both missing a few things that we needed: I needed shower chappals (sandals) and an umbrella, she needed a soapdish, and we both wanted glucose biscuits to take with our morning chai. Simple enough, but memories of my excursions for even the most mundane item in Delhi haunted me as I remembered not only the persistent stares, but also the unfriendliness of most of the people I came into contact with in this context. I had been avoiding trying to buy anything. I knew it had to end sometime and so I gritted my teeth and out we went.

As we exited the gates of the school, the trash in the area just outside showed the remains of the bustling Sunday sabzi (vegetable) bazaar. Goats were grazing on the remains of what was left: paan and Parle-G wrappers, rotting vegetables and assorted other refuse. A rooster strutted about, crowing over its hens (it had been loudly crowing during my mid-afternoon class as well, just outside the window). Donkeys brayed at the far end, tethered to close to a chai-walla (tea-man). Some boys dressed in assorted western clothing played cricket while bantering to each other in Gujarati.

We made our way through this area and onto the road where shops lined the streets. We walked, not sure of where to stop until we saw some glucose biscuits displayed on a shelf, hidden behind packets of mints hanging down from the overhanging roof the of the shop. We ducked under the mint packets and Priya spoke to the shopkeeper about the crackers and the possibility of obtaining the soap dish in Hindi. When this transaction was done as we were waiting to pay, he indicated me with a waggle of his head and asked her in Hindi, “Angraizi hai?” (Is she English?)

“Nahii,” Priya replied in Hindi, “We’re from USA.”

“Ah,” He said, shaking his head. We explained, I in broken Hindi, Priya in a slightly more fluent version, that she would be here for 10 weeks and I for a year. He warmly smiled and told us we were welcome in the town.

As we made our way along, we stopped in a couple of stores, once to enjoy a Limca out of a glass bottle on the roadside, another to buy the shower chappals. It was a fruitful afternoon and everywhere we went, people were similarly friendly, welcoming us to the town and inviting us to return to their stores. It was entirely different than anything I had ever experienced in Delhi.

When we stopped on to make an international phone call from a roadside P.C.O./S.T.D. booth, I sat outside on the bench provided, looking peacefully into the street until I saw two girls looking back at me from the house across. I smiled. They smiled back. I motioned for them to come over. It turns out they were students at the school, in standard 7 and standard 8. They seemed disappointed to learn that the Americans were teaching only higher secondary division and 9th standard. Priya made friends with them when it was my turn to use the phone booth.

As we walked back, I finally felt like it had been a very good decision to come here. This is a very different place than Delhi, as I’m slowly learning, and I think it’s the better for it. Despite some inconveniences, it feels healthy adjusting to the slow pace of time here, which moves like water, dripping from a faucet, trying to fill a very large bucket. One day feels like five; one minute feels like ten. The only time this is not true is when I am teaching, course. There, like in America, there never seems to be enough time.

Best,
Cat