The Market: take two

            Another day in India. Again it was our first day in a new place this time Delhi. Our group had a free afternoon, so two students and I went out into the city. Our first stop was the post office. I am an avid postcard writer and had a few to mail. Finding the post office was an adventure in itself. We asked where it was before we left. We were told it was easy to get there from the hotel: just a left out of the hotel down the street and then around a traffic circle. We started walking and asked two men just to make sure we are going in the right direction and they pointed straight ahead building our confidence. Then a man in an auto pulled up, asking us where we wanted to go. Auto is the local word for a small open air taxi that seats about four people beside the driver. He was trying to get us into his auto. One student told him we were going to the post office. “The post office? You’re going the wrong way!” He then pointed in the opposite direction from where we were going and said, “The post office is that way!” Skeptically I tried to get our group to leave. The young man picked up on my attitude and changed his tune a bit, saying that there were in fact two post offices, but that I could only send mail out at one. Not taking the man’s advice we walked away towards the post office we originally set of to. The post office was on the other side of a traffic circle form where we were standing and on our trip around it the little yellow auto of our new friend came puttering up in back of us. The man called out, “The post office is that way” and pointed to the one we had been trying to go to the whole time. He drove off past us leaving just the fumes from his diesel engine.

            We reached the back end of the post office, which was not even a post office but another public building attached to it. We followed little wooden signs around the building to the real entrance; like a scavenger hunt. At the front of the building there was a big orange sign saying post office and a big entrance next to it that was completely closed off. We kept walking past it and there was a little wooden sign that said, “Post office this way,” with an arrow pointing into a gate where there was a stair way and a single door. The whole thing reminded me of a back ally way and I was not excited to go in, but the boys went first and I followed along behind; and there was indeed a post office. I went to the first counter I saw to get stamps. The woman did not really understand me. Finally I put my postcards on the counter and said, “I need to get these to America, how do I do that?” She got me some stamps, 15 rp each. They were the kind you had to lick, which I had not seen since I was a child so I got excited by them. I touched my tongue to the back recognizing the indescribably strange feel and taste of a stamp. That is something that does not change from country to country. After I was done I asked the woman what to do. She replied that I had to bring them to counter four. Which was the counter right next door to where I was. But no one was there. While standing at counter four I looked at the woman with a confused look. She walked all the way over, pulled out a stamp pad and stamped each of my post cards with a purple stamp. I asked her if it was all set and she said yes. She was completely stoic the entire time.

            From the post office we followed the arrows on the big street signs to Connaught Place where there is a market. The signs were sparse and we passed many traffic circles. I was worried about going in the right direction. I saw two young women on the sidewalk and asked them if we were going in the right direction. They responded that we were and said they were going in the same direction and would walk with us. We asked them a lot of questions: they were both Delhi natives, going to college and 21 just like me.  They stopped at a street with a market near Connaught Place. They told us it was a people’s market and that everything was very inexpensive there. Then they pointed further down the road and said the other market was there but explained it was more western. They waved good-bye to us and left us there.

            We looked over and realized that we were in front of a music shop. In the front window were guitars and sitars; it was a nice East meets West feel. The whole store was starch white. There was a black piano in the middle of the room up on a red velvet pedestal. We gravitated to the sitar section where a beautiful sales girl told us about the instrument and offered to play for us. Naturally we accepted. She sat on a piano bench and two men came up with chairs for us. We watched her play. I was personally mesmerized by it. The instrument, the way it was played and the sounds it made were so foreign to me and so interesting. To me the sitars looked so out of place next to the Western instruments; so interesting so unique. Yet it was still commoditized just the same as the other instruments there.

            After the music shop we entered the market. This was the market experience I had been looking for. It was nothing like the market in Kerala; it was crowded, it was noisy, and it even smelled. I know that these are typically the attributes that would turn one off from a market but I wanted it all; I wanted the experience. I dove right in, stopping everywhere to the dismay of the two guys with me. There was a whole variety of clothing. Plain men’s whit short-sleeve dress shirts, which are common in India. Men’s drawstring shorts and pants made with plaid cloth. A booth selling loose fitting drawstring skirts and salwar kameez tops. Others were selling loose fitting dresses with bright patters and v-necks, something not very Indian. There were also booths devoted to sunglasses, jewelry, and brasswork. I stopped to look at everything and put the bright interesting clothing up to my body then turned and asked them what they thought. Surprisingly they answered!

            I let the people at the shops tempt me in. They would always start at something crazy like 1,000 rp for every item and I would use my shocked face and the words, “No way! That’s too much,” would exit my lips. They would get quiet and say, “Okay, make a price make a price.” To which I would respond, “100 rp!” To which the reply was always shock and a, “No no no!” The game was always the same, I was always in control, I always got the price I wanted. Most items could be brought down to between 150 and 500 depending on the actually worth. I knew that I could get the prices lower but felt better giving them more money for their items. When you look at the conversion that is $3.50 to  $11 which makes everything bought a good deal.

            Not all the people had their own stalls, some walked around, following people. One man caught us as we entered; we called him the elephant man. He targeted one of the guys, I still have no clue why. Maybe he looked more like a tourist than the rest of us. But this man was right; the one he targeted is a sucker for statues, which is what the man was selling. He had wooden statues with black varnish on them. Two were Indian; one was the god Ganesh, the son of Shiva. Ganesh was the son of Shiva, birthed in secret by his partner Parvati. When Shiva discovered him he cut off his head. Ganesh was given the head of an elephant in replacement. Another statue was of the Buddha, Siddhartha Govinda.  The other two were Chinese. One was of a Chinese fishing boat and the second a Chinese version of Buddha, where he is depicted as a very fat jolly man. I asked the man why he had Chinese figurines as well and was given no answer. I assumed they had actually been made in China.

            The man followed us as we made our way through till finally our friend got one; a Ganesh. The man did not stop there, he decided I was going to get one next. Eventually this man attracted more men trying to sell us things. One man with wallets another with pipes and a third with postcards. Now this is the trick of markets, just say no and walk away. By the time we had walked the length of the market and back all of the 900 rp prices had fallen to 100 rp  and we were fine with buying them. But the elephant man was persistent. Most of the men following us fell away as we reached the ends of the market; but not him. This man followed us around the corner till one of the guys turned around and told him to stop bugging us.

The orphanage

            We pulled up to the orphanage and the women who ran the place were outside waiting for us. We took off our shoes and followed them into the building. A young girl maybe seven or eight with boyishly cut black hair and a tan dress with red trim walked up to me. I asked her how she was doing and she said good, she told me her name which I could neither pronounce or remember and proceeded to grab my arm and tug me around the two bottom rooms. She showed me to her friends and got me some cake. There had been a birthday celebration. I turned her down, she looked very upset, but I could not in good conscience take these peoples’ food.

            I pull out a big box of lollipops I got from my local BJs right before I left and started to hand them out. The kids didn’t seem as excited as I thought they would but then I started getting kids coming up to me asking me for “muton,” which means candy in Malayalam.  The older women were asking for them too and I was happy to give them to them. There faces lightened up just like the children, as though these women had not had a chance to be kids yet. One woman in a red outfit came up to me. I was not sure what she was trying to say and she took me away to another room. There sat an older woman. She was western looking but with darker skin, too dark to just have a tan but rather light Indian skin. Her eyes were a shocking cold blue. This is something that might not stand out as much at home, but I had not seen blue eyes in India. She sat on one of the two beds in the room, her leg and foot in a cast. The woman started speaking at her and she started to talk my friend and I in English. She explained that the women wanted the lollipops I was giving out and gladly I filled their hands with the. The woman then went over to a shelf and took out a loaf of bread and offered me some; I turned it down. In the room was another woman, this one wearing all tan. Her and the girl in red appeared to be good friends. They talked and giggled to one another, touching and hugging as they went. We talked to the blue eyes woman, Gale she said she had two British parents who had taught her English. Where they were she did not say and we did not care to ask. We asked her what had happened for her to be in a cast, she replied simply that she fell off the roof. The other student and I look at one another, seeing if the other had also read between the lines and wondered why someone would be on the roof to begin with.

The two pregnant women were very lively and playful chatting about everything even though we understood none of it. Sometimes we got the point, but mostly it did not matter what they were saying we just enjoyed one another’s company. Sometimes Gale would laugh and we would prod her to tell us what had been said. I pointed to an old Singer in the room, the woman in red said she sewed and tailored clothing for the woman and children in the shelter. She held some beautiful rusty red fabric up to me saying I would look nice in it. I wanted nothing more than to let her make me something just so I could give her money, let her earn it but I knew we were far from our hotel and I would not be able to get back, that was hard to explain so Gale helped me. There were shelves in the room that housed more exotic Indian fabric. I wondered to myself why anyone with such a great skill and the right tools could be at a lack for work, living at a shelter. I tried to ask her why she did not make clothing and sell it or tailor other peoples’ but all I got was that she just helps the people in the shelter.

            I was perfectly content to stand with these women for the hour I was there, wishing I could communicate better with them. The woman in tan had big beautiful eyes. She would look at me and when she caught my gaze would smile. The smile of the Indian women are the best smiles I have ever seen- so kind and honest. Her eyes would water and she would look away. Gale explained that she had a fever; only three months pregnant she was worried about her health and the health of her baby. This woman was so beautiful she could be a model on a billboard here in India. There are many billboards all over India, in the most bizarre places. Even out in the middle of rural rice cultivation there are billboards. Many advertise woman’s clothing, weddings, and gold. I tried to choke back my own tears as she was doing but it took everything in me to not hand her all the money I had, but that would not help her.

            Eventually other women came in, one of which had a baby. She saw I had a camera and she wanted me to get a picture of her child. I tried very hard but the poor like boy was afraid of the camera and I am pretty sure me as well. Every time I raised it he began to cry. The woman kept motioning for me to take pictures so I took at least twenty of her and her sad son. Another woman came in wanting the same thing; her son was much more calm so I got a few nice shots. Then a young boy in a bright pink shirt came in ushering me away telling me that I must follow him; he wanted pictures with some women as well. Then he said, “I would like to take just one picture please,” as he held out his hand for my camera. I said fine and then he ran off and took I am not even sure how many photos. He was very good.

            As I was outside running after the boy with my camera the little children were everywhere. Pulling on my clothing and raising their arms at me which is the universal sign for, “I want you to pick me up!” I was now the candy girl;  they all knew I had the lollipops. They kept saying that they did not get one even though their tongs were stained with the colors. I was in sensory overload. Our group was spread out among the children, four or five around each one. Kids on peoples’ shoulders, their labs, holding onto their legs. It felt sad that they were this attention starved but was very fun for us. We left reluctantly after making a donation and took their brochure with us. The woman who runs this place is called mother or grandmother by the people staying there. I can only hope that she will be able to help them all and get them all jobs. These women need more than just a place to stay, they need a way to make it on their own. Most were dependent on men. But it was the same men that they depended on that got them into the shelter. Now they need to rely on themselves. They need to teach their children as well as the orphans there- that women can have jobs and can support themselves. 

This shelter is run entirely off donation, and has already helped so many women and children. I hope they continue to do good things for many years to come.

If you’re interested to know more about the shelter visit their website: http://www.santhwanamkottayam.com/

The market

           

After walking a kilometer from the hotel we saw a market. A big red arch shot into the sky above it. A man and a woman out front were making long chains out of fragrant flowers. Just in front of the entrance were communist paraphernalia, marking one unique aspect of the state of Kerala. The CPI or communist party of India was brought to Kerala in 1937 and is still strong. The CPI party was elected in 1957 in Kerala, which is often considered the first democratic election of a communist party. Though the communist party is not currently in power the influence has made Kerala a very socialist state, more so than any other in India.

            There were many booths inside the market. There was one with men’s dress shirts hung up at the top. There was a second with shiny metal kitchen utensils and another with fruits that were almost as fragrant as the flowers. The fruits were freshly washed; they looked like they were sweating and had flies buzzing all around them. My dry mouth craved the juice that would come pouring out of those fruits. As I turned a corner there was a row of booths selling women’s clothing. There were manikins outside with western dresses, sarres and salwar kameezes.

            The market was fairly empty which meant that all the venders paid special attention to us. Walking around with another student I began to look at clothing, a personal weakness. I asked the first man how much he was charging for his clothing- one hundred rupees for a dress. Not bad when considering the conversion rate is about forty-four to forty-six rupees to one American dollar.  Forty-six being how much our money is worth in rupees and forty-four being the rate one can actually exchange their money at. Then the next man came right up to the first one’s booth. “I give you better price, 300 rupee, nice dress, you come,” the man said. Coming to India I expected to not be shocked by the accent, I have heard many Americans speak with an Indian accent but all of them were Hindi speakers. Little did I know that that was not the language of Kerala. The language of the state is Malayalam. A wonderful musical language that sounds like the speaker’s tongue is doing a complicated dance that I could never replicate. Before I had had a chance to even look at this new booth a third man came up, “No no, you come with me, good price, please, come with me.” I followed him, he walked behind the counter of his shopping turning to the wall full of piles of bright colored clothing packaged into plastic bags. I was amazed at how quickly he picked up a package, slipped the garment out of the protective covering, unfolded it, and put it on display in front of me. “Very nice, see this.” He kept talking and pulled out another and another. I asked the infamous question. “How much?” It was one-hundred twenty rupees. I didn’t even have to bargain! The men had done it for me. I said, “I’ll be back. I think he did not understand what I said. I went to get the other girls I had come with and told them the price. We all went back and the man was excited; he thought he’d lost the sale but instead he had two more targets. The see-through counter became cluttered with a large pile of bright fabrics. Every garment was unique. They all had their own colors, patterns, decorations; it was amazing.

            We kept calling out colors or new articles of clothing and he always had more. Though his English was limited we were still able to joke around with him. One of the other girls gestured at a pink article of clothing at the top of a stack. “Too small,” was his response. Feigning being hurt I said, “We’re not small?” He responded with, “No no no, too small,” he pulled it out of it’s package, “child.” It indeed looked like it was for a five year old. Even though he was offering a good price we asked if he would lower it even more. He gave us the same response to every one of our offers. He would say no in a way that can only be described as similar to the whiny response a young child gives when he or she is told to go to bed at a family function and he or she knows that everyone will be up without them. But his no always came with a smile, a laugh, and a funny hand gesture. He pinched his fingers together and held them to his thumb, then put his hand up to his head and arched it outwards toward us while following the arch with his body. This I am sure to replicate in the future, though I am not sure why I thought it was wonderful. A student from my group and I picked out matching tops. They were made of white fabric and had flowers embroidered on them with white thread. The tops we bought were the top to an Indian outfit called the Salwar Kameez. These outfits have a huge amount of variety from piece to piece but to put it simply consist of a top that is a hybrid between a shirt and a dress. They go down to about mid thigh and have slits up the side. These are worn with a pair of pants under them and often a scarf work around the neck with the ends hanging down your back. The tops we bought had a small opening giving the impression of a collar with sparkling “buttons” that were hot glued on. They each had a patch of another color; the shape of it resembled a bib. Mine was turquoise with paisley and hers was a rust color. The sleeves were three-quarter length and made of a gauze white material. I also purchased pants to go with mine. They are big, white and baggy. The top of the pants has a drawstring that allows them to be worn by anyone. The loose fit is nice in the hot weather of Kerala.

            We tried to bargain until the last second. He wanted me to pay 320 for the pants and top. I had a five hundred rupee bill in my hand, looked at him and said, “Three-hundred?” His response was the same as ever. I feigned reluctance as I handed him the bill. He came back with two one hundred rupee bills and smiled at me. I knew he had mostly been nice because smaller bills can be hard to come by especially if not many people have bought from you that day. When I traveled to Senegal I was told that some shop owners will tell you to come back later so they can give you your change once they have enough. It is good to not have small bills because then the shop-keepers are more likely to round down to an even number so they don’t have to give you all of the change they have. But I still like to think that it’s just because he liked us. After we had paid he asked us where we were from and what our names were and told us to come back, I think we just might.