Hope Springs Eternal at Sarojini Market

Guidebooks say that if you want something inexpensive and are willing to brave the market, Sarojini is the place to go. Rachel and I have had fabulous finds there. For R100 each, Rachel has bought a white American Eagle summer dress, a brand new Fcuk skirt, and a few Billabong tops. I on the other hand have bought a skirt, a dress, and a top none of which I ever wore.

Ambrose now knows exactly where to drop me off. After several instances of confused coordinates, he drops me off in front of the plastic wallah. I walk straight ahead passing the blanket wallah, the shoe wallah, and countless earring and bracelet wallahs.

I take my usual route. Down to peruse the fruits and vegetables, right through the alley where shirts, skirts, dresses and pants hang, covering two tall walls. The vendors sit on their haunches and with eagle eyes monitor passersby for any hint of interest. I walk with head high determined to make obvious my disinterest in their display. However, I spot a pretty white cotton shirt with some delicate blue embroidery. I ask to see it and upon closer inspection find that the embroidery is incomplete in some parts. Pity, it would have been a very cool thing for the summer. I return the shirt to him saying that I don’t want it. He attempts to close a sale.

No madam, how much you want pay?

I don’t like it, embroidery ripped.

Okay, Madam, I give you good price. Only 250.

No, I don’t like it. Embroidery broken. My English fails as I try to get myself understood.

Madam, no, is good!

No.

No? This said in a tone as though he could not believe I could possibly pass up such a good offer.

No!

This exchange is of course witnessed by all the other clothes wallahs hoping to get an insight on how to bargain with me to convince me to part with my 100 or 200 rupees. But I move along, strong in my resolve.

I turn right again to visit the man under the tree who has British India rejects on display.

Tell me what British India stuff you have.

This top, madam, this skirt, all here, British India. There, Billabong.

Show me this skirt. Kitna?

350.

350?! Why so expensive?

British India, madam. And when police come, I have to hide British India.

Fair enough. I consider a purplish blue skirt with floral appliqués. Still a bargain at 350INR but in the end, I conclude that it is not the perfect skirt I came here to buy. So I walk away. This is a confident British India wallah. He allows me to walk away with nary an attempt at a bargain. He knows that the next dilliwali will buy that skirt.

Walking straight ahead, the street is lined with stores selling what seems to be the same tacky skirts and shirts. Yet, it does not stop me from inspecting each store in search of that one special skirt that I am sure will be a steal!

I walk towards a stall. I spot a skirt with an intact Zara label. The sparring begins.

Kitna?

250.

Realize now that this converts to US$4!

I quickly return the skirt to the vendor and show my indifference to his attempt at cheating me. I continue to look at the skirts while he is hopeful I will decide to do some bargaining with him.

He begins, ok, how much?

100.

No madam, 150.

No, 100.

No madam, 150.

I walk away. He doesn’t stop me.

I have just established that the walk-away price for that skirt is 150.

No loss, there will be many other Zara skirts.

I zigzag my way to the “cave” through Ray Ban, handkerchief, laundry basket, papadum, and nimbu panni vendors.

Here comes the apron vendor.

Madam, apron?

No, thank you.

I have many colors, madam.

No thank you.

But madam, it is made of plastic! (How could I possibly not want his apron, it is made of plastic, darn it!)

No thank you.

Here comes an earring vendor. He is the 20th vendor to approach me with this same box of 12 plastic multi-colored earrings.

What patience, what persistence! How can they persist in trying to sell these earrings when there are about 50 other vendors selling the exact same thing? And how can the apron wallah think he can sell me an apron when I so clearly do not want an apron? There must be a Hindu god of patience and perseverance that they have prayed to.

This may amuse you too. Whatever article of clothing you choose, the vendor will try and convince you that it is the right size. I see a pretty skirt which is clearly four sizes too big for me. The skirt wallah starts to explain that it is exactly the right size! See? He shows me how they have stitched a gulley on the inside of a skirt where they have snaked in a fabric pull to make the skirt gather or loosen as the situation demanded! And this size 44 top? Why you not buy, madam? I will give you a good price, you can have stitched on sides, make size 36! What patience, what perseverance, and now what inventiveness!

I manage to dodge all hopeful vendors and reach the "cave." I realize now, that this Sarojini Market which I have always feared getting lost in is really just two streets and that walking as I did today just brings me back to where I started. It took me two years to figure that out, 7 or 8 visits to this market. I've always gone with Rachel who has a keener sense of things than I do and now, left to my own devices, I've finally conquered Sarojini!

Those of you who have been to Sarojini will know exactly where the "cave" is. There are two caves. I am mercifully shielded from the 35C heat though this cave is sweltering as well. The cave holds a treasure trove of Billabongs and other foreign branded items. I slowly look through each item. Sadly, there is nothing that piques my interest and I go out to the sunlight to continue my search. I am empty handed after walking through the market for an hour and a half.

I came today to find the pretty skirt Debbie wore at yoga today. It is a 50INR skirt that looks just perfect as a yoga cover up. However, seeing piles and piles of these haphazardly tailored skirts made me realize that I didn't want one after all.

Why do I visit Sarojini?

When I am with Rachel it is because she enjoys the hunt and has the patience to comb through all the hanging merchandise to find that one special thing. She is very good at it and I enjoy watching her. Maybe I miss her just a little bit and want to revisit places we conquered together.

Perhaps it is because I really thought I wanted that skirt.

Or perhaps it could be that Sarojini is a place of hope. I see hope in the 50th earring wallah trying to sell his wares against all odds. I see hope in the skirt wallah who never tires of attempting to sell the very same thing that his neighbor is selling. Hope is in the manner of the Ray Ban Wallah as he surreptitiously shows me his fake sunglasses. And the apron wallah, he hopes to sell me something I would never possibly want! It is hope and the absence of despair that this place reminds me of. And for myself, I am always hopeful to find that treasure. I never do, but I always hope that next time I will.

Just Another Day

Monday mornings are always full of plans for the week.

What shall I make for dinner tonight and the next four nights? Oh yes, remember to send David a reminder about making plans for Srinagar. Send Daniel a copy of his tax information. Oh my! My son now does his own taxes, bless him! Investigate our United Airline miles that we must use. Take care of that pesky club bill which has now morphed into a monster issue.

Thank all the thousand Indian gods for yoga at 10:20 this morning.

After an hour, I have all these to do items safely tucked away in my mind and I face my week with renewed energy, reclaimed calm, and a silent resolve to cross those items off my list as though to clear all the toxins out of my system. Ommm....

I head to Choco La for lunch. Choco La is the one safe, predictable, and usually pleasant little cafe that shields me from the chaos outside its doors.

But here is where the turmoil begins. Three young women chat animatedly, occupying my favorite spot. Ommm...no worries, even I can be generous and forgiving after my hour of cleansing breaths at yoga.

I choose a little table for two by the window. Spanish book and dictionary on the table, I begin to tackle my “deberes." As I look up from my books, I realize they are doing major repair work on the ceiling just behind me. They've opened up the ceiling exposing dark and scary places where lurks vicious little critters that I am certain are set to jump out of the darkness on to my feta cheese bruschetta!

Back to the three young women out for brunch. They each have two children in tow, perhaps seven to nine years of age. The kids have been set loose in the cafe, running back and forth, screeching in their high pitched kids' voices, scurrying around gathering pillows here and depositing them there while their mothers chat blissfully unaware (I suspect that they are inured to the chaos their children create) that their cute little monsters have shattered my morning calm and serenity.

Still determined to hold on to my peace in spite of being swallowed up in this very high decibel room, I walk to the other side of the cafe, my back turned away from the repair work and my ears determined to ignore the children's noise and upheaval. I am hopeful.

I am generally an observant sort. At times, I wish I could learn to focus only on what is in front of me. Not this morning it seems. The repair work, the noisy children, and now this woman at the next table busily performing her private ablutions as though she were sitting in her boudoir! Bas, bas, bas! Too much for today!

You know those pesky little survey cards restaurants push in front of you at bill paying time? I have filled up those cards countless times hoping that one day, a restaurant manager will actually heed my words and make my day just that little bit brighter. But that day has not come, at least not at Choco La. Once again, the sweeper promenades past me with his wet and disgusting mop! Sweeper number two passes me leisurely with his green bucket heading to the restroom for patrons. ¡Que asqueroso!

The chatting mothers are finally finished and have once again invaded my space, their unruly children following them. They choose breads, inspecting every little cake and treat while their children pass by my table putting my cous cous and vegetable soup in danger of being upended and spilled. There is drilling on the other send of the cafe while Il Divo blares in the background. Those poor chaps have been singing non-stop for three weeks now! Next time I fill up that survey form, I will strongly suggest they give Il Divo a rest!

Never have I ever been surer that pushing back and trying to buck the system will not work here in India. After all, there are 1.2billion of them and only one of me! Insurmountable odds!

Yet, there is inspiration and hope! Angieji, my German angel, has eight years in India under her belt. I have watched her in action challenging all status quos, speaking out against all that is unreasonable. She is a picture of charm at cocktail parties but at any other time is a true German soldier, never giving up any good fight! Full of wisdom, full of courage, she faces India squarely, looks it in the eye and bends this mighty world to her will and at the end of it all, comes out smiling and truly reveling in the wonder that is India.

India is a world of contradictions you say? So true, so true, but perhaps then I too must be a contraction? After this morning, I too will be wiser, fighting, yielding, battling, relenting, and keeping myself at an even keel. In the end, I will be victor over the challenges I have chosen to face and be at peace with the battles I have chosen to forgo.

Contradiction vs contradiction: both sides winners, both sides happy!

Perhaps that is the only way.