There is a street half an hour way from where I stay ( live actually, have been there for more than two weeks), called Linking Road. It is a shopping street full of stalls. In the middle of it on the right there is KFC and on the left Mc Donalds. I asked the driver to drop me off at Mc Donald's and pick me up at KFc at 2.30. The two sides of the street is full of arcades, shops and stalls selling Indian flip flops, bags, t shirts, shalvar kamez, saris, flip flops, bags and more flip flops. They have separated stalls with whatever they are selling, when you are in their little enclave you are surrounded with flip flops or legging on Indian bummed bottoms. They also hang them , you are attacked from the air too. The stall people (there are more than one man- always men) do not leave you alone. As soon as they see you up on the horizon, they summon 'very good shoes madame', 'very good for you madame' and point at the most hideous plastic flip flops you might consider wearing as a part of a dare. There follows sari tops. I am size 12-14. A bare tummy tank top,however pink, however yellow is a definite no. They point at frilly salvar kamez tunics, the baggiest harem trousers and exclaim 'your size madame'. I am very experienced at street markets. I will not yield to their deep black kholled eyes, their prayed white caps, soft voices calling me 'come, very good for you'. I wave my hand feverishly at every stall in a refusing manner, I keep walking and looking. I want a humble knee high skirt. I don't want tight blue jeans, leggings, skimpy denim shorts, middle aged denim shorts, I want a skirt. It does not exist. No one wears over the knee skirts here. They wear mostly long summery ones you see in Indian shops in England or jeggings and a tunic.
I do not want a tunic either. When travelling, there is a period between settling in and accepting your existence there and accepting their existence. I do not want to look like them yet, but I can not find the 'me ' stuff yet either. Back in England wearing Monsoon style clothes is lovely; the mango yellows, the papaya oranges, one or two sequins here and there add shine to the grayness of UK winter. Here the colours, the sequins sneer on you. It becomes an uncomfortable mishmash of Krishna design and the gorgeous pink the beggar street urchins clothe themselves in. Nothing looks comfortable on me yet, I am still January pale, (Goras living here are naturally more tanned than me) and hotel food plump. I am still wearing the black pencil skirt I brought from Petersfield and couple of shirts. It is still January (Jan as they say it here), my body and soul are not ready for pool side conversations wrapped in sarongs.
I look at the shorts and tell the men I want skirts. They open bundles for me digging from the deep crevices of their stalls, 'your size madame'. It is size 20. 'very good size madame' -it is size 8. I leave the stalls without any comment. They whistle at me. It is their way of calling. It is wolf whistle but the function is different. I am taken to another stall, another bundle, another 'your size madame'. How much is this I ask, 'normal price 1200 Rupees, bargained price 550 Rupees'. What on earth does that mean? 'Flat 600 Rupee' somebody else says. I walk away. It becomes flat 500. 'come', they say. It is not a call, it is an invitation 'come...', intonation falling slightly, 'come, your size'. I hold a size 8 skirt on my body, it barely covers half of my hips. My size? He looks at me 'your size your decision, why are you asking for my approval?' No skirt for me today.
There are mountains of t shirts for 150 Rupees. It makes less than £2.00. Shall I bargain to bring it down? The designs look familiar. I look at their labels: there is a Primark label, and George, and another Primark, and TU, Top Shop, and New Look. They are on top of eachother, in the same mountain of t shirts. ZARA ones are more expensive, they are on the sides, 200 Rupees. On the pavement I almost step on to another mountain of M.A.C. make up stuff. In this heat, between tatty Primark t shirts,'your size Madame', 'flat one twenty' and wobbly head conversations, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder: a glittery sari, best kholled eyes, shimmery nose stud to the ear, hands hennaed to the fore arms, mumbles something to me showing wood blocks in plastic bags. I turn my back to her diving more in to the t shirt mountain. She walks away.
It is enough for the day. Time to go back and pick Kitty up from the school. The driver will pick me up in front of the KFC. I go in to buy refreshing 'Crushems'. I recommend this. Fresh mint leaves and a couple of slices of lemon, crush them a bit add ice and lemonade. It is one of the best things I have tried in hot weather. Next to the sleeping dog and street urchins wanting money I wait for the driver. I do what everybody else does- completely ignore the little beggars, turning my back whichever side they approach me. This is my minty drink, not sharing.
I suddenly realise what the lady was selling in the plastic bags: Henna tattoo blocks for arms. That was the only thing I could have bought and I missed it. Some other day...
I do not want a tunic either. When travelling, there is a period between settling in and accepting your existence there and accepting their existence. I do not want to look like them yet, but I can not find the 'me ' stuff yet either. Back in England wearing Monsoon style clothes is lovely; the mango yellows, the papaya oranges, one or two sequins here and there add shine to the grayness of UK winter. Here the colours, the sequins sneer on you. It becomes an uncomfortable mishmash of Krishna design and the gorgeous pink the beggar street urchins clothe themselves in. Nothing looks comfortable on me yet, I am still January pale, (Goras living here are naturally more tanned than me) and hotel food plump. I am still wearing the black pencil skirt I brought from Petersfield and couple of shirts. It is still January (Jan as they say it here), my body and soul are not ready for pool side conversations wrapped in sarongs.
I look at the shorts and tell the men I want skirts. They open bundles for me digging from the deep crevices of their stalls, 'your size madame'. It is size 20. 'very good size madame' -it is size 8. I leave the stalls without any comment. They whistle at me. It is their way of calling. It is wolf whistle but the function is different. I am taken to another stall, another bundle, another 'your size madame'. How much is this I ask, 'normal price 1200 Rupees, bargained price 550 Rupees'. What on earth does that mean? 'Flat 600 Rupee' somebody else says. I walk away. It becomes flat 500. 'come', they say. It is not a call, it is an invitation 'come...', intonation falling slightly, 'come, your size'. I hold a size 8 skirt on my body, it barely covers half of my hips. My size? He looks at me 'your size your decision, why are you asking for my approval?' No skirt for me today.
There are mountains of t shirts for 150 Rupees. It makes less than £2.00. Shall I bargain to bring it down? The designs look familiar. I look at their labels: there is a Primark label, and George, and another Primark, and TU, Top Shop, and New Look. They are on top of eachother, in the same mountain of t shirts. ZARA ones are more expensive, they are on the sides, 200 Rupees. On the pavement I almost step on to another mountain of M.A.C. make up stuff. In this heat, between tatty Primark t shirts,'your size Madame', 'flat one twenty' and wobbly head conversations, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder: a glittery sari, best kholled eyes, shimmery nose stud to the ear, hands hennaed to the fore arms, mumbles something to me showing wood blocks in plastic bags. I turn my back to her diving more in to the t shirt mountain. She walks away.
It is enough for the day. Time to go back and pick Kitty up from the school. The driver will pick me up in front of the KFC. I go in to buy refreshing 'Crushems'. I recommend this. Fresh mint leaves and a couple of slices of lemon, crush them a bit add ice and lemonade. It is one of the best things I have tried in hot weather. Next to the sleeping dog and street urchins wanting money I wait for the driver. I do what everybody else does- completely ignore the little beggars, turning my back whichever side they approach me. This is my minty drink, not sharing.
I suddenly realise what the lady was selling in the plastic bags: Henna tattoo blocks for arms. That was the only thing I could have bought and I missed it. Some other day...
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