Down the Mall

Darjeeling
March 30th

A noisy, bustling, chaotic hill station on normal days.  This is a three-day weekend that promises pandemonium, traffic jams and mayhem, and the only thing I wonder is why I - a certified misanthrope - am here.  But that is a story, not so long, but for another time....

The street markets by the Mall are lively, crowded and filled with the I-want-a-bargain-and-please-can-you-make-me-buy-what-I-will-never-need kind of shoppers, almost all of them from the City of Joy. No one actually says, Make Me An Offer I Cannot Refuse, but this is about as close.  The prices range from the ridiculous (Darjeeling tea at just 500 a kilo? Or is it something else....) to the even more ridiculous, a sweater for 100?  

The stall owners - almost entirely women - have remarkable dignity and forbearance and a couple of them spend their time knitting and crocheting with extraordinary dexterity.  It seems impolite to stare at someone at work, so I take one lady's permission - her fingers move with the lightness of a pianist, even as she chats with me, with an occasional glance at the balaclava that is taking shape.  Is she the last generation of knitter-pianists?  

It is impossible to not admire the tenacity and enterprise of women in the hills.....

In this melee, there are smells too - of mustard oil, for a start, horse dung, agarbathi, unwashed and worn jackets that smell of firewood and perfumes with potency that'd make homeopaths blush and give me a headache.  Add selfies, instagram reels, animated conversations, two arguments and one monk.  

Colour is everywhere, in the flags and the conversations: Nepali, Bengali, Hindi mix in a jumble of words.  

An old house, under the shade of rhodendrons in bloom, reflects on its past with a sigh.  Homes carry history and stories, but today I see no one there to talk to, so I walk ahead. I would have loved to shoot the breeze (and the mist) with an old timer, but those stories must wait for another day.

Ahead is a dignified lady selling corn, fanning it, watching something on her mobile and minding her grandchild with monosyllabic, terse instructions. If she knew Algebra, she'd do that too.  Her grandchild puts out a hand - will I exchange my mobile for some corn?  I know a negotiator when I see one - this little one is destined for Greatness - so, with grandma's nod, I take a photo of them.  

Walk on.

A happy hour in the Oxford Bookstore,- now all of a sprightly 86 years - with its quaint collection of books on Buddhism, Tibet, Himalayas, tea, agitations, a biography of Warren Buffett and self-help (How to win at bridge)  and a book that I will devour on the return flight.