I’m breaking the number one rule all adults have drilled
into every child’s mind: “Don't talk to strangers”.
I am breaking this rule in a foreign country: India.
India, right now, is packed with sweaty buyers and yelling
sellers shoving merchandise into peoples’ faces, tourists scrambling around to
find the best sales and cows loitering amidst everything. My hair feels like it
was going to go up in flames any minute now and my ears had long been used to
the constant stream of noise coming from everywhere. The air is thick, greasy
and coated with dust, barely allowing me to breathe but I honestly don’t have
time to worry about how much oxygen I am inhaling because I need to shop. Fast.
Ten minutes have passed and I haven’t bought a thing. No one
will accept any of my, now useless, American dollars. I am sneaking looks as my
friends reached out at necklaces and bracelets, demanding the right size of the
right kind and getting just that, bargaining to the lowest prices and shoving
their bought goods into their bags. I really need to shop.
I turn to the man on my left who stands tall in his stall
under the shade of the wooden roof; he stares me down when I ask him, “Do you
know where I can exchange my money?”
He looks at me confused and somewhat offended, before
calling on a man selling colourful powder and Indian marking stamps. I already
met him when I first entered the market, he was wearing an energetic smile as
he grabbed my hand and started stamping markings whether you want it or not. He’s
wearing a thick leather jacket despite the heat and has a tray of his goods
hanging from straps around his shoulders. After a short discussion, his head bobs
an “Okay” and starts down the path through the market.
He marches further and further away. I start to follow him
once I realize he isn’t going to wait for me. I still find myself holding tight
to the straps of my backpack, my fingers tap a shaky rhythm on them. I am glancing
around me and once far enough, I start to look back every now and then.
There are more shops down the path alongside small temples and beggars on the
steps. Sometimes we scoot to the side so a motorcycle can pass or when a car
decides to barge through the crowd.
The shop we stop at was really not much too look. The beige acts as a camouflage with the dust in the air and even then it looked like every other shop we passed.
We step in and the sunlight is
sucked out as the door closes, the hot air is replaced with cold, crisp air, the
hard pavement is now soft and carpeted, the cluster of voices in my ears drown
out to one soft murmur of a saleswoman and the hum of the air-conditioners.
I step into a new room and the double doors
are shut behind me with a small click. The room is bathed in soft yellow by
carefully carved lights that are almost as carefully carved as everything else
in the room. There is a glass case wardrobe filled with decorative ornaments at
each available wall. The money exchanger was like an Indian version of the Godfather, looking up at
me but also looking down at me behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he sits upon
his wooden throne. He dons a clean cut suit and has his money laid out in
front of him in stacks secured with rubber-bands. His hands play with the cash
as he inquires why am I here. I am quick to tell him about my dilemma but he takes
his time to help me. He inspects me for a moment and I am paralysed. I
am careful to not show more emotion as him as if he will shoot me down if I
show any sign of weakness. He is slowly counting out the rupees, clicking
numbers into his small calculator. I rock back and forth now that he isn’t
looking, my eyes are now allowed to dart around and I tap and tap on the straps of
my bag.
“Here you go,” he calmly hands me my money and I dashed out
through the doors, through the crowd, and joined my group.
“Where’d you go just now?” someone asked.
“Oh, nowhere.”
