BAZAAR
Every time one of the auto’s
three small wheels hit a pothole
dirty water splashed in—
splashed her leg
She held the damp and smelly
blue vinyl curtain aside slightly
at the auto’s open door
looking for the bazaar in the grey rain
It was always evening
The monsoon-beaten roads were
always strewn with potholes
It was always raining
“Baaye! Baaye! Turn left!”
She let go of the curtain and gestured.
The autowalla, watching her in
the rearview mirror, turned
and went down another dark street
Where’s the bazaar? Where’s Linking Road?
The autowalla swerved to the
side of the street and stopped
“No, no. Chalo, Keep going!
Go straight and then right.”
The autowalla bent down
and pulled the lever off the floor
The armpits of his khaki uniform
dark with the unbearable humidity
The tiny black and yellow taxi
sputtered and was back on the road
She slid on the vinyl seat
all the way to the right
She held back the damp and
smelly vinyl curtain there
Where is the bazaar?
Where are my beads?
The autowalla stuck his arm
out in the rain and turned right
The night was empty
Lampposts stood in puddles of light
It was getting late
She couldn’t afford to miss her flight
It always left at midnight
And she hadn’t got any beads yet
No necklaces—red and chunky or just
a shimmery string of miniscule glitter
No earrings—a line of greening brass
or a story in tribal silver
No kadaas even—those single thick
bracelets whose silence said so much more
than a dozen giggling glass bangles
But where is the bazaar?
The auto stopped at the side of the street
She got off and it raced away
into the darkness as she stood outside
an old ruined building
Fresh green plants nodded in the rain
growing out of cracks in stone walls
No people
No shopkeepers
No beads
She ran in
She found nothing
Where are the beads?
She will definitely miss her flight tonight
She goes to the next room
Nothing
Just rainwater
On to the next
Sometimes she found a broken necklace—
beads strewn. Sometimes a caved-in ceiling
She ran from room to abandoned room
climbing broken stairs finding nothing
Where is everybody?
Where is everything?
I need to get my beads!
An old torn puppet smiles
in a yellow-dotted turban
and riding a pink horse
A fresh green climber with heart-shaped leaves
dances on the wall
She remembered the bazaar dream clearly
as she brushed her teeth the next morning
It had come many times before—
Always craving those beads
in the colors of her childhood.
Always aching for earrings
which tinkled in the language of home.
Always longing for the bangles to
hold her hand through thick and thin…
It has been twelve years since
she moved to this country
Her dresser overflows with junk jewelry.
Shouldn’t she be done
dreaming this dream?
