Cockroaches crawl among the heaps of potatoes, and dash by the drain where the blood of fish swirls. Nobody sees them, but from below the swish of cotton anchals and sprigs of coriander, I do. The bazaar is a weekend ritual, the click-click of an old rickshaw ending at dark rusty gates that swallow harried strangers. Fat women with folds in their soft bellies waddle, men with jute bags keep a sharp eye on the calculation of change. My mother asks me to follow her closely, and we step into the muddy pathways aglow with yellow bulblight. I watch everything, the squawking chickens in smelly cages, mounds of rich green vegetables, fish swimming in beat up tin tubs. I watch the moustached men unfold their lungi to retrieve rupees, wipe their hands on filthy red cloth, shake their heads and protest loudly at accusations of rotten fruit. They call out prices and call again if they are ignored.
I think I would be shy if I were they. I would be afraid, too, of the cockroaches hiding in my potatoes, and of not having very much time to read stories.