Dead pigs, orchids, pseudo-Nikes & Me

Photograph by Preeti Verma Lal

A midget with blue plastic sheet covering his head and torso was carrying a dead pig, perhaps twice his weight and size - with the slant of the eye it looked as if the dead, naked piggybacked animal was enjoying its jaunt. There were several people doing exactly the same chore. All covered in plastic, their hairy legs smudged with blood. I took a few more steps to see what more was left in the trailer and saw the entrails and the heads of the animals, when I looked away I noticed the blood that had nearly clothed my boots. I wiped the blood on an unclaimed banana leaf, amble up

The orchids were tinged lavender, their labellum jagged and spangled with canary yellow, the man selling them unkempt, a little sozzled and raring to bargain. That orchid wore its splendor gracefully, its seller unrepentant about his brusqueness. It was frosty, the sun was still shuffling between the clouds over the Police Bazaar sky in Shillong, and I knew I had to capture the orchid as she tumbled out of the large soiled plastic sack. The moment I trained my camera on the orchid, the man cupped the orchid within his palms and growled, "No picture. Pay for the picture. Pay" He gesticulated angrily and literally shooed me away when I refused to pay him.

That was the first interesting encounter in the daily market in the winding lanes near the prison. That is the place to be for your daily needs - from orchids to needles, pseudo-Nikes, plastic flowers, handwoven shawls, stoles and utensils, the place dotted with cobblers, shoe-shine boys, tea and sweet meat shops and travel agents. And of course, the buyers and the bystanders - men in trousers, leather jackets and skull caps, women in colorful traditional dresses, children wearing their smiles and innocence and cops in camouflages totting their arms.

When I walked into the lane, loaders were still lugging things from one corner to another, curved with the stack on their backs. It was too early and only those with their street shops had lined up, the actual shops usually open around 10. While people haggled, chatted and enjoyed the morning sun, two really young sanyasis got busy peddling nirvana and a ticket to heaven. In close proximity sat a capped man selling 'miracle rings' for only Rs 5. "It comes with a guarantee, if you are not satisfied return the ring and get the money," the recorded message blared. The man was not beckoning anyone, he sat there silently in thick glasses and rattled off the advantages of the ring to anyone who cared to reach out to him.

Vindyachal Ram was mending a blue plastic slipper and sipping my morning cuppa I struck a conversation with the man I intuitively knew was a Bihari. I guess one Bihari can sniff another and I wasn't wrong about Ram's genealogy. He had been in Shillong for more than 16 years, his family still waiting for him in Ara district. "I miss home but there is nothing to do there," said Ram and three other cobblers nodded. They were all from Ara, they all missed home and they all knew livelihood was their only reason to be in Shillong.

If Police Bazaar is noisy and crowded, Iewduh, the largest market in the North-East can easily masquerade as pandemonium and packed out. Wherever your eye goes, something is being sold, either retail or wholesale. But the first color that takes away from the sunshine is the yellow top of the innumerable cabs that mill in and out in seconds, they can't breathe in that crammed place because there is no parking space. You get dropped and picked within seconds.

Even before I walk up the steep incline that leads into the narrow-laned market, I see a jeep's trailer laden with meat, its tyres dripping with blood. Meat is big business in Meghalya and mornings are the time when you get the best cuts. A midget with blue plastic sheet covering his head and torso was carrying a dead pig, perhaps twice his weight and size - with the slant of the eye it looked as if the dead, naked piggybacked animal was enjoying its jaunt. There were several people doing exactly the same chore. All covered in plastic, their hairy legs smudged with blood. I took a few more steps to see what more was left in the trailer and saw the entrails and the heads of the animals, when I looked away I noticed the blood that had nearly clothed my boots.

I wiped the blood on an unclaimed banana leaf, amble up and get caught in a melee that was clamoring for what looked like peeled taro root. I stand there curious and a man who spoke flawless English offered one to me. I taste the root, it is bland, crunchy and a little expensive but since everyone was buying it I am sure there was something exquisite to it. That morning I was getting adventurous, I tried the round, brown and small Khasi nuts, carrots the size of a finger; radishes long and taut; lime, ginger, nuts and a sliver of coconut wrapped in betel leaves and guavas mellow and sweet.

Too much experimentation had tired my stomach and I started looking around again. Something off-white, netted and bundled together caught my attention. I hurtled down to snoop at the three bundles. They were loofahs! I have picked dry squash from the wild and turned them into loofahs, but here they were a hatchful and not for sale. I really wanted to buy one but the woman was recalcitrant and I caught hold of a young English-speaking girl to translate my pleadings. The young girl pestered and pleaded on my behalf but it was not to be. Those bundles of loofahs were waiting for buyers from outside the state. I turn around and see a woman with three loofahs tucked under her arms, she understood my language and we settled for Rs 30 each. Not a steal but at least I got one!

So many things and so much noise at Iewduh. You know the decibel level is just an alibi for the moolah and when you go towards the bus stand you know where the things come from - from remote villages where women wash radishes in tiny puddles of water, from those stinking tanks in Sohra where betel nuts are soaked for months for that unique flavor, from the stepped farms where perfect cauliflowers are grown, from the soil that wraps the roots in its brown skin, from the looms that whirr at night to make shawls and the prayers that they all say to thank God for their daily bread and to plead for better harvest and generous buyers.

Iewduh lives the clatter and the commodities everyday - from the moment the sun yawns out of the night sky to the moment the birds fly home and the moon swaggers in to sign the night roster. Try and live that din for a day, you would love it.

Published in Discover India magazine, December 2004.

Contact: Preeti@deepblueink.com