"Take the first right turn , there , right there, and you will find him sitting underneath a tree."
No, we were not looking for holy men. We were looking for a "Mochi", a cobbler to repair the zips on my overstuffed purse.
The zips kept throwing in the towel, after being stuffed with tourist brochures, cell-phones, batteries , cameras, chargers, wet tissues, anti-emetic tablets , iodex bottles, cough drops, combs , flowers from the feet of various "devi matas' in different phases of drying-dying,two capless pens that don't write, a small spiral notebook scribbled all over by the younger one in teenage gibberish, clips , a butter-knife , a spoon, one gutka of sikh sacred hymns, two different editions of hanuman and shiv-chalisa (my mother's advise - "you never know which God you need to propitiate!" ), two headless happy- meal toys , and one disposable menu card from the KFC.
In other words, my purse suffered from a classical case of elephantiasis.
I had to empty my above mentioned treasures into a black , polythene, garbage bag, which I wheedled out of the boy who brings water and tea to the mess- rooms , over prolonged and profuse inquiries after his "biwi-bachcha."
Everyone we asked gave the aforementioned directions . The hill-station abounded in trees. Mercifully, the roadside trees were limited in number.
Amazingly, every right turn had a roadside tree, and every tree had some sort of activity , going on.
The first tree had a "thela", a wheelbarrow, of fried papads and home made biscuits, next right turn had two vendors , tired after a raucous morning hawking, catching breath, springing to action at the sight of us and setting upon us to buy "postcards " and T -shirts. I am inclined to believe an aggrieved tourist , who said ," they (hawkers) are like blood hounds , they can smell a tourist a bend in the road away"
Having escaped the duo, the next right turn brought us to "the lake ". Suddenly , we were dwarfed by the sheer volume of well-heeled Gujaratis, upon whom all attention turned.
Even the roadside eateries and shop owners, send out their personal criers to the town square , in front of the lake . So an assortment of raised , high pitch crying exhorts you to get photographed , get tattooed , eat Gujarati thali, eat rajasthani thali, buy embroidered camel seats,buy fur caps, ride camels, ride horses, ride strange , driver less,dangerous -looking contraptions that faintly resemble wheelbarrows, ride boats , and generally get looted /loaded with unwanted junk.
In midst of all this chaotic hub-bub, sat our Mochi, in a Buddha -like trance , comfortably , beneath a badly hacked banyan, its several stumps serving as advertisement posts for "Photos ", "Pizzas", "Boat rides and scenic views".
He had shielded himself from sun and noise with two large black umbrellas , juxtaposition-ed against each other, weighed down with bricks , creating a shell-like haven for himself.
He had the problem fixed in a jiffy, with a pair of evil-looking tweezers and some pungent smelling lubricant.
Upon being complimented, in abject gratitude , that he was a magician, the cobbler gave a rueful smile , and answered , un-Buddha like-"If I was a magician , I would be stealing money from your purses and not repairing them."
That reminded me to carry some money in my purse, when I venture out next.What was the purse meant to carry, by the way ?
No, we were not looking for holy men. We were looking for a "Mochi", a cobbler to repair the zips on my overstuffed purse.
The zips kept throwing in the towel, after being stuffed with tourist brochures, cell-phones, batteries , cameras, chargers, wet tissues, anti-emetic tablets , iodex bottles, cough drops, combs , flowers from the feet of various "devi matas' in different phases of drying-dying,two capless pens that don't write, a small spiral notebook scribbled all over by the younger one in teenage gibberish, clips , a butter-knife , a spoon, one gutka of sikh sacred hymns, two different editions of hanuman and shiv-chalisa (my mother's advise - "you never know which God you need to propitiate!" ), two headless happy- meal toys , and one disposable menu card from the KFC.
In other words, my purse suffered from a classical case of elephantiasis.
I had to empty my above mentioned treasures into a black , polythene, garbage bag, which I wheedled out of the boy who brings water and tea to the mess- rooms , over prolonged and profuse inquiries after his "biwi-bachcha."
Everyone we asked gave the aforementioned directions . The hill-station abounded in trees. Mercifully, the roadside trees were limited in number.
Amazingly, every right turn had a roadside tree, and every tree had some sort of activity , going on.
The first tree had a "thela", a wheelbarrow, of fried papads and home made biscuits, next right turn had two vendors , tired after a raucous morning hawking, catching breath, springing to action at the sight of us and setting upon us to buy "postcards " and T -shirts. I am inclined to believe an aggrieved tourist , who said ," they (hawkers) are like blood hounds , they can smell a tourist a bend in the road away"
Having escaped the duo, the next right turn brought us to "the lake ". Suddenly , we were dwarfed by the sheer volume of well-heeled Gujaratis, upon whom all attention turned.
Even the roadside eateries and shop owners, send out their personal criers to the town square , in front of the lake . So an assortment of raised , high pitch crying exhorts you to get photographed , get tattooed , eat Gujarati thali, eat rajasthani thali, buy embroidered camel seats,buy fur caps, ride camels, ride horses, ride strange , driver less,dangerous -looking contraptions that faintly resemble wheelbarrows, ride boats , and generally get looted /loaded with unwanted junk.
In midst of all this chaotic hub-bub, sat our Mochi, in a Buddha -like trance , comfortably , beneath a badly hacked banyan, its several stumps serving as advertisement posts for "Photos ", "Pizzas", "Boat rides and scenic views".
He had shielded himself from sun and noise with two large black umbrellas , juxtaposition-ed against each other, weighed down with bricks , creating a shell-like haven for himself.
He had the problem fixed in a jiffy, with a pair of evil-looking tweezers and some pungent smelling lubricant.
Upon being complimented, in abject gratitude , that he was a magician, the cobbler gave a rueful smile , and answered , un-Buddha like-"If I was a magician , I would be stealing money from your purses and not repairing them."
That reminded me to carry some money in my purse, when I venture out next.What was the purse meant to carry, by the way ?
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