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A Street Market
The sloping and serrated roofs of broken and run down stone buildings and houses ended with curled up edges. This was just as well as it prevented the sunlight from reaching the musty and damp street below and prevented water from soiling the many canvas roofed shops which were stocked sky-high with everyday trinkets and articles. The arrangement of these commodities would give the viewer great concern as to whether walking past it would cause the whole structure to collapse, and even greater concern on to whom it may find its unfortunate mark.
Sauntering languidly in a fore-mentioned place, these shops seemed to be dwindling in unison with the sinking sun. An occasional black crucifix, signifying that sunset was but an hour away, showed a few stray birds returning to their nests. At this time, one could get a last long and thorough look before the shops closed up like oysters and the owners hurried off, to whatever fate may have had in store for them.
Either side of the narrow street saw stalls and small shops, some comprising only a few tables placed together, while some big enough to accommodate a hammock or a make shift bed for its owner. All of these were operated by men who emanated the same kind of paranoia towards every new face that was present. The mere atmosphere of the market reeked of the fact that any thing new was an abomination. Even by standing at the beginning of this insular place, one could, if not see, hear or smell, fell the cold hard stares burning across ones skin as if a red hot poker was being forced to lie on it. The thing that would strike even to the most unobservant eye was that every stall owner was engaged in some kind of affectation, and would appear to be very engaged, all in the most unconvincing manner. Among these various hypocritical displays, a few faces would pop up with a very tired and lethargic look as if a whole day of labour had done its toll on their frail bodies. However, this was not through overexertion, but from nothing better to do than lying on any flat surface. On observing the cache of goods closely, one would invariably notice that they were stacked most precariously, one on top of another and the mere addition of a feather would result in a catastrophe. While there were many shops, each one was unique to the last bit of dirt and grime that had accumulated.
If one was unlucky enough to choose a shop whose owner was lying inside, then a mere purchase of a few rupees would become tantamount to a trek in the desert in mid-summer, if not more. Mustering up all his energy from each and every nook and cranny of the body, seen and unseen, the owner would sit up, swaying here and there. After some time, he would, very tactfully and in a way that would offer his limbs the least amount of work, stand up, only with the support of his useful hands which would instinctively grab hold of anything substantial to gain support. He would, with a scowl and a harsh accent, ask for the item of interest. If that was placed further in the shop, then one would be rewarded with another scowl which could honestly make ones day, obviously, in the negative sense. Hence, with the dealing of the last bit of pecuniary matters, the customer would, step out and be gone whereas the owner would make his way back to his faithful bed to relieve the exhaustion from this ordeal of selling.
With the extinguishing of the last bit of the sun, the owners would gleefully pack up and head for home or some location else where which, one can only speculate as to where it is.
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