The scent of mahua & a man
in a village haat Photograph: Preeti Verma Lal

By the time I could cross the mahua pile, there was a huge downpour. I had no choice but to run for cover under the tarp where mahua was being sold. The smell of wet earth mingled with the heady scent of mahua and I was already feeling tipsy. I did not want to pop off by the shop, so I bought a wicker basket, used it as an umbrella over my head, hitched my skirt and ran towards the car. In the hurry my skirt got stuck in a bundle of wood and I struggled to entangle it. The wicker basket covered my head but I was worried about my camera and my stuck skirt.

My pink silk crinkled skirt, black ribbed turtle neck, my Paloma Picasso sunglasses and my unclothed, funky Sony camera were such a give away at the Khunti haat. Not that I was the only one wearing bright colours, but perhaps I was the only urban face in that huge crowd and I was being stared at blatantly. That narrow stretch by the roadside was so crowded with cycles, bullock carts, tempos and walking men and women that I had to park at a distance and well, walk. The previous night's showers had created puddles and I had to hitch my skirt to scamper past stray dogs and unruly kids. Not many minutes later, I could feel a shadow following me, I could feel the discomfort and I turned around to look - there was a young, limp man the colour of ebony, his purple trousers quaint, his magenta shirt soiled and shiny and his hair looking oily. He grinned sheepishly when I looked back and I thought I had gotten rid of a pest.

The discomfort gone, I was readying to explore the village haat that gathers every Monday and Friday. As I crossed the bees and flies-laden gulgulas and roasted peas being sold for Rs 2 a leaf bowl, I could feel the scent - naah! not of a handsome cologned man - of mahua, the fruit of a wild tree that is fermented into an intoxicating drink. Loads of brown mahua was tumbling out of brown sacks and everyone seemed to be buying at least a sack full. The scent was getting into my head and if I had stayed a little longer I would have probably popped off. But not before I asked how they make the drink. The pot-bellied man in dirty pyjamas and sweat dripping down his jowl, tried explaining, but his speech was slurred. I am not sure whether he was drunk, maybe just sitting by a pile of mahua made him inebriated. I don't know, but I could not take the mahua any longer and headed to where what looked like stones lined on an old jute sack.

Stones? How wrong could I be? They were soaps - brown, white, charcoal, pink pieces that seemed hurriedly cut and embossed Shabnam. Some were wrapped in plastic while others lay there naked. Not too far away were other branded soaps that looked almost condescendingly at the brown Shabnam soaps, though I seriously doubted the authenticity of the wrapped ones too. They looked so phony, but the shopkeeper vehemently denied any fake "stuff in my shop." They were cheap but I was in mood to risk my brocades or my brown skin with Gold Mohur, Saral or Aafhi soap.

I stopped at every make-shift shop, looking at the silver jewellery displayed on velvet trays, stacks of tobacco leaves being sold for Rs 10 a kilo, puffed rice stacked in gigantic yellow and blue sacks, standing upright amidst the blue and white fish nets. I was looking for handcrafted wooden combs and asked everyone where I could find them. Some smirked, others were baffled at my question - perhaps they were amused at what an urban woman would do with an ancient-looking comb. I really wanted them and I kept looking for them…Then I saw the shadow again, the ebony coloured man in purple trousers and magenta shirt. He was stalking me….I feigned not having seen him and continued walking.

A village haat is like a one-stop shop, you find everything - from vegetables to striped underwears, flouncy nylon skirts, wicker baskets, brooms, decapitated chicken, bleating goats, leaf bowls, hookahs, fake watches and earthen pots. The ochre of the earthen pots were offset by aluminum utensils that were neatly arranged under a blue tarp. Three men sat on large upturned pots and did brisk business. There was a little drama being played out on the wet floor. Next to the aluminum woks lay a man, completely drunk and absolutely oblivious of the world around him. He had been lying on wet soil for several hours and was muttering a tale, a tale of unrequited love. His histrionics were hilarious - one moment he would gesticulate intensely, his voice reaching a crescendo and the next he would go flaccid, his voice vanishing into a whisper and he would roll over and snore. But there were no takers in that improvised proscenium, I was the sole audience. Such recital happens in every haat and nobody is interested in this clichéd play.

Excitement was being betted at in another corner. There were at least hundred men there waving their hands vigorously, chatting noisily. As I wriggled my way in through smelly bodies and lecherous men, I saw a really young boy juggling three very large flat plastic coins on a chintz sheet. Another man was squatting nearby and fiddling with a knot in his shirt. There was money in it, I guessed. I was not off the beam, he pulled out a Rs 20 note and placed a bet as the young man shuffled the three plastic coins, of which only one had 'Welcome' painted on the flip side. When the shuffling stopped you had to guess which one had Welcome on it. If you win, you get a Rs 40 for the Rs 20. Wow! I thought, that's good investment, but when I saw a lot despairing faces I realized a lot of them must have lost money.

In that crowd I again saw the man in purple trousers and magenta shirt….Gawd! Why is he stalking me? I wondered. I should do something, I thought. But before I could blink he got cheekier. He walked up to me and asked, "Are you alone?" That was my moment, I stood still and sternly said, "No, there is the chauffeur and the police escort too." I lied brazenly, there was no police escort, but it worked. I saw his magenta shirt getting lost in the crowd…

I still hadn't found the wooden comb. The clouds were gathering, the car was far away and I had to return. By the time I could cross the mahua pile, there was a huge downpour. I had no choice but to run for cover under the tarp where mahua was being sold. The smell of wet earth mingled with the heady scent of mahua and I was already feeling tipsy. I did not want to pop off by the shop, so I bought a wicker basket, used it as an umbrella over my head, hitched my skirt and ran towards the car. In the hurry my skirt got stuck in a bundle of wood and I struggled to entangle it. The wicker basket covered my head but I was worried about my camera and my stuck skirt.

Suddenly I saw a large, black umbrella over my head. I turned to look, the man in purple trousers and magenta shirt was protecting me from the rain. Strange!

Published in Discover India magazine, November 2005