It has been a long time since I have left my village to live in a city. A city dweller left without anything to do has to find ways to consume time. A village has its charms and interests which give a feeling of time standing still and an unchanging scene. After a long time I made a chance visit to a village and could see a fair. It was a Wednesday; the day of the village fair. All kinds of people have gathered at the fair to buy and sell their wares. There are places marked for different wares in the fair, and there is the section that spills over in which all the latecomers have put up their shops. Here business is neither brisk nor professional. The traders sit with the assurance that they are not going to leave the fair without selling their wares. The buyers are wandering around with the confidence that eventually they would get their bargain. The onlookers and walkers are also a part of the fair. They have come to feast their eyes. The noise and bustle could persuade even a travelling bus to stop there and the people have come out to have a feel of the fair. There are big bargains and auctions going all around. There is cattle, sheep, and pigs to be sold and bought. There is an assortment of vegetables and tubers. There are different grains and pulses in sacks. An old woman makes plates out of tree leaves and another is rolling leaves of tobacco into cheroots. A trader displays his wares to a crowd of young women. He has brought the latest fashion things from the town: powders, snows, jackets, saris, bangles, combs, hair bands and so on. A circus show is in progress. A monkey does some tricks with some clubs and a ring of fire. There is noise all around. Tobacco is being used freely. The thick black smoke issuing from the cheroots is circling the air giving the place a heady, musty scent. Children are after the balloon man and the sweetmeat man. There is a throng of small children around the mithai shop. If one can’t buy, one can at least feast one’s eyes at the golden yellow snacks turning out crisp from the oil. An astrologer has spread his mat and a parrot picks up cards for him to read out the fortunes of a couple. As night sets in the farmers who have done their business become busy cooking a meal of chapattis and curry on makeshift stoves. The tired ones have left the fair and the rugs are out to brave the chill of the night. There is an old woman, selling medicinal herbs. She appears to be waiting for that elusive customer. On top of her board, she proudly displays a Tiger claw. On the other side a couple of guys after having successfully concluded their transaction have become friends. They are going toward the toddy shop to have a drink. The shandy has become a melting pot of people. A band of travelling artistes has descended on the shandy and they have started an impromptu show. With some garish makeup and bright dresses, in the glare of two flood lights, they are dancing to the tune of popular film numbers.
People know that it is not such a sought after troupe. The women and men are past their prime. Who would come to the shandy to dance in front of a motley crowd? Yet people are happy and give some small coins and currency notes mostly out of sympathy than out of appreciation for their talent. I looked for one enduring image of the fair. I wouldn’t say it was naive or unsophisticated or artless. There was sharp business sense involved. But I found a certain irreverence towards the passage of time. Everybody was determined to have their share of the fun; no matter evening or night.
In the morning the shandy is a place of riff raff and rubbish. The remnants of the previous day’s bustle mark the place. The embers of last night’s fire are still burning and the dogs and pigs are scrounging around for edible food. Until the next fortnight then, the shandy town will remain silent. But come the third Wednesday, it will again spring to life like the Phoenix rising from the ashes.