Notes from a Thursday market

Every Thursday the empty field behind the school becomes a town.

By seven in the morning the first sellers have spread their sacks on the grass: ginger and turmeric, bundles of dhekia shoots, little heaps of king chilli that make your eyes water from three steps away. A woman sells duck eggs from a basket lined with straw, counting them out in fours.

Further in, the fish sellers shout over each other. Rohu, small puthi, and, if you are lucky, a few silvery borali still flapping in a tin basin. The prices are spoken loudly and then lowered quietly.

Near the road a man repairs umbrellas and torches with the patience of a surgeon. Next to him, a boy sells balloons, kites and plastic whistles, and does better business than anyone.

By noon the tea stall is full. Farmers talk about the rain, mothers about school fees, old men about the old days. Everyone knows everyone, or knows someone who does.

By sunset the field is empty again, the grass flattened, a few leaves blowing around. Next Thursday, it will all come back.