India Game!

It would be hard to walk at night on my own. Indian women shop during the day but by night the streets are left to the men and those without homes. All the occupants of the restaurants are either volunteers, tourists, or Bengali men. The staff are men and young boys. But rarely do you see Bengali women socialising in the evening. Its not that I feel unsafe – just very visible. Very 'seen'. However, as always I was going to be stubborn and wanted to do a bit of evening exploration. A solution – Magic Man! I walked to a busy corner, eyes searching for magic signs.

Wheeeeeee. A flying balloon shot to the sky and underneath stood a smiling boy who had momentarily replaced his role of beggar with that of child. I had found my chaperon. Leaving happy child with his sword made of rubber and air, we walked behind Sudder Street to the New Market; a pedestrianized area full of large trucks, rickshaws, street hawkers and temporary shops.

“Auntie Auntie!” Shouted three little ladies to my legs. I looked down at the other female night walkers. My hands being swung and my strange face explored. “Auntie what is your name?” Confused looks. “Dex? AH! Your name is soo sweet to my lips. ” They giggled. Hands over mouths. Younger ladies hiding behind bigger ones. “Jump with us!!”

“Jump!” Soar. Land. Extend. Bend. “Jump!” Soar. Land. Extend. “Jump!” And so it continued until laughter became contagious and the grip of tiny clammy fingers could not help but slide away.

We past another little boy holding a gun the size of himself. He was aiming directly at a piece of cardboard lined with small balloons. Feet spread and a determined smile in place. Bang!...Hmmm. All nine balloons had survived the close range assault. The stall proprietor quickly bent down, snapped back the gun, inserted a new cartridge and returned it to the little waiting hands. Aim...Fire....Silence! The mini solider didn't mind. He had loved his few minutes with his only toy. Gun was returned and next customer cajoled.

“My Friend My Friend! India Game! One rupee a shot!” We had been stopped. “I am a peaceful man – no balloons” surrendered Magic Man. I suppose for Magic Mans ballons are to 'create' and not to 'pop.' With his hands above his head he walked towards the war toy. The proprietor nodded and consulted his board of tricks. A candle was lighted. It dangled precariously next to the rows of air filled plastic colour. Melting wax dribbled down its stem, changing is form as quickly as its flame flickered. The stationary target was moving as surely as a floating duck. Crack. Snap. Bang. Burn. “Ah my friend!” Sympathized the proprietor. He takes the gun to give us an expert demonstration. I take a photograph and in return he gives me a toothless smile and asks for the 'postcard'. I add it to my growing list of portraits to print. The expert fire shooter collects his one rupee and turns to the street to tout for more business. He will need five customers to buy one large cup of chai.