Sitting on a low wooden stool outside the tailors sewing shed, it is easy to watch the passing world. The shed is about two by one and a half metres and houses a sewing machine, over locker and the tailor. Little room for stock, precariously perched on higher shelves. The roller door hidden by the awning and a temporary shade shelter has been stretched across the alleyway to restrict the beating sun into the shop. Lines fly across from all shops for the same purpose. The area does little business, not through lack of trying to lure customers. My long time tailor relocated here after the family business was distributed amongst the siblings. So now I too wait in the laneway as stitching happens, listening to the whir of the machine, accompanying the ever playing music from the restaurant over which the whistle of the traffic policeman shrills instructions to motorists who generally ignore his directions as he stands in the middle of a tiny roundabout.
Opposite the tailor are a row of ready made shops, selling clothing , scarves, bags for women and children. Towards the corner the all important milk vender who works as a government employee distributing one litre packages of milk at a fixed price and his supplementary business is other beverages, sweets and chewing pan. His trade is continual. On the corner is Chunkii Bites restaurant. A small establishment, more spilling outdoors than indoors, with fold up tables and plastic chairs. Specialists in Chinese, Punjabi, Rajasthani and Jain food as well as pizza and maggi noodles. It is mid holidays, Holi and Easter. Mt Abu is very busy. The restaurant is full and the usual lazy pace of the place has a lunch time rush.
The hardest worker is a simple, innocent, mentally challenged young man who fetches water in a ten litres recycled, green plastic, oil container with a wide neck. He constantly travels back and forward to the communal tap, replacing the water being used in the restaurant. Each time he passes by he looks my way, rubs his tummy, points at mine and winks. The shopkeepers are protective of him and respect his hard work and diligence. It reinforces to me why bottled water is a must.
Next door is another 'touched' older man. For twenty years he has tried to sell me 'his' paintings. Traditional Udaipur style painting on silk or leaf, with traditional subject matter, tourist style, elephants and camels. His place is as big as the tailors with piles of artwork lying on the floor, flat and in rolls, waiting for anyone to purchase. He is determined and I am sure has a selective memory, as each time he sees me it is as if he has not met me and the sales pitch starts all over again. He guards his patch furiously and if someone moves one of his chairs his OCD kicks in. Like many shop keepers to keep the dust down he sprinkles the lane outside the shop with water though this evaporates within a few minutes. It seems to draw the flies in for a drink.
The next roller door contains a tattoo studio. Enough room for two comfortably, the super cool dude
has a squat physique, visible tattoos running down his neck ( current fashion ) and whilst thinning on top has an attached single dreadlock hanging down his back. He rides an Enfield motorbike and seems more vacant from his premises than present. There are a couple of tattoo shops in the village now and I suspect they are all owned by the same person. One I walked passed yesterday specialised in 3D tattoos.
The day is about waiting. About opportunity stumbling in. No one can leave their business in case custom comes. It doesn't stop them having a siesta, sitting or reclining in whatever space is available.
Opposite the tailor are a row of ready made shops, selling clothing , scarves, bags for women and children. Towards the corner the all important milk vender who works as a government employee distributing one litre packages of milk at a fixed price and his supplementary business is other beverages, sweets and chewing pan. His trade is continual. On the corner is Chunkii Bites restaurant. A small establishment, more spilling outdoors than indoors, with fold up tables and plastic chairs. Specialists in Chinese, Punjabi, Rajasthani and Jain food as well as pizza and maggi noodles. It is mid holidays, Holi and Easter. Mt Abu is very busy. The restaurant is full and the usual lazy pace of the place has a lunch time rush.
The hardest worker is a simple, innocent, mentally challenged young man who fetches water in a ten litres recycled, green plastic, oil container with a wide neck. He constantly travels back and forward to the communal tap, replacing the water being used in the restaurant. Each time he passes by he looks my way, rubs his tummy, points at mine and winks. The shopkeepers are protective of him and respect his hard work and diligence. It reinforces to me why bottled water is a must.
Next door is another 'touched' older man. For twenty years he has tried to sell me 'his' paintings. Traditional Udaipur style painting on silk or leaf, with traditional subject matter, tourist style, elephants and camels. His place is as big as the tailors with piles of artwork lying on the floor, flat and in rolls, waiting for anyone to purchase. He is determined and I am sure has a selective memory, as each time he sees me it is as if he has not met me and the sales pitch starts all over again. He guards his patch furiously and if someone moves one of his chairs his OCD kicks in. Like many shop keepers to keep the dust down he sprinkles the lane outside the shop with water though this evaporates within a few minutes. It seems to draw the flies in for a drink.
The next roller door contains a tattoo studio. Enough room for two comfortably, the super cool dude
has a squat physique, visible tattoos running down his neck ( current fashion ) and whilst thinning on top has an attached single dreadlock hanging down his back. He rides an Enfield motorbike and seems more vacant from his premises than present. There are a couple of tattoo shops in the village now and I suspect they are all owned by the same person. One I walked passed yesterday specialised in 3D tattoos.
The day is about waiting. About opportunity stumbling in. No one can leave their business in case custom comes. It doesn't stop them having a siesta, sitting or reclining in whatever space is available.
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