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Night approaches here the same way it does in the states but the darkness is different. Deeper. It yawns, blowing its hot breath on us as we ride through the market. The lights of the streets flicker and threaten to dim. I rest my head on my arm on the open window of the jeep and close my eyes. Mike is right; it is like sticking your face in a giant hair dryer. The air is hot and thick, and feels powdery on my face.
The jeep pulls off the road and the change in surface brings us all back from our individual thoughts and to a shop that has an assemblage of items (commonality found only in all the items are made of brass or copper). Large bowls or cauldrons (though I don’t think I honestly know what a cauldron is), flat circular pieces of metal like giant pennies, and hooks and small trinkets. Brooke whispers in my ear “This must be Bed, Bath, and Beyond,” we stifle our laughs as the men in the shop offer us seats. Two boys from the orphanage that tagged along for the ride, plunge out of the jeep, and up to the shop and our attention. Our guide gives them stern looks as they cause trouble around the shop. They ease out of the light’s defined grasp to, what I can only think is a sidewalk, and continue their mischief there.
It takes a few moments for our guide to communicate what we want. It is bizarre and disconcerting for me to witness the language barrier that is an everyday occurrence in India (it has an arguable number languages, which has risen into the thousands). Our guide and the shopkeeper continue to talk back and forth, showing things, shaking head, showing more things, shaking head more. I watch this exchange distracted but then realize that our guide’s barrier isn’t its us, well rather, me. I wanted to purchase bells for the kids to play with at the pastor’s conference; traditional bells, jingle bells, the type commonly found on a “one-horse open sleigh” bells. Unfortunately, my American version of “traditional” is completely nonplused.. I say, “jingle bells,” our guide nods in understanding, and they bring out something the size of our founding father’s Liberty Bell. I gesture for smaller and try to wrap my clumsy tongue around “chotta” and hand bells are brought out. Now I feel foolish. At least twenty minutes has elapsed in my fervent quest for American tradition and my flesh just now seems to be grasping the fact that, this is India. Even they seemed to have an immeasurable amount of impulsive energy, have faded and are now in the jeep struggling to stay awake.
Defeated, I give up. Our guide selects a beautiful, aforementioned, over-sized brass penny (which, just so you know, is a small gong) and we stand up to leave. And as if the night departed and made way for the orange sun to rise in that small shop, one of the young men, that previously had just been scrutinizing this whole humiliating situation, now ran to the backroom (I honestly didn’t know these shops had backrooms) and came back with a small pink plastic bag with four strands of American tradition. I was excited that somehow my communication of what I wanted had made it through to, what I felt like were, deaf ears. Bells in hand we head for the jeep and back to the orphanage.
It isn’t until I’m in the jeep that I really examine my seemingly hard fought for treasures. They are beautiful. The bells, which are meant to be worn around your ankle, are intricately strung on heavy cord and even more intricately designed. Bare hands made these bells, carefully pounding brass into tiny shapes and patterns, stuffing them with the beads and folding them so that they would sound just right. These aren’t normal bells. They don’t ring in the holidays. They aren’t something you can buy at Wal-mart for cheap. Though they may resemble their American counterparts these bells are just a small piece of expansive society of the unseen artisan class of India. And suddenly my American tradition seems smaller in the shadow of these tiny bells.
I look over at our guide and examine his face harder. I look around me and examine everything more and with a deeper appreciation. The boy wakes up with his usual energy. I show him the bells and he enjoys the noise they make for the rest of the ride back. His smile is enormous and bright and suddenly everything seems smaller in the reflection of his face.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 6th, 2007 at 12:35 pm and is filed under Meredith Clark . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.