On Sunday, Jamie, Jenna, and I took a jostling one-hour bus ride to Malappuram, the seat of Malappuram District in which Tirur lies, for the annual International Crafts Mela. (Mela is the Hindi word for ‘festival’.)
Artisans and vendors from all over India and a few foreign countries had set up bamboo huts on top of a shade-less hilltop overlooking a sprawling green valley. Jewelry from Uttar Pradesh. Leather work from Rajasthan. Water colors from Bihar. Wood carvings and trinkets from Karnataka. Cloth and silk shirts from West Bengal. Pashmina shawls from Kashmir. The booths stretched out in several uneven lanes over a grass field, surrounded by a rough circle of more booths and food stalls. In the late afternoon gloaming, the atmosphere was lively, the crowd inured to the sultry temperature, the air infused with the smell of fried food.
We slowly made our way around the exhibits, careful not to show too much interest when none was warranted, for these vendors were trained and motivated. Some had come from as far as the borderlands near the Himalayas to sell their products, so they would latch on to potential customers with fierce tenacity, especially customers with white faces (of which Jaime and I seemed to be the only two at the entire festival).
“One look, sir? Over here, sir!”
“Yes, yes, y
es. Interest?”
“You like? You like?”
“Very good work. Very fine. You buy? You buy?”
Jenna took advantage and bought several items that we thought would make good gifts for friends and family upon our return to the US. We refreshed ourselves with pineapple juice and later had some fresh-squeezed sugarcane juice (one of the best treats I have yet to have in India), the reedy stalks of the cane squeezed through the rotating teeth of a steel grinder, the seedy juice then poured over ice into glass cups.
We shared a dosa, a particularly beloved Kerala treat. It is essentially a thin, oversized pancake folded in half and stuffed with whatever you like—eggs, potatoes, veggies, chicken. You eat it with your hands and dip the dosa in coconut chutney and a rich, spicy broth called sambar. Jaime bought us all some small sweet puri, too, pleasantly greasy and fatty-tasting.
We ran into a few of our students and their families and also spotted Shyma, a woman in her early 20s who teaches at JM. She ran up to us from across a gap in the milling crowd near the main entrance to the Mela. “Jenna! Jenna!” she said as she jogged over, her family following her.
We are so accustomed to seeing Shyma in a tight-fitting black hijab and blue chalk jacket that we did not, at first, recognize her in a loose-fitting turquoise dupatta and a flowing canary yellow salwar kameez. I think Shyma realized this, for she pointed at her face and said, “Me! Shyma! JM!”
She introduced us to her mother, father, and two sisters (one of whom was a student of mine in the 8th standard at JM). They all shook our hands. We lifted our bags theatrically: “We bought a lot. Good shopping!” we said. Shyma and her family all smiled and nodded. We were just leaving. They were just getting there, as the sun began to fall below the distant, palm-lined horizon.
“Have a good time!” we said, as we left Shyma and began walking out. Three hours, a few bags of gifts, a couple of glasses of fresh-squeezed juice, and one dosa all complete, we judged the International Crafts Mela to be a success.
Me with our dosa.
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