Market Day

It is Wednesday. Market day. People from all the surrounding villages gather here in the Hampi Bazaar from daybreak. The day traditionally starts with the prayer chants and hymns from the Virupakhsa Temple where the rich and poor rub shoulders in the presence of the divine. Once the holy flame is passed around and the business-class people have muttered their prayers for a successful day on the market under their breath, the day begins as though with a collective sigh of determined preparation.
The market place stretches from outside the temple compound to the end of the main road where sits the statue of Nandi, the bull. The stalls are situated on either side of the road within the plinths of stone erected to house them. Selling side by side are vegetables, perfumes, spices, cattle, gold and gems and slaves even.  Customers in colourful clothes against the dusty brown backdrop of this ancient town throw the stone carvings and architecture into relief.
A small gathering of young men watch excitedly while two rams lock horns in a street fight. A little girl tries to imitate her older sister and mother by balancing a small clay pot on her head on the way to the river. An elderly  farmer wipes the sweat off his brow with a red checkered cotton wipe-cloth.
Two of the eleven royal elephants are spotted in the distance making their ponderous way to take back supplies for the royal family from the market. All the sellers suddenly sit up and take notice....a few shoo their straggling customers away. The merchant who supplies goods for the royal family on market day is indeed lucky. Not only does he get paid handsomely in gold but also it is a matter of great honour for him as he is deemed to be standing head and shoulders above his fellow merchants and his produce is the most sought after for months.
This time the lucky man is someone who has never before been noticed. His stall is at the far end of the market but the aroma from his spice sacks wafts to the town gates. The elephants, whose mahouts trust their judgement, made their way through the gates and towards this unremarkable little stall. Goods and gold exchange hands and the merchant seems only to realise the gravity of what has just happened when the elephants turn their backs on his stall and begin moving in the direction of the royal enclosure.
A smile that holds pride and deference in equal measures spreads across the merchant's face as he thinks about his spices flavouring the food of none other than King Krishnadevaraya. He folds his hands into a namaskaram and with his eyes at the setting sun gives thanks to Lord Virupaksha. This Market Day has been exceedingly good for him.

Moving on

We are tracing lines in the sand with our fingers. My daughter and I. It is a strangely calming feeling. At this moment all I feel is intense love for her and a sense of peace with myself. She pushes some unruly strands of hair behind her ears and concentrates on tracing a shape in the sand tray. She is drawing a fish shape. 

Then she picks up a shell from the box beside it and looks up at me with big wide eyes. It is how beautifully we communicate without words that send a sharp pang of pain through my heart. Her look says: do you think I should use this? I nod imperceptibly feeling the prick of tears behind my lashes. As she bends down to continue her decoration I walk out of the room and into the adjoining bathroom to cry. I don’t want her to see me like this but I can’t help my tears. ‘How will I live without her?’ I think and then realise I won’t have to because I am dying.

We are at the therapist’s office. Monday and Friday afternoons we come here, just the two of us; so that my daughter can understand that her mother will not be alive for her next birthday. So far we have read story books together, painted cards, written letters to each other and spoken about the death of our pet cat Toby. She understands what death is, she is seven years old. She knows that I am ill, that Daddy is worried, that I stay in bed for long periods and go to the hospital very frequently. I believe she knows that I am dying but refuses to believe it. 

I catch her looking at me when she thinks I am focusing elsewhere. She quickly looks away when our eyes meet. The therapist says that the questions will come inevitably. That is why we come for therapy. To bring her to the stage where she can articulate her thoughts and face her fear that I am going to leave her forever. Initially it broke my heart to do this; I did not want to come. But I understand now that she is the one who has to continue living. Her wellbeing and understanding are my primary concern now. She should be able to ask all her questions, go through her feelings of pain and loss and say a proper goodbye to me.