There is Hindi pop music playing from somewhere invisible, probably from a radio that sits on the ground, between the blue feet of a plastic chair, between the bare feet of the kids who live in the street. A crippled pigeon picks up crumbs of chiapati next to a monkey munching banana. Little strokes of good luck, she thinks, only they don't call it luck--here it is karma. And it's so strong that you can almost feel it, that you can almost touch it. It's sailing through the air, in zig-zags, together with the right times for the right places, together with the paper kites on long lines that can cut each other.

She has learned to get them right, those times, has learned to listen to them, and so she passes swiftly through the five-lane traffic, looking almost as if she weren't just another traveller who follows the suggestions of the latest lonely planet but, rather, the younger sister of a tomb raider, always one life left in the right corner of the screen. Even the monkey stops his chewing for a moment and follows her moves. The scruffy little creature wonders about her: either this woman doesn't realize she was nearly floored by a flowered truck, or else she simply doesn't care.

On the other side of the street, her arrival is welcomed by the usual canon of questions.
Postcards? Hello, Madam, yes, Madam, taxi?
Drums? Money change? Postcards?
Hello, she echoes, hello, no sorry, no postcards, no taxi, no sorry.
Tomorrow? Postcards tomorrow?
She smiles. She knows they will remember every promise, even the slightest one. And they will remember her. Hello, Madam, you said you buy tomorrow, now is tomorrow. How could you say no then? There is none of it, anyway. Saying no, it's not an option here.

Leaving the hello's behind her, she moves on through a square of shops, through sandalwood scents, through statues of silver Shivas, through silk saris, through little scams in all sizes. Some stalls later, she spots Shiva's son. She wasn't looking for him, but she recognizes him: Ganesh, the God of good luck, the God with the elephant head. A swastika in his hand, he is hanging there in his latest incarnation: woven out of cotton, ready to be worshipped, ready to be worn.

She tries to hide her excitement. Looks at a pair of khaki trousers instead.
How much these, she aks.
Threehundred, the owner of the God and the other goods answers.
She doesn't show any reaction.
I have others, too, look, the man says.
She lets him unfold the same kind of trousers in all different kind of colours.
They are okay trousers, but they are not what she wants.
Shaking her head sadly, she shifts through a pile of scarves.
I have more, the man says.
No sorry, she answers, shouldering her bag again.
While she turns away, she points at Ganesh.
And how much this, she asks.
Onehundredwanty, says the man.
Onehundredtwenty, she repeats, almost sure that it's not.
The man looks at her, doesn't say a word. That's how he tells her she got it wrong.
He draws a calculator out of a pile of packs. He types in a number. 180.
Too much.
Now it's her who doesn't say a word.
Okay how much, the man says.
Onehundredfifty max, she thinks.
She erases the number on the calculator's mini screen, and types in 100. The man doesn't even flinch.
Onehundredseventy, he says, not typing this time.
What now? she thinks. He probably knows that she wanted Ganesh from the start. But then he probably knows that she knows he knows. What does this sum up to then? she wonders. Onehundredfifty? Onehundredthirty?
Onehundredfourty, a tiny pink voice whispers.
She turns around. There is no one standing behind her, not man, not monkey.
She shrugs.
Onehundredtwenty, she says, getting back to the game.
Okay onehundredsixty, the shop owner answers.
Onehundredthirty, she says.
Okay onehundredsixty, he replies.
She doesn't react.
Okay how much, he says.
Didn't we have that question before, she thinks.
How much, you tell, he says.
Onehundredfourty, she answers.

It's like poker, she thinks. It's about knowing. It's not about showing that you're knowing.

He moves his head in a soft eight, almost like a plastic puppy nodding through the rear window of a car. The first time she was here, she read this as an unspoken no, confusing the ones that confused her by simply walking away. Funny sight she must have been, she thinks, and pulls out two notes out of her pocket, one red, one blue.

The shop owner takes the money, brings it to his lips, to his forehead, while he mumbles some words. She waits for him to finish, to wrap Ganesh up, to put him into a black plastic bag. Even here, money is a goddess, and plastic the first choice.

Later, in her hotel room, after she had taken that long longed-for shower, she unwraps the pack. Breathing in, she slips into Ganesh, the God who is also known as Ganapati and Vinayaka, the remover of obstacles. Breathing out, she watches him in the mirror. Her companion for this journey, bought for two notes, one red, one blue. Onehundredfourty Rupees. Which is about two Dollars. Or is it five Dollars? She can't remember the exchange rate. Maybe I should look that one up before I start to bargain next time, she thinks, and tries to move her head in a soft eight, still sure that the onehundredfifty she paid were an okay price.

Maybe you should get a calculator before you start to bargain next time, Ganesh whispers in his little pink voice. When he sees her staring at him in the mirror, he forgets all poker rules and winks. For a moment, he isn't sure how she will take this, if she really was the right one to take along with him. He prepares himself to turn into a crumpled piece of cotton again. But she stays inside him, stays in front of the mirror, pretending nothing has happened, pretending she doesn't know that he knows she knows.

It doesn't matter, though, the secret is already moving down the street, window to window, floor to floor, carried on four legs and a tail, all the way back to the shop owner, who is waiting for it there.

After he heard the news, he stores away the trousers and t-shirts and sits down to have another cup of chai and to feed the monkey with another piece of banana. It's about knowing. It's not about showing that you're knowing, he tells the monkey, repeating her words. Then, having done his deed for the day, he finishes his chai and turns into a silver statue of Shiva again.



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