IN THE BAZAARS OF HYDERABAD What do you sell , O Ye Merchants? Richly your wares are displayed. Turbans of Crimson and silver, Mirrors with panels of amber, Daggers with handles of jade. Naidu, Sarojini. The Sceptred Flute. New York , 1928Last summer, on a balmy morning, I was meandering aimlessly around the noisy lanes of Old Delhis Gandhi boulevard, famed for its narrow winding alleys and its Saturday morning flea bazaar. It was a typical market scene, perhaps from a medieval town in Central Asia. The bazaar was teeming with the commercial cacophony of confusing voices, horns, whistles, shouts, clangs, and the jingle-jangle of coins and numerous other unidentifiable noises. Bicycles were whizzing past pedestrians at feverish speeds, rickshaws were lugging the affluent around their daily chores, and carts filled to the brim were transporting fresh supplies to eager merchants.The vendors were yelling Fresh Nagpur oranges, two for the price of one, Hand woven shawls from Kashmir, that can pass through the eye of a needle, Silk saris from Mysore, fit for a princess. I was ambling along, when something in the inappropriately named and garishly decorated display window of the Istanbul Rug Emporium caught my eye. It was a green colored, nine-by-nine feet wool rug with a medallion motif, beige borders, delicately ornamented with tassels. Inappropriately named indeed, for the putative emporium was a marginally augmented shack, with rickety shelves, a solitary wooden bench and a tarpaulin sheet for a roof. The entire inventory of rugs amounted to less than the bridal trousseau of a wealthy merchants daughter. The shop vendors consisted of a sincere, older gentleman, bearded and attired in the traditional Pashtun robe, assisted by a rather impish looking teenage boy, probably his son. They were peddling their wares to every passer-by without distinction, swearing to the authenticity ...
