This little politician went to market

Politicians are coming here with their big talk and smarmy smiles, begging for votes.

On Saturday evening, one of them stands on a makeshift stage in the only open area of the market, making his speech. Not many are listening. A scattering of individuals occupy the many empty chairs. Some curious passersby stop their scooters to look and listen.

Otherwise, the entire market ignores him.

Saturday is a bad day for a politician to visit. Didn’t anyone tell him that?

It’s the day workers are paid their weekly wages. It’s also the day the weekly vegetable bazaar is held. By evening, when prices have dropped and the day’s work is over, all the sad little shops so typical of a highway market town - and offering no more than the bare necessities - come ablaze with lights. The place is crowded as it never is otherwise – with migrants who work as masons, plumbers and laborers, with small businessmen of the area, with families from the many neighboring villages. All are busy stocking up on food and vegetables, fish and chicken.

Nobody has time to think of politicians. And for the moment, at least, no one is interested in the free rice this politician is probably promising. All are busy trying to find the best bargains for their own hard-earned money, hurrying from vendor to vendor, lugging heavy bags, dodging honking buses, trucks, scooters, cows and bicycles.

In any case, this market on the NH-17 is not a space where you linger to do some window-shopping. It’s easily the ugliest spot in all of Goa. The narrow highway doubles as the main street of the market and, together with an adjoining road constitutes the entire market, supplying the needs of all the villages in the district.

People do what they have to do and return in relief to their homes set amidst coconut palms, oblivious to the neta and his speech.

The poor little politician probably went wee! wee! wee! - all the way home.