As a teenager, I watched free open-air performances of magicians, acrobats, snake charmers, barefoot dentists and healers at the large grain market (mandi) of my birth town Khanna on G.T. Road in Punjab.
Farmers from surrounding villages bring their agricultural produce, such as wheat, paddy, groundnuts, and cotton, to sell at the market. The mode of transport used in the early 1960s by most farmers was the bullock cart. Each farmer would wait for the public auction of his produce conducted by the market committee, with the highest bidder buying it. This wait could extend to a day or two.
Making use of their time, the farmers went around the local bazaars to buy items of necessity, such as a bicycle to gift a bridegroom or a sewing machine to a bride. Some wholesale grocery shops, such as Ram Pratap Sarkaroo Mall, did brisk business selling their merchandise (sauda-patta in Punjabi) to the farmers.
Hundreds of idle farmers always attracted jugglers, snake charmers, acrobats and so on who performed to entertain them, earning some coins collected after each performance.
The snake charmers luring a cobra to dance to a tune played on their been was a common sight. The audience sat on the ground in a circle, often regaled by the snake charmer’s nudges made to the cobra to do so.
The juggler would “swallow” three or four steel balls, each about two inch in diameter and would then feign discomfort, as if those steel balls were lodged in his chest and thoracic passage. Some self-thumping by him at his ribs would bring the steel balls out of his mouth, one by one, each time with his yell, Aouphanga, whatever that meant! Obviously, he played a visual trick that his audience could never comprehend.
Acrobats playing dug-dugi made a monkey jump through tight rings. Finally, the monkey walked triumphantly, followed by his monkey-bride, creating ripples of laughter among the viewers.
Vendors selling knick-knacks did sing-song advertising in Punjabi, “Chakk janjeeri, chakk bhambiri, chakk mochna aane da” (“pick a chain, pick a spinning top, or pick a tweezer, all items priced at one anna each”). An anna was equal to one-16th of a rupee.
A desi jutti vendor sold cheap footwear. I bought a pair of coarse-leather jutties from him once for just ₹2, discovering next day that it was harsh on my feet.
Some farmers spent time getting replacement for the worn-out steel-shoes (horseshoe) on the hooves of their bullocks. The guy who did it used ropes skilfully to manoeuvre the bullock to lie on its side. He would then tie its legs so that all four hooves became accessible to be able to pull off the old ‘horseshoes’ and nail new ones on each hoof.
A Brooke Bond Tea agent went around the market to sell tea packets. The rural folk, however, were not keen as they used only loose tea leaves.
Cherry Blossom shoe polish sellers offered a free shine on the spot, but the farmers hardly showed interest as their desi jutti didn’t require any polishing.
A quack claimed to cure knee-pain by piercing the knee of the sufferer fiercely with an animal horn used as a sharp tool till blood oozed. He then declared it a successful operation, having strained out dirty blood! Self-declared dentists went around selling tooth-powder “guaranteed” to cure all dental problems. They also did tooth extraction on the spot free. Some others sold herbal supplements such as shilajit or saffron. A chooran seller claimed to cure all stomach ailments.
My personal favourite was an astute barefoot doctor. He would announce his plan to divulge, for free, the nuskha (prescription) of his potent medicine which could cure several ailments, and welcomed those interested to sit in a large circle. He would then distribute small pieces of blank paper, and pencils to each of them to note down what he would be dictating. Even unlettered farmers would take the paper and pencil. He started by announcing the list of ingredients needed to make his medicine, such as a a bit of camphor, rock-salt, carom seeds and a few other things, explaining what each ingredient was and how much of it was needed. The last ingredient he announced was lohe da burada (Punjabi for fine iron powder), explaining that the iron powder was essentially what fell as tiny particles when a blacksmith filed an iron piece into shape. “But wait”, he would say, “you must sieve the iron filing through a fine muslin cloth to get only the very fine particles.” The classroom-like setting would attract many more onlookers. By then, it would be getting too complex for about 50 of his clients attempting to write what he spoke. Many among them did not walk away because they had to return his paper and pencil. At this opportune juncture, he would declare that to save them the misery of finding all the ingredients and processing them as advised, he had decided to sell the finished product at 12 annas a bottle. About a dozen gullible farmers would opt to buy. He would then collect his pencils and also those pieces of paper which were still blank.
