Delhi, 7.may.99

I sit down, and write my order (1 sweet lassi, 1 water) on the proffered 
pad.  I take out pen and paper.  The waiter collects the pad, glances at it, 
and disappears.  I look out past one other table (at which sits a bald man 
with greying long hair, two days' peppered beard growth, and beige kurta 
(Indian-style shirt)) at the bright market street framed in the open 
storefront.  A rickshaw drives past, its single passenger seat crowded with 
two Indian women, two stacked, twine-tied cardboard boxes, and enough 
plastic shopping bags to completely fill the rest of the available space.  
Now a young Indian boy walks into view from the left.  He sees me looking 
out, and holds up one index finger:  he wants a rupee.  I smile and shake my 
head.  He walks off, house right.  An empty rickshaw, driver alert for 
fares, follows him across.  My drinks arrive.  A cow's head slowly emerges 
at the right of the storefront, but not the rest of the cow.  It's stopped, 
and chewing contentedly.  A man crosses left to right with a bicycle tire 
slung over his shoulder.  Another man follows him at a short distance 
pushing a cart of mangoes.  Now an empty rickshaw.  Now a full rickshaw, two 
Indian men in back.  A man on a moped, right to left, no helmet.  A woman in 
a green sari with gold edging, holding an umbrella against the sun.  Now a 
rickshaw -- all I can see of the passenger is a pair of plaid trousers, 
green on white.  The cow edges a little bit farther into the frame, and 
stops again, still chewing.  A pretty white girl in a white sundress glances 
in, then walks on.  Another cow ambles past, and the first cow follows it 
out of sight.  A man bicycles a cart loaded with blocks of ice in the other 
direction.  Two men on a moped, with helmets, green and black.  A group of 
three middle-aged pedestrian women, in varicolored saris.  A balding man in 
a checked shirt and jeans.  An empty rickshaw.  Two rickshaws pass each 
other, jingling their bells.  A man in a kurta saunters, rather than walks, 
across from right to left.  A woman comes after him with a huge canvas sack 
on her head.  Another woman now, with a baby, enters from the left.  She 
stops outside.  A moped zips by.  An empty rickshaw cruises past.  A white 
man in a sleeveless shirt and tattoos, with facial hair and piercings, eases 
along the street.  The woman with the baby asks him for money as he passes.  
He ignores her.  Now I see a man holding a bundle of bamboo poles on his 
head with both hands.  A Seikh wearing tan clothes and a green turban 
crosses, his moustaches waxed and twirled.  And empty rickshaw:  right to 
left.  The woman with the baby drifts out of sight.  Two women in saris:  
left to right.  A moped, going too fast to see the driver.  An elderly white 
could in safari clothing.  Two western-dressed Indian teenage girls.  A 
moped comes from the left, a disappears to the right, without ever one 
letting up on its horn.  An empty rickshaw.  Now a full rickshaw.  Now two 
Japanese tourists, followed by a slow-moving rickshaw trying for their 
business.  A group of five well-dressed Indian men.  Two teenage Seikhs, 
turbans tawny and black, respectively.  A young girl, perhaps 8 or 9, 
carrying a monkey.  And empty rickshaw.  An Indian man and his daughter (I 
hope).  The man at the table in front of mine stands up to pay.  A "cool" 
young Indian man in clean jeans and a flashy T-shirt struts right to left.  
Now a rickshaw full of legs of various descriptions, followed by a man on a 
bicycle.  A blonde white girl, not too short, not too cute.  A man in blue 
denim carrying three black chickens with yellow feet and red combs.  A boy 
carrying a bicycle.  A Seikh in matching orange shirt and turban.  A 
black-and-white cow eases in left and out right.  A man carrying a bundle of 
long thin plastic pipe on his shoulder.  A chubby red-haired middle-aged 
Indian man.  A teenager with a 2-foot stack of collapsed cardboard boxes 
strapped to the back of his bicycle.  A man pushing a cartful of peeled 
cucumbers.  Another woman with a baby drifts by, looking around for a mark.  
Now an ancient woman in a black sari, her back stooped from a lifetime of 
carrying heavy things upon it.  Two Korean girls (I think).  A ten-year-old 
boy on a bike.  An empty rickshaw.  Two women in saris.  Another empty 
rickshaw.

...to be continuing...