AFTER ANOTHER PERILOUS JOURNEY UP AND OVER THE HIGHEST MOTORABLE Road in the World (an experience that does not get easier with repetition, we discovered), we arrived back in Leh, said goodbye to Dorjay, then stepped out into the bustling streets of the capital city for some last-minute shopping. For a town that’s been open for business only since the late seventies, Leh hasn’t wasted any time dropping the sleepy-little-time-capsule image that Stok has so far retained. Down every narrow street, we found hundreds of vendors selling pashmina scarves, yak wool clothing, Tibetan artifacts, Ladakh T-shirts, and trekking experiences. Butcher shops sold cuts of meat that were completely hidden under blankets of flies. Goat heads were for sale, too, displayed in buckets with their horns, teeth, and startled eyes still intact. Pharmacies sold drugs the way farmers markets sold tomatoes. When I wanted something for a headache, the man at the counter shouted: “How many?”
I said, “Two.”
“Five rupees,” he said, handing me two pills, roughly six cents apiece.
Old women lined the streets, sitting on the sidewalks with displays of fresh vegetables in baskets or on blankets. One woman sold only cabbages. Another specialized in carrots. Behind them, alleyways were packed with spontaneous bazaars: sunglasses, necklaces, turquoise by the gram. And all around there were restaurants and Internet cafés and bookshops and crowds and cows and beggars, with more of the same on the next street and the next.
Compared to a hive of humanity like Delhi, where beggars are a common sight, Leh has—at least for the moment—relatively few. Even so, I was approached often as we walked around, especially by kids. Maybe they could tell I was a sucker, or maybe they could sense that I liked them. Whatever the truth, I found them hard to resist as they held out their empty hands or offered inexpensive items for sale, smiled, and acted cute. I was told by the locals not to give them money. It will only encourage them, they said. But I couldn’t help it. In fact, I usually carried around a roll of five- and ten-rupee notes in my left pocket, my own personal encouragement fund. It wasn’t a lot of money, but passing out these colorful slips of paper always made me feel abundantly rich—which, in comparison to the children I handed them to, I certainly was. No matter that I was essentially handing quarters and half quarters to kids who desperately needed far more than pocket change. Whether it was right or wrong, helping or hurting, that’s what I did. If I was asked for money by a boy in the street, I usually talked with him for a bit, found out his name, took his picture and showed him his smiling face on my playback screen, then slipped him a bill as discreetly as possible. When all the bills were gone, I had done my giving for the day.
As we made our way around Leh, I didn’t have my usual wad of small-denomination notes, just big bills that I really didn’t want to give away. The road is filled with absurd choices like this: Buy souvenirs or hand a hungry child a $25 bill. With a few last-minute gifts to buy, I just apologized when asked for money and kept moving. But one particular girl, maybe ten years old, dogged me in the market. “Sir. Sir. Ten rupees. Ten necklaces,” she repeated.
She had a sweet face and a smile that was lightning-quick, transforming whatever darker thoughts might occupy her most of the time into sunshine the instant I looked at her. Her hair was pulled back and looked as dirty as her colorful dress, which was adorned with sequins but muted with grime. Her left arm was loaded with hundreds of simple necklaces, long strands of tiny colorful beads, and her offer was a good one: basically two and a half cents per necklace. But necklaces weren’t what I was looking for.
“No, thanks, honey,” I said as gently as I could. “I’m all set.”
“I’m gonna run in here for a second,” Jackson said as she opened a shop door.
We were outside a Tibetan store filled with statues and carvings, textiles and masks, jewelry and religious artifacts—the same basic collection we’d seen up in Diskit. I was just happy to get off the street as I followed Jackson inside.
It may not be a universal truth, but in our experience Tibetans don’t like to bargain. They set a fair price, and they might come down slightly to be polite, but that’s it. Maybe it’s pride or cultural upbringing, but they never appear desperate for a sale and will let you walk away—unlike their Kashmiri counterparts we encountered all over town.
In the Kashmiri shops, transactions often go like this: You see something you like and you say so. The shopkeeper praises your good taste and the item’s superior quality. He’ll ask: How much are you willing to pay? You’ll look at the tag and offer 10 percent of the asking price. Hearing this, the shopkeeper will act insulted beyond belief. “Can you not see the unique item you have found?” he’ll shout. You’ll say there are five hundred other stalls all selling exactly the same thing. Fifteen percent “and that’s my final offer,” you’ll insist, which will prompt more outrage. “You have insulted me for the last time!” the shopkeeper will bellow, neck veins bulging. “I would never part with this valuable item at such a price.” So you must leave, walk out into the street … and wait for the merchant to stop you before you arrive at a competing shop. “Okay, okay. Let’s discuss this, then,” he’ll say. And you’ll buy it for 20 percent of the original price. Win–win. Everybody’s happy.
Jackson was the family master of this kind of negotiating. Traca would happily pay more than the asking price, eager to help the nice shopkeeper and avoid conflict. And Logan wasn’t big on buying much of anything. But Jackson was a shark in the marketplace, even with the hard-line Tibetans. If the item she was after wasn’t marked, she’d ask how much, hear the offer, then say, “Oh, no, no, no,” and suggest a much lower price, delivered in her sweetest, most innocent voice. The merchants were always kind, respectful, but Jackson was firm. Maybe it was because she was so young and cute, but she usually got what she was after. Or close to it. I suspect this will be true throughout her life.
After buying prayer flags and simple earrings for friends back home, Jack and I stepped out of the shop, only to find the street girl with the necklaces still there, targeting me with laserlike focus. “Sir. Sir. Ten rupees. Ten necklaces. Please.”
It can be tiring to spend your day refusing people, saying no, and it is tempting to tune them out. It doesn’t make you a bad person; sometimes you just get overwhelmed. I once watched a German tourist as he was approached by an Indian woman. She was clearly desperate, dressed in rags, holding a naked baby. Both mother and child looked as if they were starving, and the woman stood beside the tourist with her hand out, pointing to her baby’s mouth and then to her own mouth. She was like a zombie, her face devoid of emotion, her eyes devoid of light. The tourist was looking at a display of colorful scarves as the mother and her hungry baby silently implored him. But the man did not look at her, not once. He even removed his wallet full of cash directly in front of the desperate woman’s face, leafed through it, pulled out a handful of bills, bought a beautiful red scarf, and walked away.
“Sir. Sir. Please. Ten rupees.” The girl was behind me, and like the tourist buying the scarf, I didn’t want to turn around.
“No, thanks,” I said, without looking back. Sometimes walking away is all you can do. Focus on your shopping, your own kids, your own problems. You can’t help everyone.
“Sir. Please!” the girl said louder. “Sir!”
So much need. That’s the thing about the world. India. Even in Leh. Everywhere. It never ends. It’s so full of—
“My dear! I am here!”
I stopped dead in my tracks. I had goose bumps on my arms. Turning around, I saw the street girl standing there, smiling, eyes bright, head cocked to one side, arm of necklaces extended. “Please,” she said sweetly.
I walked to her.
“What’s your name?” I asked the girl.
“My name is Maya,” she said. In Hinduism, Maya is the illusion of the world.
“Well, Maya. I don’t need ten necklaces,” I said, “but I would like one. Okay?”
“Ten rupees for one necklace. That’s the deal. But you have to choose it for me. Which one should I have?”
Maya did not peel off the first necklace her fingers touched. She looked up at me and then down at her collection. She touched a dozen strands of beads, considered the colors in each one, then looked back at me with a smile.
As she did this, I thought of my own daughter: strong, beautiful, a sharp negotiator. A survivor. Just like Maya.
“This is the one,” Maya said, handing me her choice. “It suits you.”
“It’s perfect,” I agreed.