The gate of alchemy

the roads closest to the station has people selling mirrors, and close by, hidden somewhere, making them. the sun shines off the liquid mirrors trapped in their cases, slapping the customers with their glare. Customers grimace and walk away, clutching their shopping bag. Silver still, in mirrors, but the beginnings of gold.

A little ahead piece by piece, technologies of the late 19th and 20th century appear on road side shops, today is the weekly market, technology by technology, old cathode ray tubes, x rays, eastman cameras.. you do not know if you have to look here for gold, would you dismantle all this?

no one to sight, is making anything, only selling old things, but the sounds of making- hammering, tinkling, tapping, hitting, sweating seem to be playing from tiny juke boxes in the shops. Now and then, smoke from a silent explosion, like in a melies film. large cutouts- baburao patwardhan (sic), edison, tesla. Beyond the shops is the maidan. There is a tent up there, large, covering everything, high. in a corner, outside the reach of the tent, in a small high shack made of dirty white cloths, sits panditji.