A Common Language

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I am still hurrying to the mosque when a dark, narrow shop, with caps of all kinds displayed by its doorway, catches my eye. I stop. I will need a cap to protect myself in Tibet from the rays of the sun. The interior of the shop is dingy. A sewing machine is clattering anciently away. Moons of cloth, strips of plastic, bobbins of thread, circles of cardboard lie on the floor, or on shelves, or hang from nails in the door. An old, bespectacled, bearded man, sharp-featured and dark, sits inside the shop talking in Uyghur to a boy of about twelve. When I enter, he addresses me in Uyghur. I shrug my shoulders. He repeats his sentence, but louder this time.
"I don't understand," I said in Chinese.
He understands this, but not much more, in Chinese.
"Hussain!" he calls out in a thin and authoritarian voice. Hussain, who must have learned Chinese at school, asks me what I want.
"A cap. Maybe one of those." i say, pointing at blue cloth caps hanging by the door. "How much are these?" The boy speaks to the old man, who holds up three fingers.
"Three yuan. Are you traveling through here? Where are you from?" "Yes." I answer, as I try on a couple for size.
"I am from india. This one fits. I'll buy this one." I take out a five-yuan note.

"Yindu!" exclaims the boy. He exchanges a few excited words with the old man, who peers at me over his spectacles in annoyed disbelief. The boy runs out of the shop.
"Yes, Hindu. Hindustan," I say, hoping to convince the old man. in a flash of inspiration, I pull out my pen and write "Hindustan" on the palm of my hand, in Urdu.
The old man readjusts his spectacles, catches hold of my wrist tightly and peers at the writing. Urdu and Uyghur share the Arabic script; as he reads it his face lights up.
"Ah, Hindustan! Hindustan!" this is followed by a smiling salvo of Uyghur. He hands me three yuan in change.

"But the cap costs three yuan," I say, handing him back the extra yuan, and raising three fingers. He refuses to take it, and I refuse to do him out of a yuan. Suddenly, with an exasperated gesture, he grabs the cap from off my head and begins to rip it apart. I am horrified. What is he doing? What have I done? Have I insulted him by refusing his gift? Fifteen young boys suddenly appear at the door with Hussain at their head. They gather at the open entrance in a jigsaw of heads and gaze unblinkingly at the man from india. They are all speaking at once, and I am even more concerned and confused than before.
The old man shouts "Hussain! " There is silence in the shop. He then fires rapid sentences off at me, which the boy translates. "My father says he will make the stitching firmer for you because you will be traveling a long way."

With a few strong polls of the needle and a few minutes at the sewing machine, the old man, now intent on his work and paying me not the slightest attention, stretches and stitches the cap into a tougher form. With a restrained smile, and a faint snort of satisfaction, he stands up to put it back on my head, gently, and adjusts it to the correct angle. He says a few more words, but I am too moved by his kindness to think of asking Hussain for a translation. As I nudge past the fifteen spectators at the door, I turn to say "salaam aleikum", knowing that he will understand this.

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