The boy was looking after a general store alone

Boy looking after store — Boy tending to the store

In the eastern Indian town of Malda, a boy leaned against the counter of a small general store, his arms folded loosely. He wore a collared, check-patterned polo shirt, the sleeves neatly in place—a level of cleanliness that set him apart from the kids in the alley who were caked in mud from play. It seemed likely he came from a reasonably well-off family. That said, this was Malda; the local definition of “well-off” bore little resemblance to Tokyo’s, and “neat” here was always to be understood with a layer of dust included.

When I pointed my camera at him, he bent his elbows slightly, placed both hands on the counter, and let the corners of his mouth rise just a touch. The expression could have been a sales smile, or simply the face of someone killing time—it was hard to tell. Hanging beside him were strips of old newspaper, apparently for wrapping biscuits or fried snacks. Once upon a time in Japan, greengrocers would wrap mandarins in newspaper too, but in the cities today, such a package might be mistaken for some kind of deliberately rustic, high-end presentation.

Malda’s general stores have no fixed layout and rarely display prices; if you want to buy something, the figure you’re quoted will depend as much on the shopkeeper’s mood as on your own expression. The boy breathed in this shopfront air as naturally as anything, chatting with customers and wrapping sold sweets in newspaper. For his age, he had the motions down pat, though he probably thought of it as just another form of play. Watching him wrap with such a strangely solemn concentration, I decided against buying anything. I had the feeling that whatever I purchased, I’d end up having to shoulder a sense of gravity far heavier than the snack itself.

Malda on Google Map

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