The street corner display is crude –a tower of three blue plastic crates. I slow down to read the small sign rigged on top. “Joke of the Day. Donations Accepted.”
My jokes are not crude, the proprietor informs me.
I smile, as required.
If you want a dirty joke madam, he says, you can put that dollar bill right back in your Bhopal satchel with the Malavi dialect writing.
I’m thoroughly respectable, I assure him.
He nods and removes the bottom crate, placing it against a store window within a small patch of shade. Patting to make sure it’s steady, he motions with a courtly bow for me to sit. I'm too hot to match his theatricality with my usual flair. I just want to sit down and watch someone else perform for a change.
Meanwhile, passers-by walk around us with the nonchalance of city dwellers accustomed to street antics. When he starts telling me the joke, however, a few people stop to see what's going on.
The joke is about a rabbi, a priest, and a flea in a bar, who meet a farmer’s daughter knock-knocking on the door. I don’t get the punchline, but enjoy the delivery. He acts out all the parts pretty well, I think, with an especially graceful leap as the flea.
During the telling an even bigger crowd assembles, and everyone claps at the end. The dollar bills in his hat mount up.The impromptu audience melts back into the late afternoon sunshine, but I remain sitting gratefully, for an extra moment or two. Then I remember what he said about my purse.
How did you know it’s from Bhopal, I ask. Have you been to India?
He nods. Not only do I know where it comes from, he says, but I can translate the embroidered words.
Really, I exclaim. What does it say?
He holds up a finger for me to wait. Reaching inside one of the crates, he pulls out a thick black marker. Then he begins writing on the other side of the joke sign. When he finishes, he sets it back in place.
“Translations. Donations accepted,” it says.
Fair enough, I think, handing him another dollar.
And that’s how I learn my purse has a dirty joke about eunuchs on it, written for all the world to see. Or at least, for those who claim to understand Malavi.
