In Rajasthan, there is a desert. In the desert, there is a city. In the city, there is a fort. There is a fort but none knows how long it will be there: it was built with sandstone, and now the stone is turning back into sand. The fort has the color of gold, and its name is Jaisalmer. Inside the fort, past the puppets sellers, the carpet sellers, the bedcover sellers and the leather sellers, the cafes, the Australian guesthouse owner that tries to scam tourists, past all of these there is a small shop that sells wooden statues and frames made of camel bone.

I enter: it's a small room, so dark that I can hardly see what's on display.

Suddenly, someone turns the light on. It's a kid, he must be ten, twelve years old.

"What's your name", I ask him.
"Hari sir."

 I am not sir, I am madam, but Hari is too young, English speaking and polite for me to care about details.

"Hello, Hari."
"Welcome sir."

I browse around: whichever object I pick up is covered by so much golden dust that it's difficult to guess its real color. Hari stares at me while I walk around the shop, looking around. After a while, I feel like I have to buy something: it's a sellers' trick, I think; they watch you silently until you feel uncomfortable leaving the store empty-handed, and try to get yourself interested in something. For me, that something is a hand painted, wooden horse.

"How much is it, Hari?"
"This only?"
"Yes, just this."
"Thousand rupees."

Reach for the stars Hari, good attitude. Someone might agree on that. Unfortunately, that someone is not me.

"Hari, what is the real price?"
"Okke, okke sir, special price six hundred."
"Come on... this four hundred is a good price!"
"This?" he asks shocked, pointing his finger at the horse. "Four hundred? No sir."

He walks back to the counter and pretends to be busy noting down something. He is a good seller, he knows the rituals well.

"Ok Hari, how about five hundred?"

Hari turns his head towards me. He gets closer.
"One minute sir," he says, then walks towards the door and leaves the shop.

When he comes back, a younger kid, maybe seven or eight years old, is following him. Hari points at me, then explains something to the kid, something that I don't understand. The little child comes closer to me.

"Five hundred rupees?" He asks, pointing at the horse.
I nod, quite confused by this new, young merchant.
"No madam, six hundred" he answers decisive, and without adding a word turns on his back and leaves the shop.

I look at Hari, puzzled, trying to understand what just happened.

"Sorry sir," he explains with a mix of resignation and compassion, "his shop. I am worker only."