The glass ball man

The festival has begun.  The field down to the river looks like Woodstock and the town is full of the Dreadlocked and the Tatooed and the Barefooted

For four days our little town's population will quadruple.

Jyolti never fails to turn up for the first weekend in August.  Earlier today I saw him emerging from a tent by the river and sought him out in the town this afternoon. 

He found a quiet spot between Castignoles and Atmospher and asked me to look after his rug and his glass balls while he had a pee. Friends found me and we made the beginnings of a crowd.  Georgia was dubious and rolled her eyes when I gave her the pitch of what Jyolti could do. He returned from his pee and Georgia's mum leant over to me and mouthed that she wouldn't kick him out of bed for farting.  I told her he was probably tantric and she rolled her eyes and said that sounded like too much hard work, settled her back against a beam and shut up.

Jyolti never fails.  He stands the sticks he collects from the river on one end, defying gravity.  He levitates them.  He calls over a small boy from the crowd, gets him to kneel beside him and places the stick upright on the boy's open palm.  He mouths incantations and spins two small golden balls in the air.  They return to his hands and rise again. 

The glass balls are the finale of his act.  He rolls them the length of his arms and behind his neck.  His eyes turn into lizard eyes and the drum beats while he places one on top of the other on his head. He keeps them there for 10 tense seconds before they fall. 

One rolled towards me and I felt the weight and the glassiness of it before rolling it back.  

He asked for a coin so I chucked him a euro.  He knelt down and made it spin in the air in front of him.  He projected it to the right and it came back to his hand. 

I added another euro to his hat which was already full of notes.  He deserves it.