On market day, the road into the haat begins filling before the stalls are ready. Baskets arrive from nearby villages, shopkeepers lift tarpaulins over their tables, and someone tests a loudspeaker that will eventually become part announcement and part soundtrack.
The festival is not separate from the market. It grows through it. A food seller brings a recipe learned from her grandmother, a group of young musicians rehearses beside the vegetable stalls, and older residents recognise songs by their first line. The crowd changes, but the exchange remains familiar.
For visitors, the easiest mistake is to treat the event as a performance arranged for outsiders. It is not. Buy something, ask before taking a photograph, and let the people who live there set the pace of the conversation. The best stories usually arrive after the obvious questions are finished.
By evening, the stalls are lighter and the road is quieter. What remains is the sense that culture is not a display kept behind glass. It is something people cook, sing, trade, remember, and carry home.