I stared intently at the shrewd negotiator before me. He had caught me as I tried to make my way through the monastery complex, and now I was trapped in his web.
"Would you like to buy some grain, elder brother?" the small boy asked in Mongolian, offering me a packet of crushed grain to feed the pigeons.
Drat, he was polite on top of it all. I had promised myself that I would never give in to the empty sales pitch of 'want to buy some grain?'.
"No." I replied (also in Mongolian), shaking my head.
"Buy grain?" he asked, smiling.
"No"
"Buy grain?"
The tone was almost sing-song now.
The little beast was mocking me.
"No." I said.
"Buy grain?"
"No" I said, as I my hand reached unbidden for my wallet. Blast the fiend for his cherubic smile!
"Buy grain?" he asked, triumphantly.
"No." I said with an air of finality, as I handed him a 500T bill (about 50c)
"Thank you!" he said, as he scurried off. I had kept my promise to myself, and bought no grain.
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