FEBRUARY 16, 2022 – With newfound confidence I flew to Delhi, where I checked into the YMCA, near Connaught Place—the center of things. The “Y” was scruffy but safe. In the dining hall, I could order a familiar breakfast: toast, eggs, and bacon. (“When in Rome, pretend you’re at home.”)
On foot I explored immediate surroundings, filled with the relentless buzz of Indians squeezing rupees from each other in exchange for whatever could be bought, bilked, sold, or traded. In the mix were con men and con women, who worked the street with as much fervor as hawkers of food, drink, and cheap wares.
Every evening in front of the “Y” itself, appeared two infants squeezed into a box, with no caregiver in sight. Invariably, the children were asleep—and so filthy, I concluded their appearance was the work of a “make-up” artist. Propped next to them was a crude sign in Hindi and English, “Please give us rupees.” Next to the sign was a basket, primed with a little cash. One evening I saw the woman who staged the operation. I watched as she scraped some nearby dirt off the boulevard, spat into it, and smeared it on the faces of the kids. She then retreated to keep an eye on business.
In the nearby park, I was approached regularly by would-be swindlers. My experience in Bombay had immunized me against them: I assumed that anyone approaching was on the make. Nevertheless, I was curious.
I’d make myself “vulnerable” (slow pace with the neophyte traveler’s “look-around” look, signaling unfamiliarity with one’s surroundings)—the fisherman holding a line in the water, bait on a hook. Before long, a con man would appear. Dominating the “park cons” were hard luck stories, delivered with practiced flair for pitiful details.
One tale that I wrote home about was recounted by one “Lawrence Mitchell”—an avowed “Christian” trying his best to get his feet on the ground after a run of bad luck. The “bad luck,” it turned out, had started with an altercation aboard a train. The fight stemmed from a religious argument “with a Muslim.” In self-defense, “Lawrence” had struck his opponent in the “solar plexus” and . . . killed him.
After serving time, “Lawrence” had just been released. His “Christian” connections had opened an opportunity with a German engineering firm 200 miles away. He even had a letter to show me from the “Head of Personnel.” The only catch was, “Lawrence” needed money for the train.
“How much?”
“Fifty rupees [about $4].”
His life’s tale retold was worth the money—subject to a condition.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Repeat your story for my tape recorder, and you’ll have your fare.”
After landing his story, I gave him a nearly disintegrated 50-rupee note. He thanked me profusely, hesitated, then said, “Kind sir, I haven’t eaten in two days. Could I have another 10?”
I drew the line at 50, which back at the “Y,” anyway, would cover breakfast for a week.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
