This is a true story, of minimal interest, that paints the street life, tragic and humorous, of Calcutta in 1977. I include some photos of the characters of those far off days taken on a small cheap kodak 110 instamatic. The Photos have not worn well.

The Contents of this Story

• Introduction: Sudder Street
• Introduction: Me
• The City
• Ram the Rickshaw Wallah
• The Open Air Hospital
• The Characters
• The Castes
• The Gentle Night
• The Police Chief
• The Water Lily
• The Monkey Man & the Ball of Hash
• Epilogue

Introduction: Sudder Street


Sudder street was a small long street that ran off Jawaharlal Nehru Rd, a main thoroughfare through the city. This was the street where I lived. It was rundown and seedy, even for Calcutta. It consisted of eating houses, second hand bookshops, laundries, tobacco shops, and small grocery shops. It was a community unto itself. By the time the sirens started wailing every morning over the city, Sudder street was alive. The sirens marked India's independence from Britain, and were let loose every morning around 09:00 o'clock. Truly, this had been going on since 1947 ... the first time I heard them I thought it was an air raid.

By now the street sellers had secured their spots, the rickshaw wallahs were touting for custom, the footpaths were being swept by shopkeepers and marked with mysterious symbols in chalk and whole families of the local denizens were opening bleary eyes from within alcoves and doorways where they had slept the night. Woe betide them should the owner arrive and find them there.

Some would never arise, the truck would arrive soon to collect the corpses. Every night on every street in Calcutta many people died. They were collected by trucks, the same as the garbage is collected where you live. Such were the stresses on this city.

Watching the street awaken from my room in Hotel Whitehall, I would smoke my first chillum (marijuana in a small cone shaped funnel) and wander down to get breakfast of wheat porridge at my local eating shop, owned by a huge fierce Sikh. The waiters would still be asleep on the counters, they worked and lived in the shop. I would rouse one or two and the fires would be lit and breakfast would get under way.

I was 19 when I had left my home in Australia, to see the world. I had just finished my apprenticeship as an electrician. Despite my parents strongest objections, concerns and pleadings I was determined to travel. Now I had been wandering for a number of years having travelled overland from Singapore. I was 22 and had become somewhat jaded and streetwise to the ways of different cultures. Even so, Calcutta was something else. The neighbouring country of Bangladesh (East Pakistan) was under the control of General Ziaur Rahman, who had recently emerged as top dog in a series of bloody coups, following Bangladesh's war of independence from Pakistan (West Pakistan). He himself was fast approaching his own assassination. He would add one to the total of the three million already dead

Millions of terrified refugees from Bangladesh had poured into neighbouring Bengal (India) and the population of Calcutta had increased to over 15 million. In a city that could provide at most, comfort, jobs and a base standard of living for about one million it was grossly overcrowded. This was a city in acute distress.

Money was scarce with me at that time. I had no income and mainly survived by a mild form of black marketeering. I would buy a few kilos of cloves in Jessore in Bangladesh. Most Indians could neither afford, nor risk going there. This was a short trip for me, and I would return, paying the requisite bribes to both countries customs inspectors, and sell the cloves, which were highly valued in Bengal, at a reasonable profit less expenses.

Alternatively I would take a two day train trip up to Rauxaul on the north Indian border. The ticket cost about US4.00. Rauxaul was plagued with encephalitic carrier mosquitoes. The train would arrive late at night and stop. I would stay aboard and sleep in the carriage until the morning. But first I would coat myself all over with kerosene. I carried a bottle everywhere and the mosquitoes did not like it. The next day I would cross into Nepal on foot, pay a truck driver a few rupees. This would entitle me to sit on top of the cargo or tanker as the truck slowly wound its way up the base of the Himalayas and into Katmandu, one unit in a ceaseless caravan. The trip would take three days. At night I would sleep beside the driver and the crew on the ground.

Once in Kathmandu purchase a plane ticket back to Calcutta for around US25.00. Tribhuvan Airport in Kathmandu had a duty free shop par excellence. I would buy US100.00 dollars, well over the duty limit, of whisky and tobacco. A few small bribes in Calcutta took care of the excess duty and I was free to sell my black market goods. I would make around triple the cost of the journey.

I did many small trips such as these to many different places. This is how I travelled and lived for over 5 years. Along with tea and other spices, western cigarettes like '555's, alcohol and clothing, I could always make enough to fund the immediate future. This was how India worked ... apart from the few who had jobs ... the rest survived on their wits, necessity being the mother of invention.

Calcutta, apart from the monuments such as the Victoria Memorial, the Museum, and other public institutions, consisted mainly of buildings three or four stories high. The city covered a huge area which I never entirely traversed. There were many marketplaces, we would call them shopping centres today, where everything was prepared fresh as there was minimal refrigeration. Newmarket was such a place. The walls surrounding Newmarket measured around eighteen kilometres interspersed regularly by large entrance gates.

Here in one area was the meat section, hundreds of butchers stalls, where the animals were dismembered. To see two or three hundred heads of goats along a wall all staring and bloodied, is a novel site. In another, the fresh produce, another groceries, cloths, incense and perfumes, canvas, tools, in short almost anything could be purchased in Newmarket. There was no roof, Newmarket consisted of surrounding walls enclosing thousands of stalls.

There was no method of garbage disposal, everything was carried to the nearest entry gate and dumped on the road. By the end of the day you would have to climb a mountain of refuse two to three metres high in order to pass through the entrance. Trucks and taxis would engage low gear then roar and grind to get over the mountains of refuse and continue on their way. At night tractors would shovel it up and trucks would carry it away. But long before that, throughout the entire day, the growing mountains would be occupied by the beggars, here a chicken head would be found, there a goats foot, the outer leaves of a cabbage, everything was re-usable, or edible, and carried home to the pot. In this city of the desperate everything had a value for someone.

The refuse throughout the city was only one of the remarkable odours that assaulted your nostrils twenty four hours a day. It competed with the raw sewage and excrement, the incense, the perfumes, the smell of death, animals and humans living in cramped and close proximity. This smell was something that at first you loathed, then tolerated, and finally never noticed at all. Even today, a certain random noxious smell will transport me instantly, with fond memory, on the wings of nostalgia back to that city.

The smells and the refuse attracted enormous, uncountable legions of Kites. These birds, some sort of cross between an eagle and a vulture circled endlessly overhead, in such numbers that if you fired a shotgun into the air hundreds would drop from the sky. I don't exaggerate. Their only competition for airspace were the ubiquitious crows and another form of Kite which I will explain shortly.

The city itself had minimal services. As the starving population was prone to riot and wreak havoc at any imagined offence, in their enervated state they were just as easily dispersed by a few policemen wielding bamboo rattans. But in the meantime they could cause large scale damage. Consequently, the water pressure was lowered, as bursting watermains in that hot, humid, pre monsoonal climate was a favourite with the angry crowds. In order to get water every street corner tapped into the mains, but the water would not rise of its own accord and you had to hand pump it. To see the queued families of an evening performing their ablutions while sociable neighbours manned the pump was one of the more enjoyable sites. Privacy was an unaffordable luxury.

There were no public toilets. Instead, by some form of common consent, a certain street or lane would be chosen by the inhabitants of an area that was exclusively used for urinating and excreting. These lanes were noisome but necessary places. My hotel, the Hotel Whitehall, (paste into Google Earth 22°33'28.45"N 88°21'14.82"E ) was on the corner of Sudder St. and such a lane. These lanes were one of the few places that had very little traffic, for obvious reasons they were not even used as shortcuts. You went there for a reason. These places, owing to the sparsity of traffic, proved ideal for conducting a very strange business venture indeed which I will now describe.

Along the walls of the hotels and dwellings defining the boundaries of these excremental lanes numbers of wooden pegs were driven into the cracks and crevices. A thin string was then run up and down between the widely separated pegs. In overall length each string was a hundred or so metres long. Then empty glass bottles of all colours and shapes were ground up in mortars and pestles until they resembled a fine powder. This powder would sparkle and glitter with all the colours of the rainbow as the ground glass reflected the sunlight.

A clay like paste would be mixed with this powder and then run along the entire length of the string. The embedded powder turned the string into a razor sharp cutting tool. These strings were then used to fly Kites from the rooftops. By slashing your kite string across the string of a neighbours kite you could successfully sever his kite which would then spiral towards the ground chased by hordes of screaming children running through the streets in an attempt to claim the prize. The reasons for manufacturing the razor strings in such places was that it required a great deal of uninterrupted space. These lanes were perfect for the purpose.

I would often sit on the roof of my hotel, where I was grudgingly allowed by the leader of the local monkey troop, there, along with thousands of people on other rooftops, I would watch the spectacular dogfights that would ensue every evening in the skies above. Flying these kites was one of the favourite pastimes of the denizens of Calcutta. When a string was cut the cheering resounded across the rooftops. There were local champions in this sport and such was their fame that they were pointed out to me by Ram and others, with pride, when they passed in the street.

As I waited for my breakfast to be prepared I was bought char (tea) by one of the sleepy waiters which I would carry outside where I would chat with the locals wandering past.

'Good morning baba'

'Good morning Ram'

'Will you buy a shirt today?'

'No Ram'

'Perhaps some sandals'

'Not today Ram'

'I will send a boy to the shop for tobacco' a small infant, the nearest to hand would be press ganged and sent off with a few paise to purchase the tobacco. A small cut of both tobacco and money would be taken by Ram, a smaller cut by the boy, and then we would sit comfortably smoking while breakfast was being prepared.

'Perhaps baba, you have some whisky to sell today, I can get a good price?'

'No Ram, next week perhaps'

Meanwhile, the beggars, with gaping leprous wounds, or deformities from elephantitis, or a myriad other ailments proudly displayed as marketing logos would be gathering around us and endlessly chanting 'Baksheesh, baba, baksheesh'. Ram, with a small bamboo stick, would lash out at these occasionally when they got too close, in order to protect the baba from their importunities.

'Where will you go today baba?'

'Perhaps to the open air hospital'

'You went there yesterday?'

'Yes, but I will go again today', I was never to grow tired of the open air hospital.

'I will take you when your breakfast is finished'

'Thank you Ram', Ram was a rickshaw wallah, each day he had to pay his rickshaw hire to the owner, and then pull it through the streets loaded to the hilt with housewives and their shopping. Of a night he slept in it just below my hotel room. He was old, riddled with malaria, and had about as much surplus flesh as a steel spring. There were no retirement or pension plans in India. He would pull the rickshaw until he died.

At first I felt guilty about using the rickshaw, it was slower than walking and unnecessary, but Ram convinced me that I was lighter than his normal loads and he needed my custom. So it was that I would risk my life most mornings crossing Jawaharlal Nehru road amongst the buses and trucks and motorbikes and taxis, blaring and hooting and scraping the edges of the rickshaw, filling it full of diesel fumes, while Ram, sweat dripping from him, every muscle and sinew standing out like cords and clad only in a loin cloth, navigated our way through the cacophony.

The open air hospital was in a park beside the Victoria Monument. The open air hospital consisted of every form of quackery known to man. Anyone could practice, and you took your chances according to your desperation.

As there were no medical facilities at all for the majority, when you were sick, or had a toothache, or even a very severe illness you could come to the park. For most, this would be the only source of medical treatment that would ever be available to them. Here you could watch minor operations, teeth being pulled, potions concocted, ears being syringed, the whole gamut of sickness and injury were treated here by self proclaimed experts. Strange coloured liquids, unearthly looking potions that contained various bits of animals and insects, these were being distributed as fast as they were being concocted.

I would wander round as if I were at a fete or fair, buying small bits of trivia. I still have a bottle, dark, small, and the label guarantees that it will 100% successfully stop farting. It is now thirty years old and I have never once tried it for fear that it might work.

But mainly I enjoyed the wonder of it. Picture an uneducated man, no schooling whatsoever, possibly from the country, the city overwhelms him. Great Pain in his jaw has bought him to the park. As he moves steadily up the queue, his fear grows proportionally greater. Finally, at the front, its his turn, he's next, he hesitates, he makes to leave, but the wily practitioner will not let his fee slip away so easily. Those next in the queue are made to hold him down, the sickly yellow novocaine paste is shoved in the mouth, in go the pliers, out comes the tooth, The screams of the patient are stilled by the gushing blood. Never mind if its the wrong tooth, when the novacaine wears off the patient will have to return, another fee.

Those who have shown the first lesions of leprosy, with what horror when they first saw them, worse than a death penalty, now to be outcast by their family, now to be outcast on the street, now to be shunned and kept at a distance by all humanity. Now to lose everything they possess. They will not retain a single friend. These poor wretches are here too, not for a cure, they know too well no cure is possible for them. They are here for a stay of penalty. How? Simple, tattoo over the lesions so that they are not visible.. Yes ... this is the truth. I stood in a queue and had a small angel tattooed on my left calf with a bamboo needle. The needle had been used on all those before me, and would be on those after. AIDS was unknown. I picked the design from a small set cards the tattooist had for the purpose.

After the tattoo had been completed I enquired why I was the only one who had picked a design from the cards. The chilling response was that others required a more freehand form in order to cover the leprous lesions.

Afterwards 'Ram, is it true that the tatoo man tatoo'es lepers?'

'Yes baba, of course' that nod of the head, as though speaking to a child.

'But I have a tatoo from his needle today'

'Baba, you are young, healthy, you are safe'

For about twenty four hours I was sick with fear ... but I was young and had a feeling of invincibility that comes only with that age.

But this was not enough for Rabi whom we will meet soon. Each day he would bring a strange green plant that he got from the riverbank somewhere near the Victoria memorial and vigorously rub it on my calf muscle. I never did contract leprosy.

In Sudder St. there were many characters and acquaintances whom I became friendly with over the period of time I was there. We have already met Ram who pulled the rickshaw.

Another was Rabi, who was probably about forty five but in appearance nearer sixty. An addiction to the illicit street liquor was rapidly destroying him. This liquor was distilled in secret places outside the city and transported in nightly inside football bladders to the temporary places of sale. It was fearful stuff, bearing more relation to a hard drug such as heroin than to alcohol. At times something would go wrong with the distilling process and many people would die from that particular batch. The authorities came down hard on this particular form of enterprise because of its toxicity, and as a consequence it changed its sale location daily. I had tried it a few times, gulping shots in secret ill lit alcoves along with Rabi but had never found anything enjoyable about it.

Nevertheless, it was very popular and was the anodyne of the populace. Rabi had come from a wealthy family but had chosen to live the life of a beggar on Sudder St. I never got to the bottom of this. Occasionally his ancient mother would visit him, bringing small food parcels and speak to him in a scolding tongue that I could not keep up with. It would be fair to say that Rabi was my best friend during this period. We did many things together and held long discussions on religion and metaphysics long into the night.

'Now, baba, all gods are from the one God.'

'How do you know this Rabi?'

'There is only one God overall, others are just his manifestations'

'Pass the chillum Rabi'

'Baba, should you need to remove a tattoo this is what you must do. You must get fresh milk from a women who is breast feeding. With this milk, while warm, you must tattoo over the original. In a few weeks your tattoo will fade out'

'Are you sure of this Rabi?'

'Yes baba, of course! Also you must stop going barefoot', this was a bad habit of mine, 'there are worms in the footpath and road here, they bury themselves in your feet. Tomorrow you must buy some cheap sandals. I will go with you.' Rabi, though a beggar and penniless, had made me his special responsibility. He mothered me with a care and concern that was heartwarming, but could be irritating and frustrating to a degree.

If it seems in this narrative at times as though I act the spoilt little white lord, it was not entirely my fault, this was how I was treated, this was how I was expected to behave. There were times when my petulance and temper tantrums shamed me greatly.

'The baba has stamped his foot, rightly or wrongly he will have his way, well, so be it.'

Indians of all classes, even the beggars, have a dignity that can not be matched or even approximated by any white race. This wordless dignity, expressed by an inimmitable look and the tilt of a head, is the dignity of the stoic, who suffers unjustly, but sees through all with the perception of a sage. Many times I was reduced to confusion and shame by this quiet penetrating look from one whom I had judged to be beneath me.

This look, translated into words said 'This is India, I am Indian, you are not, by what right do you treat me like this in my country?' It was tempered with the undeserved forgiveness and understanding of one who has to deal with a spoilt child who knows no better. I burn with remorse as I write, I feel it on me now. Rabi, if by some remote chance you read this, please forgive me.

The next day Rabi and I would set off to buy sandals, along the way we would come across the new location of the liquor shop. I would pay for Rabi's two shots, before continuing on our way.

There were many other interesting denizens of the place. Each with their own form of minor fraud and entrepreneurial success strategies. Most of these consisted of some form of busking.

There was the Cobra man, who had a basket full of cobras and when a decent crowd had collected around him would play a weird haunting tune on his flute, and ever so slowly an obviously angry cobra would lift itself up from the basket and flare its hood, swaying in apparent time to the music. You may think these snakes had had their poisoned glands removed, or that they were tame. But this was not so, even the cobra man handled them with extreme care. There were many cobra men, each with their small territory throughout the city.

There was the Monkey man, who had two, sometimes three monkeys on chains, that would perform tricks with ill concealed malevolence, while there master twirled a threatening stick.

There was the Bear Man who had bears, smallish, black, and very strong. These also performed tricks. There were the magicians. There were the pickpockets and fraudsters. But outright criminal acts were rare. If a pickpocket was caught, the outraged crowd could tear him limb from limb on the principle that no single one of them could be blamed or apprehended. Rough justice, but in the absence of law, a sufficient deterrent.

I had no real understanding of how the different indian castes worked. I was content to let Rabi guide me in all matters of etiquette or behaviour in this respect. The caste system was mysterious, as identity and behaviour could be altered by a look, word or glance. This was a freemasonary that all indians understood implicitly, but was closed to outsiders.

I however did have my own caste system which I will describe here. All of my friends and aquaintences I had divided into different castes.

There was the caste that Rabi, Ram and many others were placed in. These were my true friends. The fact that they bled small amounts of money from me on a daily basis meant nothing between us. If they were with me, they could not be busy elsewhere, how were they to survive, where every day from morn till night was a struggle to get the minimum to stay alive ? The people of this caste, no matter what the circumstance, always had my welfare at heart.

The next caste consisted of those who were young, and had a family home to go to. Many had graduated from University, but through unemployment, combined with a feckless and idle attitude common in this city, preferred to idle away their time in Sudder St. Bablu and Ravindrah were in this caste. They were kind and friendly towards me at all times. As we were around the same age I would often shout them a night in a drinking house, a very expensive process in Calcutta were beer cost more than opium. Rabi never found it necessary to warn me against these people.

The next caste consisted of a similar group to those above, with this difference, through either drug taking, drinking, or non observance of religious rituals had been cast out by their families. In Calcutta, this meant living on the street. There were no hostels, halfways houses, welfare support groups to rely on. From the moment you were disowned you were on your own. Dhruv was a member of this caste.

The next caste consisted of those who had a rather more ambitious entrepreneurial outlook towards me. These were harder men, more practical in survival. This group of individuals, while friendly and open, often tried to interest me in commercial ventures that were on a larger scale than the few rupees that Ram and Rabi were happy with. In this group was the Monkey Man and a few others. I will have more to say about the Monkey Man shortly. Rabi was content for me to mix with these but would voice his anxiety should I show any interests in their ventures.

The next caste had only one or two members. These were serious and hardened criminals. By that I mean they had managed to fleece extremely large sums of money from innocent tourists, after which they would disappear for a month or two until the tourists had gone. Yuvaraj was in this caste and had only recently been released from prison. Yet he always adopted the guise of a shaman, a guide who could direct you, if you were sufficiently worthy, to the right path. This was his attraction to the gullible who came in search of 'India'. He aimed high and regularly succeeded. His scams would sometimes take many weeks to bring to fruition, the gullible being taken to mysterious temples and other excursions, the level of trust increasing as each day passed. I myself was warned, even by Rabi, not to interfere in these scams by warning the gullible. This would have been a sort of betrayal in the eyes of my friends. How to warn a stranger against the depredatory machinations of my friends, and still retain their friendship? They needed the gullible to stay alive. So I was content to let matters run their course. These people were desperate, the gullible were not.

Rabi never approved of Yuvaraj and whenever Yuvaraj sat beside me, or sought my company in any way, Rabi behaved like a jealous and scolding mother. Yuvaraj would suffer this for a short while before violently attacking Rabi in their own language. An altercation, violent and voluble would ensue, though no blows were ever exchanged ... eventually it would cease with Yuvaraj having the last word. Yuvaraj would then turn to me with a look of sweet accord, the look of the beneficial advisor, a look of innocence. Why? When I knew him for what he was, and of this he was aware? Perhaps he had held this guise so long it had become his more natural pose. He was extremely fussy about his appearance, and always wore immaculate white clothes. He appeared much cleaner and presentable than the rest of us.

These then were my friends. Nightly we would meet outside the walls of the Hotel Whitehall. On the corner of Sudder St. and the small alley, we would go through the ritual of preparing the chillum for the first smoke. First the gunja (marijuana) would be cleaned, stalks and seeds discarded. The Monkeys would argue and squabble over these tit bits and devour them with much relish and gusto. Then to pack the gunja tightly into the chillum. Next, a few hairs from the cocunut husk were plaited into a tiny dainty wreath, and placed on top of the gunja in the opening of the chillum. This hair would burn with a fierce temperature, that of hardwood. Then a handkerchief would be washed and wrung out in water, folded and folded again and wrapped around the base of the chillum. The smoke would be cooled as it was drawn through this damp cloth.

Our debauch was ready. The coconut was fired. A two word prayer was offered by the first to inhale, from memory it went 'Bom Shiva' or 'Boumsharvar' and the chillum raised to the sky, I never knew what it meant. Each person would repeat this prior to inhaling, myself included, and then the chillum was solemnly passed on. While the second chillum was being prepared, the talk would become animated, respect for the baba was dropped by all except Rabi, and I would become one of them. Long into the quite night we would talk on all subjects. I would send for food.

After one had departed with the money to purchase the food, much discussion would take place about the correct amount of change he should return with. When the one had returned with the food, Rabi would demand the change, assuming the robes of a high court judge he would scrutineer it closely. The rest of us would laugh and make jokes at his expense. This would always annoy him. I would order Rabi to distribute the change to the group which he would do with a bad grace, counting it out paise by paise. A paise at this time was one tenth of one cent and was a small coin made from compressed cardboard coated with a thin aluminium foil. This was my method of distributing some small considerations amongst them without them having to demean themselves by asking. We would eat from the communal plate of rice and goat and drink from a communal bottle of 'Kampa Kola'. The avaricious Coca-Cola Company had been rightly banned in India at this time. Kampa-Kola was the government sponsored replacement. Coca-Cola could be purchased on the black market for around 5 rupees (50 cents)

Slowly the group would grow smaller as each one dispersed to find somewhere to sleep. Tired, I would say goodnight to Rabi, and whoever was left and wake the boy to unchain the hotel gates. The baba was ready for bed.

These were the best of times.

I had only one enemy during this period, and he managed to deprive me of, in total, a significant sum of money. At this time a quaint law could be enforced. A law of vagrancy, ludicrous where nearly all were vagrants. However the police in order to supplement their meagre income would often arrest one of the denizens of Sudder St. on this charge and if he could not pay a bribe of two or three rupees to be personally pocketed by the policeman, he would spend the night in the cells, by all accounts a horrendous place.

The police chief of Sudder St. and its surrounds personally knew of me. Sensing larger pickings, he would often show up unexpectedly at our meeting place. There he would arrest one of my friends, but instead of the two or three rupees normally demanded, he would require thirty rupees. A huge sum, three dollars at that time. No one of my friends could afford this as he well knew. The cost would be borne by me. A fierce argument would ensue between him and me. Not even Rabi would interfere in this argument as the chief held great power and all were cowed. Even the proud Yuvaraj would act like a penitent dog. Once I held out and would not pay and as a consequence Dhruv spent the night in the cells. My friendship with Dhruv was never the same after this. From then on I always paid, but never without a fight.

The Police Chief was a bloated obese pig. He would arrive in a rickshaw often pulled by Ram. He would never descend to the ground, he would simply tell the unlucky wretch to follow him, there was no other choice. This man took serious amounts of money off me. But he could not arrest me. I had the means and the will, if pushed too far, to bribe his superiors, and make his life as miserable as he was trying to make ours. He seemed to intuitively know my limit and never exceeded it. He knew well that I could cause him trouble, but he also knew how much it would cost me. And so, he always arrived at a balance, just short of causing me to act.

He was my sworn enemy. But to give him his due he was extremely clever, and the right man in the right job at that time. Real crime was rare in our area, and it was so because of this mans iron grip on his job. Often during the day our paths would cross and he would command his rickshaw to halt. We would converse such as two terrortorial dogs would do on meeting at a common boundary. In a strange way he respected me, and I him, but thirty rupees was thirty rupees. 'Business baba, its just business'.

He had my reluctant and grudging respect. His intelligence system was superb, Bletchly Park would have been envious of it. I suspect he blackmailed my friends, they were in no position to refuse. A month in the cells could have killed someone like Rabi. I never questioned them on it, fearing to cause distress. He new the moment I left on a smuggling trip, he knew what I had purchased, he knew the moment I had returned, he knew how much I had sold the goods for. Sometimes he would purchase Johhny Walker off me himself. My contempt for his authority earnt me great respect in Sudder St. and so in a way I was paid back.

In the end, to minimise his depradations upon me, the instant his rickshaw was seen to enter the street, everyone in the group would rapidly disperse leaving me alone. To see this huge man urging the sinewy rickshaw wallah on over the cobblestones, as though he rode a desperate race, in an attempt to catch those fleeing in all directions was a wonderful sight. If he had had a whip he would have used it. He would command the rickshaw to halt beside me in the now deserted street.

'Its a fine night baba', regaining composure,

'Yes it is', an extended silence. Monkeys could be heard squabbling on the rooftops as they settled down.

'Take care, baba',

'Yes, I will'

'Take good care baba, it is not safe for you here at night', moving off,

'Yes, I will look out'

At times he would block the exits with police before entering the street. At these times we were caught. But this was never entirely satisfactory to him, as the payment would have to be shared amongst all.

It would not do to judge this man too harshly or objectively. His salary in total including bribes, would have fallen far short of his worth. As the state could not afford his full wage he augumented it in other ways. Each had his part to play in this city of suffering.

'Business baba, its just business. This is India, you do not understand'. But I did. In this city I was maturing.

One of the simplest forms of enterprise I came across was conducted directly opposite my hotel. Each day an ancient little old lady would arrive with a bucket of water and a block of ice. Setting the ice in top of the bucket was all it took to open her stall.

In the sweltering heat and humidity of the pre-monsoonal days, the ice would act like a magnet to many, including me. For a few paise this lady would dip a ladle into the water and pour it over the ice, collecting it in a cup. This was a refreshing drink that I always indulged in whenever I left or arrived home. I always paid well over the going rate for this cup and the smile on her wrinkled and shrivelled face at my approach was a part of the reason.

I never knew anything else about her. In conversation I referred to her as the water lily. Her small enterprise kept her alive.

The Monkey Man, pictured above, was always complaining about his station in life. And to be honest he was right.

'This is no way for someone to live', indicating his occupation by pointing a foot at a monkey. For a few days this desultory type of conservation took place whenever we found ourselves together, and Rabi was not present. At first I thought this was a genuine dissatisfaction and I did not recognise the opening phase of the scam.

'Baba, I am a clever man, if I had but a chance I could establish myself '.

'How would you do this Ganaraj?'

'I would start a shirt shop', Now many people did this. It consisted of a long wooden pole with crossbars, from which would hang thirty or forty shirts in cellophane packets. As gaily coloured as their shirts, these hawkers would wander the streets and I suppose make some sort of living.

'How would you afford the shirts in the first place?'. By now I had recognised the scam and had prepared myself for the touch.

It would take around 150 rupees ($15.00) to set this up. This amount I was not prepared to part with.

'Why do you deserve 150 rupees, Ganarj? Many people in this street are starving. 150 rupees would feed many of them'

But the Monkey Man was persistent. By now Rabi had heard of this and was unequivocal in his denouncements of such a scheme.

'Baba, the Monkey man is not your good friend, how many of them (your good friends) could use this money? Baba, you know your good friend Rabi does not speak for himself'. This was very true, and 150 rupees was a very large sum. The matter had become annoying and all my friends had heard of it. I did my best to avoid the Monkey Man, but this was easier said than done.

I raised all sorts of objections, but he was a clever man and he could see that gentle persistence was having its affect. He took to seeking me out alone and pressing his case. His wife and small child were starving, with this he could build a life away from the disease and death of Sudder St. (This, later, turned out to be false, he had no wife or child) In the end driven to act one way or the other, I priced shirts myself and found that the enterprise could be started with 60 rupees ($6.00). With this he could take it or leave it, and nothing was to be divulged to anyone else regarding this. He took it with good grace, but reminded me that in his opinion it was not enough to be successful. Our agreement was that it would be paid back weekly in small amounts. Secrecy in this matter was paramount. I was worried that should others find out and I would, perforce, have to give each one a similar amount. Secrecy was paramount!

The very next morning I was woken early by the hotel boy, Rabi was outside in the street and wanted me urgently. No street people were ever allowed passed the hotel gates which were chained nightly. Normally not even messages would be carried by the boys. Something must be urgent. I showered and dressed and hurried outside. By the look on Rabi's face I could tell that something was wrong, more, that it was my fault whatever it was.

'Baba, the Monkey Man has spent your 60 rupees on a ball of hash larger than an apple. You did not listen to your good friend Rabi'. the gentle condemnation in Rabi's voice fuelled my rising anger. I had been made a fool of, everyone knew. I was humilated and had the added guilt of not having been this generous to my good friends. This much Rabi understood.

I would find the Monkey Man and I would kill him. At the least I would get my money back, or the hash. But the Monkey Man could not be found, yesterday he was everywhere I cared to look. Today he was gone. I raged but could do little else. The only reason the Monkey Man would purchase hash would be to sell at a profit to the tourists. This I could try to counter, I let it be widely known that I would have that ball of hash no matter what. This would reach the Monkey Man's ears and give him pause before selling. Or so I hoped.

That night our meeting place was subdued, the chillum was not as enjoyable, the laughter was dampened, the Monkey Man was absent. 'The baba is upset'. There was a feeling of 'We did our best to help the baba, but no, he would not listen to us, his good friends. The clever baba has been fooled by a Monkey Man'. Or so I thought they thought. I went to bed early in disgust.

The next day the Monkey Man was back. I had plenty of warning from Rabi and others that he was coming up the street. As he approached our meeting place, the seat of judgement where I awaited, he seemed not one whit abashed. He greeted me politely but I was in no mood for trivial conversation and I demanded my money back. Now, instantly.

'But baba, you loaned this for the shirts'

'Yes, shirts, not for hash'

'But baba, as you did not loan the required amount, I bought the hash and will resell it at a profit and then purchase the shirts'

Now this seemed entirely reasonable to me, but as it offered no face saver for my anger, and others were present, I continued to argue looking for a loophole. There was none, the Monkey Man was clever, and as he had been forewarned he was forearmed. As the argument continued tempers were flaring and names were being exchanged, not only by myself and the Monkey Man, but by others who had been attracted by the diversion and saw no reason why they should not take part. The Monkey Man maintained respect for the baba during this, but he was not going to extend that to any other participants. Loud name calling and gesticulations were being indulged in by all parties when, suddenly, without any warning, the large male monkey collapsed.

Right there, on the ground, flat out on his back.

While we had been arguing, the monkey had reached into the Monkey Man's bag, withdrawn the ball of hash and eaten it. Every last bit. Not one bit was left.

Where he was who could tell, what dreams he indulged in none could know. No doubt he frolicked in jungle treetops full of delightful females, but where ever he was he was not with us. Even the Monkey Man's vicious kick to his ribs did nothing to take the smile off his face. A threatening murmur from the crowd caused the Monkey Man to desist from any further violence. Laughter broke out on all sides, even I was smiling, and then laughing outright.

That night as the chillum was passed around, everything was back to normal, except for the Monkey Man who did not seem to enjoy the conviviality as normal. And of course, the monkey, who had survived, and who seemed sullen and quiet in line with his master. But whether because his master had thrashed him when he had him alone, or whether his enforced return to the chain from far off heavens was the cause, only he could tell you.

The time had come for me to move on. The Monsoons had broken and every afternoon the harsh and heavy storms would flood Sudder St. When the water drained away each evening it left a coating of filth everywhere. I was recovering from Dysentry and it had left me weak and frail. I was down to less than sixty kilos. I had lain in bed with Malaria twice already, shivering and shaking and feeling about as bad as its possible to feel. Yes the time had come to move.

The appointed day came and my friends came with me to the mighty Howrah Railway Station. The largest in the world. I distributed little presents to all. Ram was given a larger sum, to purchase Rabi's daily liquor for him as long as it lasted. My good and devoted friend Rabi wept openly, and as the train slowly started to pull out, Rabi had to be restrained from rushing forward else he would surely have fallen beneath the wheels as the train gathered speed.

I never saw any of them again.

As the train rushed westward I had no plans for where I was going, somewhere that way lay Delhi. Mans best plans often end up as little more than monkey dreams.