Free River Town Chronicles by Leighton Hazlehurst Page A

one for you for twenty rupees,” (less than $3.00 at the time). We agreed on the price and he said he would return with it in “about a week or two.”
    I caught up with Pat in the bazaar and told her about my purchase. “Are you mad?” she asked. “What are you going to do with a biin? Are you going to sit in the bazaar and become a snake charmer?” “No, no. I’m going to learn how to play it at home, where I won’t be heard.” “Promise!” was all she replied.

B ACK TO D ELHI A GAIN

    N EAR THE END OF WINTER , we decided to travel to Delhi again in order to re-energize ourselves, take a hot shower and eat some bad British food which, after enough time, sounded good to us. The five us packed our bags and walked to the rickshaw stand one morning. I went up to one of the rickshaw wallas and asked him if he wanted to take us to the train station, some seven miles away. “Baitho” (“get in”; literally, “sit down ”) he replied. I asked him how much he would charge. “Jo bhii aap ki maarzi ho” (whatever you want to pay me), he replied. I had been living amongst tight fisted merchants long enough to know this was only a verbal dance to see if I would give in to paying whatever amount he thought he could get away with. “Nahiin, paisa bolo bhaii” (no, tell me how much, brother). This was the classic verbal exchange played out on almost every occasion between rickshaw drivers and their passengers. “Das rupees” (ten rupees), he replied. “Saath rupee dee denge” (We’ll give you seven rupees). “Achha. Baitho” (O.K. Get in).Negotiations like this one always left me conflicted. On the one hand, I felt ashamed. Why would anyone be willing to transport five palefaced Americans in a bicycle rickshaw to the train station some seven miles away for just seven rupees, about one dollar at the time? On the other hand, if one failed to engage in this verbal dance and just accepted the rickshaw driver’s asking price, one would be considered a fool, even by the rickshaw driver!
    The five of us piled into the rickshaw. Pat and I held Brian and Lori on our laps, while Tim squatted down between our legs, flat footed, in a position he learned squatting outside our door in the bazaar, next to the moochi.
    We arrived at the station just in time to catch the train from Punjab, on its way to Delhi. We found seats in the second class compartment, which was already beginning to get crowded. But the five of us managed to squeeze onto the wooden bench on one side of the compartment. Across from us was a Sikh gentleman (Sardar), sprawled out on the bench in his underwear, his long hair unbound, and with a small dagger strapped to a belt fastened around his waist. He was snoring soundly, as other passengers crowded up against one another, standing in the aisle. No one disturbed the Sardar as he languished in his dream time, oblivious to others in the crowded compartment. The train pulled out of the station and the smell from the coal fired engine wafted through the open windows. I always considered trains and train stations to be among the best places to observe everyday life in India. Here people opened up with total strangers to discuss their hopes and fears. Villagers mingled with office clerks and ordinary folks on their way to visit relatives. Hawkers touted their medicines “guaranteed to arouse your sexual pleasure.” Others sold their whirligigs and flutes. Through it all, the Sardar continued to snore undisturbed. A woman sitting next to us with the edge of her sari pulled across her face so that just her eyes were revealed, stared intently at our children, shifting her eyes from Lori to Tim to Brian and then back again. Pat and I were conversing with each other in English, making plans for Delhi, when a man standing in front of us bent down and asked very politely in perfect British English, “Excuse me,