Month: March 2022 (page 1 of 1)

Once the taxi driver found out I was Japanese, he said, “I went to Tokyo last year,” “Kyoto is beautiful,” “I like sushi.” I had heard it hundreds of times. It was typical of so many clichés. I had been reminded of the annoying question: “How often do you eat sushi?” “Have you ever seen ninjya?” “Teach me karate,” and so on. The most baffling question: “How many times a week you wear a kimono?” … Only once as a child, maybe.

On the other hand, the taxi driver had a good conscience. I had negotiated with other taxi drivers at 200 TT-dollars (about＄30) for a taxi charter, but he was only one who readily agreed, so I had to play along with his talk―he was supposed to wait for me for two and a half hours while I was on the tour to see scarlet ibis at Caroni Swamp.

In the taxi, I soaked in the afterglow of scarlet ibis and said, “The steelpan, I just think about whether to go see. There is still time.” “I highly recommend it, so traditional, I will take you right there.” “Oh really? But you will work after this, won’t you? Besides, a little far from Woodford Square, where I got into. Will it cost extra?” “No, no, no worries,” he did not mention this any further; I wondered if it made business sense, and said, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” 

We got stuck in traffic on the highway. Then after a long silence he said, “By the way, tomorrow, where are you going?” “Airport, I’m going to Tobago, though hurricane is approaching.” “As always. Would you allow me to drive you the airport?” I balked momentarily―outside was dark―that would be the demanding task for him. Not only was I going to be early tomorrow morning, it was expected that he would be late. This was a Caribbean country. A sense of time is entirely different from that of Japanese.

“No, problem, I make an early start. I’m leaving seven a.m, so I’ll use a bus.” “But, you must carry heavy baggage. After I’ll call you, l’ll head for your hotel. Around seven a.m, okay?” I was so punctual, that it was better to refuse his offer, but I felt like I should accept his act of kindness willingly.

The following morning, his taxi had not parked. It is time for him to come here. I made a phone call to him, but could not get through, not knowing if he was coming or sleeping. I made up my mind to wait for him a little―he had been very good to me. Fifteen minutes, then twenty minutes, I felt uncertain about when I should I give up on him, wanting to believe him … I put my backpack on and rushed toward the main road, where I would take on the bus. 

Dry wind drafting, I was lingering outside airport in Tobago. “K.” Turning around, I saw a woman put her head out the BMW window and thinking she was Amanda (anonymous), Airbnb host. After she showed me the host house, she drove me around the town: grocery stores, restaurants, a ATM―her action was exactly the same as the reviews that I had checked in advance. I needed a bicycle to go there and asked her to drop in at a rental shop.

“No, 250 TT-dollars for five days,” the clark said soberly. After payment, I rode the bike and headed for  the ocean, where Caribbean Sea and North Atlantic Ocean collide. But as I pedaled it, my buttock hurt and noise―the creaking sound of the saddle. I went back to the shop to have it exchange for another one, but it was closed despite one p.m. 

That evening after cycling around the town, soaked with sweat, I wanted to take a shower straight away. The light in the bathroom in the host house was out of order. I left its door open and went into the room that was very dimly lit. When I turned the faucet, the water came out with tremendous momentum, which hurt my back. I assumed that water pressure was weak overseas. That was too extreme.

The refrigerator did not work, either. I texted Amanda, the host. Then her tall siblings came to check it around midnight. As the tall man examined the fridge, it occurred to me that a landlord had blamed me for breaking the TV before: I was seen as a Chinese and she claimed that I hit it many times.

He said I could use another one in the house next door that they owned. I was relieved that they did not think that was my fault rather than I could. Inconvenient though I felt, I said thank you very much to them; I was concerned about Amanda’s review to me and feared she might think I was a troublesome person. The bathroom troubles were small things.

Whenever I rode the bike past the bicycle rental shop, it remained closed. There was a limit to what my buttock could endure. One day, the moment I got off the bike by the sea, the thong of my flip-flops snapped. As I was at a loss what to do, I remembered Amanda’s mother, who gave me mangos and who I thought might repair it, lived upstairs in the host house. 

Barefoot on one leg, pedaling the bike up the slope lined with exclusive hotels, I heard a voice. “Hey, Chinese. Are you having fun?” Stopping, in the parking lot of one of them, I saw the man, the clark who had done sloppy work, sticking his head out of the window of his car and the woman sitting in the passenger seat. “Yes, of course. I enjoy myself.” I blurted out without meaning to―I might not have wanted to intrude on them, not saying anything about the bike. But he said, “Good. You have to return it before you leave. Have a nice day,” he drove off; I pedaled it again.

I showed Amanda’s mother my flip-flops. In an instant she fetched the tool box from inside the house. And then I saw her pierce the joint of the thong with two short wires, which was crossed and fixed on the back of it. I was taken aback by her quick wit and thanked her. When I was about to go downstairs she gave me mangos and a map in Tobago, on which she told me the sightseeing spots in great detail. I had felt her warmth without a hint of self-interest.

The next day, from Scarborough, the capital of Tobago, I took a bus for Englishman’s Bay that Amanda’s mother recommended me. I told the driver that I would get off at Englishman’s Bay and sat in the seat behind him. As the bus went through the mountain road with ups and down, it began to rain and I started to feel motion sick. After a while, I checked my location by using GPS on my phone; the bus approached the bay.

The bus, however, went past that area. I totally thought he would pull up near the bay or say something to me before reaching there. How would I have misinterpreted the map? I begun to wonder if I should ask him. Probably he took a detour to avoid some obstacles. I waited and saw for a while. Obviously the bus moved away from the bay. It was getting cold and the rain had fallen steadily―I had long since lost my desire to go. In the meantime, farther and farther. Soon the bus stopped at the end of the line, where I alighted from the bus.

In the afternoon, the rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, and I felt a little better, ending up in Nature Park, where there was a unique and quaint atmosphere. It looked like some wildflower garden that housed a variety of wildlife: apes, sea turtles and Tobago birds.

The owner gave me a tour of his park that he had made himself; teaching me about the animals, encouraging interaction with them, and he said, “I consider whether to go Japan. I want to learn pottery. But, there would be few Japanese who speak English, despite a developed country.” Not shallow, how profound insight he had struck home to me. Then he went on. “From time to time, Japanese groups come see the birds. They are not good at English. When I spoke to one of them, she seemed to be puzzled and asked others for help, giving me a little smile.”

“You observe Japanese well,” I said. He never asked the mundane questions about Japan. “Are you interested in sightseeing?” I asked, never having asked such a thing. He stood with his back on an ape eating peanuts from back pockets of his jeans and hardly hear me; I felt that his affection to animals was what he cared for. 

“Why do Japanese not change the job? They don’t look at things with open minds. I don’t understand.” He got to the very heart of the matter. I felt myself interested in talking to him.

“They are averse to change, not wanting to fail, while most of them are insecure about current situation. They’ve been patient, so they aren’t used to being assertive. And they’ll have to be very patient, even when they will be sick of it or go in the wrong direction. Patience, it’s virtue. In other words, ‘timidity.’”

I got on the train from New Delhi to Haridwar and sat on a seat. What I had looked forward to was a train trip in India. I could feel myself relaxing, and I would be soon comfortably, savoring the view, the ambience and some refreshment. What the hell? I saw a portly man in his fifties with gray hair hovering near the train doors. Clearly Japanese. Stay away. I spread my legs, wrapping my arm around  the top of the seat next to me, and made it appear as if I was so nasty, hoping he would pass by me.

He looked around for an empty seat; I turned my face out of the window. Don’t come here, please. “You’re Japanese, aren’t you?” he said in Japanese. What a disgusting man; he spoiled my mood. If I choose who I spend my time with, is not between Japanese, is between local people making me feel exoticism of India. It sucks. I gave a slight nod, frowning at him. He stood beside me and with sitting motion he said, “May I sit here?” He sat on the seat before I could answer. I sighed wearily. I was compelled to be with him for five hours on the train. 

He spoke to me: “Nice weather today huh?” “When did you arrive at India?” “Where did you come from Japan?”―a mundane talk. I said languidly a word, yes or no in order to intend that I was not going to talk with him, and then took a book from my backpack.

Hardly had I turned the page when he started to talk about himself; that was enough, leave me alone. “I had worked as a public officer for more than thirty years.” He flaunted his career as if he was decent person. I had heard that introductory phrase somewhere one gives a formal speech. It is virtue for his generation to work for the same place until retirement. But thirty years? I definitely can not, so boring that it is little less than killing me. No stimulating. For me, saying that is tantamount to saying you were not courageous to try something new. But for them, giving up halfway through as I did means contaminating their carrier, a shame or a failure.

Of course, he would have worked for family and devoted his life to his company. But, there would have been times when he encountered the unseemly situation―abiding orders that do not make sense, severe reprimands despite his good action, or personal changes against his will; there were no way around that. At the worst, he may have feigned ignorance for his colleagues who were treated unfairly―like bullies―while feeling pity for him. In any case, he proved to me that he had done whatever it took to survive in his company as wage slave, albeit good or bad.

“I retired from the work already,” he said with some dignity. “In Japan, up early every morning, I walk my dog in the park, and then relax at home all day.” He looked as if he had recuperated away from the battlefield, where he strived to survive for thirty years. I believed that the 50s and 60s are the most ultimate generation. The amount of his experiences that he has accumulated is immeasurable. He could have summed up his experiences that young people lacked and started up new business. Why let the special advantage go to waste? Young people would be animated by seeing older people be going to aim higher.

“On my last trip, I went to south India, where I ate curries. Those tasted different from the north ones,” he went on. “The south was good place, far more idyllic than New Delhi, it was tranquil. I recommend.” As he said this, I felt myself disarmed by his peaceful mood implying that he wanted to unwind and enjoy himself. He looked kind, but he was just a boring man with portly frame. I liked the person who poured his own passion and intensity into what he loved and who was always challenging.

Those who never tried doing many different things while young seemed likely to defend his own interest. I recalled my superior, who conceited himself and clung his position. He thought he need not improve himself any longer. And to consolidate the hierarchy between him and me, he often said he had worked so hard that he was now in a position to nurture young people.

Working so hard meant working long hours―work on a day off or overtime. Strange to say, getting results in a short period could be seen as cutting corner, laziness.

Meanwhile, however, I believed that the act of nurturing others meant that his own potential was reduced to zero. For instance, sports athletes culminate at the certain point. But soon or later, there will come when they will no longer able to earn money as active players. After that a retired athlete becomes a mentor to make room for others.

There would be a natural fear to be overtaken by young men who were competent. He knew it would be more difficult to find new job as he got older, so his first priority had to protect his own life and position; we all had lost sight of the essentials of the work—making products that ‘’delight our customer.’’

“This is my first trip to the north. I’m going to Rishikesh via Haridwar too, where I will take the cable car, to see Mansa Devi Temple.” He seemed to be full of life, and said, “Possibly I will encounter you in Rishikesh. Yoga, sounds interesting, I guessed, but not sure, I will try it.” It occurred to me that he would reward himself for making achievement and contribution for thirty years―he must have endured emotional suffering: demanding tasks, human relationships, promotion races, which I could not. As for myself, I just stood at starting point, to live my life by just doing what I liked.

We got off the train together, strolling for a while in Haridwar. He asked me. “Do you want to have lunch with me?” “I wish I could say yes, but I’m not hungry,” I said without hesitation because he is not my boss because this is India.

Japanese culture is based on vertically hierarchical relationships, a junior submissively follow a senior, and the atmosphere would not allow you refusing, even if the difference was only one year of experience among them. Whenever I went out for a dinner or a drink with senior, I just could not be myself by taking a back seat to him, and surmising how he really thought and resonating with his feeling, so exhausted.

I had once evaded my senior’s invitation for a drink. He said I was a kind of odd. Furthermore, I had tried to dodge it from my boss: “How dare you refuse my invitation,” he smirked. I was unpleasant that they said that. In Japan, being considered odd is as good as having no social skill.

“Oddball,” while it is unique, is far from ordinary people who devoted their life to one company. I loathed to do the same thing as others―just doing as you are told without saying your opinion, reading the atmosphere.

After He and I parted, I felt at ease. He would not have sensed he wasted my precious time. I wandered around the town, not wanting to meet Japanese any more. Every now and then, Indian stared at me. It made me feel exposed and in India where I was new.

It had been a month since the Government of India announced the issuance of new 500 rupee and 2’000 rupee notes. When I came back to New Delhi, I was overwhelmed by an increasing number of people in a long line snaked around the ATM. They were quiet and seemed to be used to such a circumstance.

At New Delhi railroad station, I was able to 2 sleeper-trains’ tickets: from New Dehlhi to Varanasi, from Varanasi to Kolkata, using 2’000 rupee notes. I felt better than I had been; I imagined that, in Dashashwamedh Ghat, the main ghat in Varanasi, I waded through Ganges river and did my morning ablutions with local people, terrible smell drifting by cows. In some way, I might have tried to assimilate into India or sought something stimulating.

That evening I waited for the sleeper train to Varanasi, but it had not come. To check the monitor, I went back to the inside station square. It said the train was delayed for three hours. I sighed, banged my backpack down and killed time reading a book on a bench. Three hours later, I got to my feet and walked to the platform again. One train after another were passing by me in the darkness.

I looked at the monitor: five hours delay. It was past midnight; I was tired. In the square, hundreds of people in blankets lay on their own sheets, as if they knew it was normal that the trains was late. I made my way through them to find a space, where I lay down with no blanket: my head put on my backpack. Human heat somewhat kept me from the cold.

Before daylight, I picked myself up and trudged toward the platform. I awaited the train, meanwhile my stomach was getting worse. (During my stay in India, I had suffered from chills, vomiting and diarrhea.) I rushed upstairs to the restroom. The toilet was clogged with stools; the floor was littered with used toilet papers and a poop-like stain. I avoided stepping on, doubling over; it was time I thought about going home by plane.

On the other hand, I dreamed of seeing morning sun rising with mysterious phenomenon, flourishing life and death in Varanasi. I regained control of myself and hurried back to the platform to find that a freight train had stopped.

The new day had started. Paharganj close to the station, the main market place where I wandered around every night, was always in chaos―the bustle of cycles, motorbikes and rickshaws. This area could not help being filthy: in murky air, people whose clothes were not washed milling around the streets, the cows everywhere, the array of the run-down buildings. But, here was authentic Indian style I wanted to blend into.

I wanted to inhale deeply, but it could be better not to do. I was thirsty and needed some food. As I walked down the street, the scent of steaming soup filled the street connecting a narrow little alley. I tracked the smell, there being a man making thick, milky broths in the giant pot surrounded by local people. Something there was vibrant with me; I had the soup and got warm from inside. And then I stopped by my favorite stall. As the vendor offered me samosas on a paper, I stared at his black hands that looked unwashed, but found myself devouring them over a cup of chai.

When I went back to the inside station square, there was a hum of voices; the people was up and ate breakfast brought from home. I lay down in an empty space and basked in the morning sun dozing off. After a while I got a little cold, woke up and sat up. Outside the sun rose higher, brightening the street and in front of me was a family in dainty ethnic dress. 

The exactness of that time was what had worried me. “Excuse me,” I showed my ticket to the head of the family who looked like a father. “Do you know when the train will arrive? I’ve been waiting for it since last night.” “I don’t know. This is India. But it comes.” He tipped his head slightly; I exhaled, not saying anything.

The delay was further seven hours, then five hours, I was forced to think of another way while I enjoyed another night in Paharganj. Then five hours, as I wandered down the dimly lit platform, a young white couple spoke to me; we were in exactly the same situation. The affable young man, Argentine, told me that the train would come this morning.

It was not until the morning of two days later that the train arrived. I threw my backpacks to the side upper bunk, climbed in, and sat on hanging my legs. I saw an old man dressed in wearing white rags walking up the aisle― his long, shaggy beard touched the bottle strapped to his waist. As most passengers bought chai from him, so I did too. I took a sip of it to calm myself.

I had lain on the bunk. Looking out through the window, I mulled the rest of my trip over, and while I started to feel chilly―the sickening chill I had suffered from came back to me. I pulled the window down but it was very stiff. No matter how hard I tried, there was a gap 1cm from the windowsill. The draft from the gap chilled me to the marrow; the hard mat put too much strain on my entire body. I shivered with no blanket, trying not to cry, and in order to release from torture I hoped to get off to sleep.

Suddenly I sensed something touching my hair and woke up; I thought someone had walked past me, trying to sleep again. After a while, I overheard nearby teenagers, who may well be interested in my Asian appearance, giggling; I ignored them. The next moment I felt someone picked a few strand of my hair, the chuckle turned into a laugh, which became amplified. Sitting up half, I turned to them and said, “Hey, don’t touch.”

Although most of them exchanged a smirk, the boss of them was gazing my hair with a thoughtful expression and said, “Your hairstyle is very cool.” I was a little taken aback, for it was not humiliation, rather admiration. Thanks to not washing my greasy hair and rolling over a lot, it looked like spiky hair with a wax.

Owing to long stop intervals, I was three days behind schedule when I got to Varanasi station: I had nothing but stay in my hostel to be going to Kolkata the next afternoon. I was still in bad shape and was about to collapse. After I got off the train, I staggered down the platform, wanting to Iie wrapped in a lot of blankets right away. The rickshaws in array had paused outside the ticket gate; I was approaching the driver nearest me.

We reached a compromise at 100 rupees. I leaned against the back of the rickshaw, hoping he went straight to my hostel. Varanasi was a lawless area of sorts―bicycles often cut in, motorbikes running toward us as if to dodge the bullet; the men stripped to the waist sat in the middle of the road, vendors wheeling their iron cart loaded fruits or vegetables across the road. The shabby houses and the shacks were the reflection of their poorly manner. What was in disorder made me forget that I had been sick.

When I got out of the rickshaw in front of my hostel, he said, “Five hundred.” “What? You said one hundred.” I failed to tolerate his unfaithfulness and thrust 100 rupees at him. He shrank back, shook his head and was speaking something in Hindi. A hostel staff, approaching us, became aware of the fuss, intervened between him and me and saw that I paid the original price.

This time I reserved “a single room” whose price was relatively low, though I always did a shared room. I told him I was sick and wanted to go to bed straight away, and so he handed me far more blankets. I followed him up the stairs by the reception desk. We reached a floor and turned the corner to climb the next flight, walking past a few Westerners who lounged on the sofas―this process seemed to go on endlessly. I noticed that sun’s shaft fell on the end of the flight that led up to a door. 

He opened it to me and said, “In there.” I felt a strange sense because I caught a glimpse of concrete through the door. Crossing the threshold of it, I saw something of the shapes of a dozen triangular dimensions. There was full of sunshine and I had a view of the town. 

I got into the one of them and put the extra blankets I hold on the blanket that was there. Slipping beneath them, I curled up and felt myself falling into an exhausted sleep. What they call “a single room” was the most comfortable “private room” ever. Dead silence seemed to alleviate all the tensions of the days―out of cash, the card fraud, the train delay and food poisoning―even though I had never call a tent “a single room.” 

November 9, 2016

It was in the small hours of the morning that I arrived at New Delhi airport. As usual, I looked for an ATM to get the local currency rupee. Strangely, ATMs in the airport was all closed, so l exchanged money at a bank. After I slept a bit on a chair until dawn, I took Delhi Airport Metro Express to New Delhi station; it was modern design with great speed.

New Delhi station was a lot of hustle and bustle. It was very hard for me to proceed toward an exit. Once I got out of there, rickshaws, coming and going, jumped into my eyes. In stagnant air, there was full of life. I took a rickshaw to go to my hostel. On my way, I saw a crowd of people in front of a bank―they seemed to holler at banks. I thought to myself: “This is India. I’m getting thrilled,” and while I was checking if he took a detour by using GPS on my phone. Sure enough, He did it, but I condoned his act and overpaid to him because the fare was cheep.

I entered the hostel and went right up to the reception. In the registration procedures, I put the money on the tray to pay a deposit. “We can’t accept old bill,” said one of the staff. “What?” I was not sure what it meant. Then he went on,“New bill only. You check the news.” I rooted my pocket for my phone and read the articles: “Bank of India says it will roll out new higher security 500 and 2,000 rupee notes,” “Banks re-opened on Thursday to dispense new notes in exchange for old 500 and 1,000 rupee notes that are no longer legal tender.” ―the removal of black money. “What a coincidence.” I lamented with flashes of closed ATMs and of the crowd in front of the bank―my bills was all old ones.

The following day, The crowd was surging out from a bank onto the street.  For more than three hours, I had been stuck fast in them, until I applied for exchanging old bills for new ones that was all 500 rupee. To my relief, someone told me that ATMs would open “Tomorrow.” After a while, l noticed my jacket attached on the backpack on my back had vanished.

As a matter of fact, ATMs had remained shut, day in, day out. But I supposed the situation would change by the time I reached Rishikesh, where I was going to learn yoga for four weeks.

Unlike New Delhi, there were many tourists in Rishikesh. I walked with Lakshman Jhula bridge―its mark reddy poles―across Ganges river that lulled me into a sacred mood. Taking a long walk made me hungry. From time to time I stopped by food stalls, enjoying eating samosa and pani puri, which sold at reasonable price; I loved to know the local food.

While my yoga programs started, ATMs closures still continued and what’s more, the banks did not function properly. I supposed I should not to use cash, in case I needed something. The trouble was that the food stalls and local shops did not take credit cards, and so I could not help but eat at restaurants or cafes at times, though I was thrifty with money.

Eager to get cash, I checked if ATMs were operative day after day; however, they had showed no sign of starting to work. Dozens of tourists around them had been stranded and irritated. ‘’No cash, I can’t go home,’’ said a man, who squatted down and hung his head. What he said was exactly right. He would have to take a taxi, bus, or train to go to the airport―they only accept cash. Then an anxiety came over me as to how enough I would have cash to be going to go to Kolkata after yoga program.

On the other hand, I started to vomit and have diarrhea, like food poisoning, several days after I came Rishikesh. Having a lot of blanket covered my shivering body, thinking of my missing jacket, I had learned yoga.  

Winter nights in Rishikesh were cold. My bathroom in my hotel had no hot water and no heater; there was no way I took a shower. Only when my head got itchy did I plunge my head into the bucket filled with cold water and wash my hair in no shampoo. Now and then I had diarrhea in the middle of the night―I was on the toilet seat, having been screaming with the chills and the pain in my anus.

Amid yoga program, one evening I was browsing the internet on my phone, I came across the peculiar mail. The contents of them indicated that I had ordered several items separately in less than one hour. The total amount was more than 3,000 dollars. As I suspected someone had stolen my credit card detail, the same things happened again―some bastard kept on buying the goods like home appliance. I could not help imagining my bank balance was close to zero.

I made in confusion a call to the bank center for invalidating it. The operator said, “Do you have anything about them?” “No.” I said immediately, becoming impatient. “Isn’t there possibility, you used it yourself? Could you remember buying them?” “Not my fault, It’s a crime,” I said in a stern voice, not wanting him to ask any more question.

But that made me uneasy about whether I could receive a full refund; I had a hard time falling sleep that night. I was so exhausted. Nothing worked: out of cash, the card fraud, food poisoning. It was not until next day’s supper that I pulled myself together; my friend Frei, a yoga student who was Swiss, and his Indian wife Kaira emboldened me in my thing. And as I played my phone … No kidding―that rat had indeed started to use my card that was not frozen.

The next day, I could barely work up no energy. After lunch, Frei told the cook, a yoga staff, that I needed some help about credit card frauds. One afternoon, the cook summoned me and introduced to a middle-aged stranger, who turned to walk out of the school; I called for Frei to come and we followed him. “I knew the nearest police station. Ride on my motorbike,” he said, sit on it and started the engine. Frei sat astride behind the stranger; I sat after Frei and said loudly. “And, do you know where an ATM is open?” “Yes, I know. I’ll take you there,” the stranger said; I believed him.

We rode it down the steep hill, the cows bellowing in a wilderness and entering the town; foreign people swarming about ATMs, passing many rickshaws, through the alley, the motorbike pulled up in front of a house. We alighted from it and Frei and I saw the stranger walk into the house alone.

After a few minutes, he came back and said, “Here is a pawnshop, not the police station. I’m not certain where the police station is.” I winced, not expecting him to say such a thing. “Where is the ATM?” I asked tentatively. “ ‘Tomorrow,’ public servants come to activate them,” he said, cocking his head. I was not sure what to make of these.

In the days which followed, I noticed people lined up at the ATM. It was a long time before ATM began to work. There were all “new 2’000 rupee notes” and the limitation: 1 note per card―if you want more, you have to use other cards. I was so relieved that I was able to get 4’000 rupees … But that was only temporary. Not only food stalls and local shops, but also cafes and restaurants did not accept this new one, not having change for “new 500 rupee notes” that had run short. It sucks. It was no use getting big ones, unless I had a luxurious meal otherwise.

I wandered around the town aimlessly, wondering if I could buy a bus or train ticket using these big ones. I stopped at the bank and walked in, not expecting anything. Once I found the customers did some kinds of procedures, I turned to leave. “Hey, may I help you?” Looking around, I saw a woman beckoning me; I fluttered 2’000 rupee notes I had pinched, wanting to exchange them.

Soon she begun to draw a map that marked the location of another bank, with a kindly explanation. She handed it to me, “It’s thirty minutes’ walk from here. You can get small ones.” She rose from her seat and went out, “Keep going along this street.” “Okay, thank you very much,” I said, feeling a little better.

So plausible was hers that I believed her. I started to walk with the map; past groups of tourists, at the stall that sold samosa I often ate, and the long and gloomy road with a tunnel of trees, no one walking, rickshaws running at full speed. After a while I came into a sandy road dotted with cows and horses. There was a row of shabby houses and cycle rickshaws running. I saw a man, whose clothes were frayed, loading fruits and vegetables on the iron cart. I continued to walk. Each time a vehicle passed by me, sand danced, blown by wind, covering me, as if to feel mocked for my effort.