Money for Nothing and Your Chips for Free

(Formerly entitled Iqbaal and the Handcycle)

NOTE: The following story is out of order like a lot of the entries. I have to have more time to compile my notes on Pakistan... Rest assured it was a trip.

Iqbaal smiles invitingly from his seat on the handcycle. Handcycles are three-wheeled craft powered by hand cranks to either side of the driver's bench. A horizontal bar runs parallel and superior to the front wheel and extends back toward the driver for steering. I ask Iqbaal if I can give his three-wheeler a spin and he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "Why not?" before disembarking to the side and crabwalking to the front to unlock the wheel. My intention was for him to remain put on the bike, but he fails to catch my meaning, so I take the handcycle for a couple of loops by myself to the side of the gathering crowd outside the cinema. An audience of fifty immediately materializes around me to see what's going on and just as rapidly disperses when it is discovered I don't know how to apply the cycle's break and am a menace to life and limb. Iqbaal cries out, "Up! Up!" which at first I interpret as a command for me to jettison the out-of-control conveyance and so I begin to stand up, which causes him to shout "Down! Down!" A stranger runs alongside and grabs the steering column and it is then I realize pulling up on it engages the front break. The spectactors reform around the handcycle once it is at rest. I get tangled up in the hand cranks during my dismount while Iqbaal ascends with seemingly too few moves. Dyoont, dyoop, dyoont and he has pivot-climbed back in place. Iqbaal is a small-framed, dark-skinned, high-cheeked young man with two withered legs being the fallout from a bout with polio at age six. An English speaker in the audience asks how much money I am going to give him.

"None," I reply, "I was just trying out the bike." I look to Iqbaal, "Did you want money?" He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head no, while simultaneously looking expectant. The English speaker offers that I should give at least one hundred rupees, while another in the crowd suggests five hundred. I ignore their pleas and engage Iqbaal with some simple questions as to where he lives, what work he does, and so forth. A translator appears at my side to repeat my questions, often verbatim, in English.

"Where does your family live?" I ask.

"He is asking where your family lives," the translator chimes in.

"They live in small village in Bihar." Iqbaal answers.

"How long have you been in Delhi?"

"He is asking of you how much time you have been in Delhi. How many days?" the translator explains.

"One month. I stay outside masjid in Main Bazaar." Iqbaal requests my hotel address and announces that he will meet me the following morning at ten.

No Entry is a trivial Boney Kapoor (Anil's brother, not part of Raj's clan) offering showing at the Sheila cinema just five minutes from our hotel in the Pahar Ganj. Unfortunately, it is also the only offering at the single-screen theatre. Of the over one thousand people waiting to enter the theatre there are, at most, five of the fairer sex. One is a heavily-bangled, ravan-haired girl that looks to be in her late teens who flits from one group of boys to another in a drunken, twirling dance. I worry about her safety in the testosterone-flooded setting. She pauses in front of a trio of strangers to apply garish red lipstick and then with a clap and a shout is off again. She approaches me, and as best as I can decipher, asks for a ticket to the movie after informing me she is an undercover officer for the Mumbai CID. Her eyes are intense and desperate and her hair wild--a fully-animated character from ancient Indian folklore dropped unwittingly in a modern metropolis. I agree to treat her to the film thinking it will be a safe respite from her daily routine, be it detective work, or, much more likely, prostitution plied in the sullen alleys to either side of the theatre.

As we approach the ticket booth a middle-aged man on a scooter rolls by and the girl hauls off and punches him hard on the cheek, rattling the entire length of bangles on her arm. A direct hit. Incredibly the victim manages to keep his scooter upright and rolling forward and only looks back in shock, but continues on. "Kyaa kar rahe ho?" I ask dumbfounded. She says something that I understand to suggest that the man is a rival agent in another intelligence organization. Impulsively, she veers away from me to engage a group of five boys leaning against the fence that defines the perimeter of the theatre's property. I wait for a couple of minutes to see if she will come back for her ticket, but she seems to have completely forgotten my offer.

As John and I enter the theatre I look back one last time to see the secret agent slapping one of the five boys hard--SMACK. He doubles over in pain, holding his cheek while the rest of his companions scatter in laughter. It seems they won't retaliate and so I continue up the stairs to the AC balcony section.

The next morning at eight, as I am meditating prone in bed, the phone rings. John answers and goes down to the lobby. He comes back up in a couple of minutes and calls out, "Mark, Mark? Can you hear me?" I try to make it clear from my body posture that I am in meditation but John persists. "Can you hear me?" I lift a protesting hand. "The guy with the bike that you were talking to last night is here. It's all on you now." John descends again after five minutes and then joins me in meditating. At nine thirty the phone rings again and I answer.

"Sir, your friend is waiting," the receptionist informs me. I go down to the lobby where Iqbaal smiles eagerly upon seeing me. I am in no mood to reward his early arrival for what was a self-made and unconfirmed meeting to begin with. I point to my wrist and ask, "Kitne baje hain?"

"I know. I know. Sare nau baje hain," he says. "But I am here now."

"I'll come down at ten," I say.

"Okay, okay. No problem," he says with an enthusiasm that I find slightly annoying.

At ten I come back down and find Iqbaal waiting outside on his handcycle with the same smile I left him with at 9:30. I ask if he can scoot over on the seat and he begins to get down from the three wheeler. "No, no. Stay on. Just slide over. I will sit next to you." I contort myself to snake my way next to him. We crank the wheels in tandam drawing bemused stares from all quarters and make our way down the narrow, people-packed alleyways to the main bazaar and finally out to the main road.

On the open road we are able to crank a fair amount of velocity out of the three wheeler and I am inspired by the self-generated breeze to sing the signature tune from Sholay, "Yeh Dosti" (This Friendship). Iqbaal joins in causing the passing traffic to veer wildly while rubbernecking to keep the unlikely pair in sight. I steer us toward a quiet side street and am surprised to find an upscale tea shop tucked between tenements and stop to investigate the possiblilty of getting us some breakfast. Iqbaal remains sitting in the three-wheeler. "What are you waiting for?" I call back to him. He looks left and right before pointing to himself in disbelief. Moi? I keep motioning for his to join and eventually he gets down from the handcycle and waddles up to the door. A human torso on duck legs.

"Do you serve breakfast?" I ask the smallish woman who greets us at the door.

"We are the finest tea shop in India," she explains.

"Oh, we were only to looking to get some simple food for breakfast. Do you know of a place close to here we could go to?" I ask.

"You just sit and we can get you breakfast," she says, "In the meantime you can try any of our teas which you will discover are the finest brewed anywhere. Jennifer Lopez orders only our tea, and many other of your celebrities have provided testimonials."

"But, I am from Kashmir."

"Oh."

I am wary of getting taken in a chai swindle after meeting with Les a few days earlier and having him relate the saga of the Chinese tea scam. On his first day in China he was approached by a college student who invited him for a cup of the finest tea the world had to offer. He took Les to a beautiful tea house where a cup of tea was served and, no doubt about it, it was good. Then the bill was presented and it was bad. Five hundred dollars bad. Les ended up paying after sizing up the employees as mafioso and deciding he didn't want to land up in a lonely cell with a very large communist in a very large communist country.

It is hard to imagine the diminuative Delhite that stands in front of me in such an intimidating context and so I stay on, curious to see what will happen. "Here let me show you about us," she says, "Here is our catalog. And, as you can see, here is Jennifer Lopez who will only drink our tea." She flips the page quickly to one featuring innumerable logos--evidently corporate endorsements of their brew.

"I do not know who this Jennifer Lopez is, but I am intrigued by her addiction to your product," I say.

"No, no. Nothing like that. It is just that ours is the finest tea, so many famous people will choose ours only. We have our own factory and the highest quality control standards."

"I'm not famous and I lost my factory to my ex, but I am beginning to understand why I should buy your tea--even if I don't have any money with me today."

"That's no problem. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Vegan crepes with fresh strawberry jam and tofu scrambler."

"What?"

"A couple of samosa." I turn to Iqbaal who looks uncomfortable in the posh shop, "What would you like?"

"Kuch nahin."

"What? Why not? Aren't you hungry?" I ask. He shakes his head no. "You should have a little something at least," I urge. The saleswoman pulls me to the side.

"We also do this type of work with people with no arms or legs," she confides, "Sometimes we will see them outside and just take some tea and biscuits to them." Somehow she makes the exercise in charity sound like the scattering of bread crumbs to rooftop pigeons. A mental image appears: a crowd of limbless loafers, idly nosing about in the dirt outside her door, waiting for their morning tea – the world's finest. I am tempted to point our that Iqbaal does, in fact, have legs, albeit shriveled and floppy. The saleswoman turns to Iqbaal and tells him in Hindi in no uncertain terms to eat something with me.

Three rounds of tea are served to accompany tasteless triangular sandwiches coated with an unidentifiable spread. The sasmosa never materializes. The tea is delicious and expensive, but not of the $500 variety. I cop every pecuniary plea at my disposal before I am able to extricate myself and Iqbaal from the tea shop and its frustrated proprietor.

Iqbaal and I crank our way to the Yogoda Satsanga Society temple and I do my best to explain to him that I will be sitting for twenty minutes. He crawls after me into the meditation hall and reclines near the back. After my twenty minutes I find him staring at me with a satisfied smile. Next stop is a back-road masjid where I am instructed in washing feet, face and ears before performing namaz. The masjid's operator plies me for tips on getting a visa for America. Just as I tell him that the best bet is to marry an American his wife emerges from a back room and veils upon seeing me. Iqbaal has already made his way back to the bike and motions for me impatiently.

I treat Iqbaal to lunch at Nirula's where he fixates on the price of each food item. It is only later in the meal that I realize he is laying the groundwork to justify hitting me up for a hefty loan. "My family in much trouble. Five sisters and no house, no food. Everything gone in fire. I come to Delhi from Bihar to make money for them. But much trouble." I sympathize with woes but council him to just enjoy the meal for now. He continues to look troubled as he pokes at his veg burger and fries. "You will help me?"

"I am only eating with a friend."

"You think I lie."

"Not at all. I am just eating now though. Do you like your food?"

"You will help me?"

"I will try to be a friend, but I want to be a real friend."

"I need just 20,000 rupees."

"I really would like to help, but I don't think giving a big chunk of money will help in the long run. We need to find you some sort of sustainable income, or the need for another big chunk of money will just come again after a little time." Iqbaal eyes me worriedly.

"I don't understand. You think I tell lie? You not give money? You not help me?"

"I'm not saying that. Money would be easy to give, but I don't think it would helpful in the long run. Maybe if we think together we can come up with some things to do that could really help in a lasting way. For one thing I can help you learn how to speak better English. I could meet with you every day and we could practice speaking. If you can speak English it will be much easier for you to find a good job."

"I don't understand. You not help?"

"Do you know how to read and write?"

"No."

"I can help you learn. I could even teach you how to read and write in Hindi."

"You don't understand. I need money. This food cost you 100, 200... 300 rupees," Iqbaal says looking at the menu and pointing to the various prices.

"Yes, but it is food and not money," I point out. kI suggest to Iqbaal that we meet with my Hindi and English speaking friends that evening to act as translators for us. He reluctantly agrees. On the ride back to the Pahar Ganj he is sullen and stares straight ahead as I sing. We stop at an STD so I can make a local call. "How much will it cost?" I ask the shopkeeper.

"Two rupees," he answers dully. I dial and let the phone ring for a good thirty seconds but no one picks up. I fish out two rupees and drop them into the shopkeeper's waiting hand.

"Four more," he demands. I am indignant.

"You said two and no connection was made anyway. It should be free. There is no way I am going to pay you six. You said two." The shopkeeper bridles at my temerity.

"Four more!" he says rising to his feet. Iqbaal intervenes and tries to hand the shopkeeper four more rupees, but I deflect his arm.

"Don't pay him anything more. It is not right."

"It is only money," Iqbaal says.

"I don't care about the money, but he said two and he's going to feel like he can cheat any foreigner if I pay six."

"Chalo," Iqbaal says tossing the four rupees from the side to the shopkeeper's desk.

"This isn't right," I complain first to Iqbaal and then again to the shopkeeper. I stare disapprovingly at the shopkeeper who dismisses me by joining his fingertips at his forehead and then derisively flicking his hand down and open. PG Translation: Take a hike. As we crank the handcycle away from the STD it is my turn to be in ill spirits. The sun is scorching and I feel every one of the many bumps in the road acutely in my nicely sciaticized leg. Iqbaal asks about stopping somewhere and I can't make out his intention, but agree nonetheless. He pulls in front of a shop and asks the owner to produce five cases of cigarettes. He looks to me expectantly.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Not for smoke. Buy?"

"I don't smoke or buy cigarettes."

"But I sell for much money."

"I won't buy cigarettes even for the Dalai Lama. They are poison for people's lungs."

Iqbaal looks exasperated with me and the shop owner even more so with Iqbaal. No sooner than we start out again and Iqbaal suggests bananas as an alternative to cigarettes. I tell him I will consider his proposal, but I want to be able to communicate clearly with him with the help of my translators in the evening.

"But you promise for buying bananas."

"I don't make promises, but I will meet you tonight and we will talk."

"Promise?"

"Yes. I mean no. But yes. Six o'clock tonight."

That afternoon I stumble upon what I feel might be the ideal solution to assist Iqbaal. I will offer to loan him enough money to buy one day's worth of bananas to sell. He can pay me back at one percent interest at the end of the day. When the loan is paid back I will double the amount I lend, until he is able to finance the purchase of inventory from his own savings. If he defaults early on with repayment of the loan I am out almost nothing. If he takes off later in the scheme at least he will have moved toward economic self-sufficiency in the meantime. But the incentive to pay back each new loan will be remain high with the promise of a doubling of the next amount.

Six o'clock comes and goes, but Iqbaal is a no show. I meet Alisa and Manish and share my idea with them. They generally approve with my loan scheme and echo my feelings that a flat out gift of money is not going to be helpful in the long run. Alisa orders a random dish from the menu that comes with tofu and looks better than my noodles or Manish's burger.

The following morning I encounter the very pregnant Rita and her daughter, Gita, in front of the hotel. The duo are tireless rag pickers that are tempted by the teemingness of foreigners in the Pahar Ganj to supplement their scant earnings with begging. I purchased Rita medicine a few weeks back for her myriad chronic ailments and in all subsequent encounters she has hounded me to replenish her prescription or purchase baby clothes. The pre-teen Gita is so perfectly filthy that the dirt on her face, hands and feet has the slightly artificial appearance of makeup applied for a TV production of Oliver Twist. There are two sons somewhere too, but they are typically sent on their own to beg in the bazaar. Racial sensitivities aside, the boys are so simian in appearance and behavior that one is inevitably compelled to comment, "Whoa, they are just like monkeys."

I haven't had breakfast and it is almost noon, so I tell Rita to wait five minutes while I grab my stuff from the hotel room and then I will take her and Gita to lunch on the Main Bazaar. I run upstairs to our room in the Sahara International and find John in his permafrost position in front of his laptop. I convince him to take a break and meet us in the bazaar for lunch and run back down to the street. When I return Iqbaal is stationed on his handcycle across the street and all smiles.

"Where were you last night?" I ask. He appears confused and shrugs his shoulders. "We had agreed to meet at 6:00 but you didn't come. I waited for you." Again he just shrugs his shoulders.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks.

"I'm going to breakfast with this woman and her daughter," I say pointing to Rita, "You can come too if you like." Yet another shrug of the shoulders and a smile.

"Why not? Come sit," he says motioning to his handcycle.

"That's okay I want to walk." The four start out for the Main Bazaar and I immediately steal Gita's giant recycle bag and start collecting the scraps of cardboard and plastic from the claustrophic alley in double time. She is embarrassed by my usurpation of her menial labor and attempts to reclaim the bag, but I am unregenerate. Lots of hooting and hollering comes from passing pedestrians and the shops lining the road which simply sharpens my focus on the task at hand. Iqbaal forces a smile, but it is clear he too is uncomfortable seeing me in this role. Two teenage boys that discern Iqbaal is following me, say something in Hindi to the affect that he is just waiting to get some money. Iqbaal bristles at their assertion and struggles to pull alongside of me.

"Hah. They say money, but I say just friends." His rejoinder comes across as so contrived that it has the unintended consequence of creating an even greater credibility gap. The crowd gathering to view the spectacle of the rag-picking 'gora' doubles, then doubles again, which is quite a feat in a neighborhood where the population density under normal circumstances allows for standing room only. I take advantage of the burgeoning audience to sing my signature Hindi number, Bewafaa (i.e. cheater, as in unfaithful lover). Late comers, I delightedly realize, might be led to believe that the crowd has formed based on my singing ability and not because of my dirty work. I use a discarded plastic water bottle for a microphone and during the chorus point into the audience as I drone, "Eka bewafaa, eka bewafaa, eka bewafaa, ek bewafaa hai!" Anywhere else people might take offense at being called a cheater by a perfect stranger, but this is India and the unfaithful scream their approval when thus identified.

I take advantage of the road's constriction at its intersection with the Main Bazaar to shed the throng of gawkers and join the flow of traffic moving toward the Railway Station. I rejoin Rita and Gita, but Iqbaal cranks past us. "Where you going?" I ask.

"We meet later, okay?" he says without waiting for confirmation. I enter a restaurant where I have been known to bring a variety of guests and take a table where I can watch the street for John. Gita disappears onto the street and returns two minutes later with a similarly-aged girlfriend. A mother with small girl recognizes Rita and manages to invite herself to lunch. Her daughter, in turn, invites yet another friend. Within half a minute our party of three has become seven. Once everyone has ordered I am two words into my stump speech on the value of washing hands before eating when Gita clasps her friend's hand and leads her to the sink. The others follow suit leaving me momentarily speechless. Lunch is a thoroughly enjoyable affair and I take advantage of my captive audience to quiz the young ones in elementary addition and subtraction. A black magic marker applied on napkins serves as improvised chalk and chalkboard. I am surprised again to discover the little tots are completely facile with single digit problems and fairly capable with double digits. It's not until I challenge them with the subtraction of a larger number from a smaller that their brains are taxed. Math is followed by pictionary and again the children perform in exemplary fashion until I draw a computer chip which they misidentify as a centipede. Hah!

That night I spot Iqbaal by the side of the road as I walk home from dinner. He calls me over and I take a seat on a slab of concrete next to his handcycle. "You give money now for bananas?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you about how we could work something out, but we still need a good translator."

"But you promise."

"I didn't promise. I agreed to meet with you and my friends came to translate, but you were a no show."

"I don't understand. You not help?"

It hasn't been lost on me that Iqbaal does not want to have others involved in his effort to extract money from me and his absence from the previous night's meeting was likely intentional. A boy with a disfiguring cleft palate approaches and kneels between Iqbaal and myself. He says something to us which comes out sounding like the disembodied voices of adults in Peanuts cartoons. I smile and motion for him to sit with us which causes Iqbaal to bristle. He hisses some choice invective in Hindi at the interloper, then raises a hand as if to strike the boy who scampers off. "That really wasn't necessary, Iqbaal," I complain.

"My name is Irfan, not Iqbaal," Irfan (oops) frowns, "You not give money for bananas?"

"I'm going home. Phir melengay." As I start for home I am approached for money by three different beggars in the first twenty meters. I manage a meager smile and walk on. An assortment of street vendors endeavor to tempt me with wares designed for the Western traveler.

"Toilet paper? Bottled water? Cigarettes?" I decline to entertain any of their advances and quicken my pace. A smallish teen in an Adidas sweat suit emerges from an alley and attempts to match my strides.

"Some brown? Hashish? Something else perhaps? Good time?" I wave a dismissive hand and maintain my stride. At the corner for home I am forced to wait behind a tangle of auto and bicycle rickshaws as they attempt to create adequate room to pass. Up the street I catch sight of a dull-green scarfed Anita hurriedly making her way toward me. I am resigned to the fact that all escape routes are blocked.

"I was looking for you yesterday," she says slightly out of breath, "I was very hungry and baby was crying all day."

"I was talking to some people yesterday that said that they know you," I say while stroking Anita's sleeping child on the head. Anita turns to avoid my gaze. "They say you really don't have four other children and live up the street and not in Rohoni. They also said your husband isn't a farmer in Rajastan, but a local alcoholic."

"Oh yeah," Anita says disinterestedly, now actively looking for another mark to inveigle. "No food at home. Much trouble for children."

"Look, I genuinely would like to help you out, but at the very least you have to start being honest with me. If you want to show me your place and introduce me to your children I will do my best to assist you to work your way out of your difficulties."

"Not possible."

"What's not possible?"

"My place is very far."

"I will pay for a rickshaw. Let's go. C'mon, right now."

"Not possible," she claims again without explanation. The traffic jam has managed to become further entangled. I idly turn to buy a bag of Lay's Classic potato chips from one of the ubiquitous everything-under-the-dusty-moon shops that line the streets of the Pahar Ganj.

"Some milk too for baby," Anita prods.

"Not possible," I fire back.

"Some chai to go with the chips then."

"The chips are for me. I'm going to eat them in front of you until you tell me the truth." I rip the bag open and start loudly crunching the chips near her baby's ears.

"What are you doing," she laughs, "You're cruel."

"Only to the ones I love. Now take me to your place or give me your baby and I will raise her properly."

"Not possible." The traffic has cleared and I make my break for home. Anita shouts after me, "What about some food?"

"Not possible." The chips are tasting awful I muse. The colorfully packaged junk food of American origin is usually reliably consistent supersaturated poison, but this bag literally tastes like junk. A young man with cat-like yellow eyes and movie-hero looks steps in front of me.

"You are looking very tired," he says.

"You flatter."

"Tired of India? It's easy to dislike this country. Everyone wants something from you."

"And you? What are you selling?"

"It's not like that. I just thought maybe you would like to talk."

"Sure," I smile wryly, "Why not. Where are you from?"

"I am from Kashmir."

"I may be going there next week. Do you think it's safe for an American to travel alone there?"

"There could be problems. But there could be problems for foreigners in Delhi too."

"Anywhere really," I add.

"That's true. You know my philosophy is that there are crooks and terrorists everywhere. Assholes come in all colors," he says thoughtfully.

"And yet they all have that characteristic pucker. I'll have to remember that one for my blog."

"Your what? Why don't you come to my shop and we can continue talking over some chai."

"Not possible, I'm going home. Maybe next time, bhai." Once more I make out for the Green Guest House. A halogen street lamp gives gaudy illumination to a vast cloud of dust rising from the street and the various refuse deposited there. As I return my attention to the bag of chips, I recognize the clear line of transmission from the freshly laid cow pies to my salty snack. Assholes come in all colors, and chips in all flavors I muse. I dump the bag at the nose-end of a toppled dog with impossibly distended teats and she deigns only to sniff at them briefly before struggling to her feet to slink further into the shadows.

Postscript:

When I return to Delhi after my stint in Pakistan, I spot Irfan with regularity sans handcycle by the side of the road. Evidently he has found sitting in the dirt an effective way to enkindle more sympathy. The first couple of sightings he looks to me expectantly and I tap my wrist where there is no watch to indicate I have to keep moving. The third time I get held up by a snarl of traffic and he clutches at my pants. "Hi friend."

"What do you want? I am in a hurry," I lie.

"Just one minute," he says starting to spider walk away.

"I really don't have time," I lie for the second time while reluctantly following him. He stops in front of a cloth shop that has pushed all their stock of outrageously colored blankets to the front tables. Irfan unfurls a blanket and wraps it around his shoulders to demonstrate its warmth-giving property. I am not impressed, but I am cold and can only imagine how cold it would be on the street at night without a blanket. The calculus of the propriety of purchasing the blanket plays in my head. Others are probably in greater need of the blanket, especially children. Buying it will only encourage Irfan to continue begging and will forever cement our relationship in inequality. But it is cold and getting colder and I hate being cold, so I fish my wallet out of my backpack and count out the required money. Uncharacteristically I forego bargaining.

"Thank you," Irfan says. I nod glumly and mutely turn to make my way back to the Karlo Kastle Hotel. When I wake in the morning it is too cold to emerge from under the blankets. The power is out so there won't be any warm water for a shower. I shut my eyes and try to imagine Irfan wrapped tightly in his new blanket and derive some small pleasure (and warmth) from that.