Postmarked Bombay

Two passenger trains ran daily, one going east, the other west. Several small towns hugged the line, about twenty-five miles apart. They were cotton markets I needed to visit by rail because they were not connected by a drivable road.

At 11:45 p.m. I began pacing the station platform. The westbound train, due at midnight, arrived at 2:30 a.m. My bearer, Chand, was there to see me off. Since this would be a one-day trip, I left him there, saying,"Who will look after Sahib?"

I boarded the train at 2:30 a.m. and got off at Purna, Thirty minutes later, a grumpy old stationmaster told me the feeder line to Basmathnagar would not leave at 7:00 a.m. as scheduled, never does. I squeezed into a wicker chair too small for a full-grown Texan, dog-tired. I hoped to sleep.

At 3:30 a.m."Salaam, Sahib,"rocketed around the small, dimly lit waiting room. I wiggled up, mad enough to fight. The voice couldn't be calling me; nobody knew I was there. Before I could utter one mean word, a little guy declared, "Witt, Sahib, I am your agent, Ram Chand."

It was my first meeting with Ram Chand. He came, he said, to pay his respects. I wanted to say I was fine without them but didn't. I sent him away happy because I promised to visit his office on my way back. I squeezed back into my wicker.

At 4:30 a.m. "Salaam, Sahib,"again rattled my groggy brain. I struggled to my feet, grumbling, gawky, blinking. Our company's cotton broker draped a flower garland around my neck and announced, "Sahib will take tea."

Not a question, a statement of fact. In the dim light from one naked, low-watt lightbulb, the teacups looked dirty and the tea, thick and unappetizing. I hesitated. I thought I could hear Guy Schilling's voice in my ear: "Don't eat or drink anything at native places in the interior."

The broker seemed puzzled. Was the young sahib refusing to take tea with him? I downed the tea in one gulp. Crisis averted. The broker downed his portion with lip-smacking gusto. I told myself I must learn to do that. His duty done and his respects paid, the broker departed. How did these people know I was here?

Chand later told me. Our Nanded agent had put his coolie on the train with me to alert the Purna people I would be passing through. Why? "It was his duty, Sahib."

At 7:00 a.m. I began pacing the Purna station platform. There was no activity around the train for Basmathnagar. When would it leave? "When it gets ready."

The train finally "got ready," and I arrived in Basmathnagar at 11:00 a.m. The agent and broker were on the station platform, two half-pints carrying flower garlands as if they were crown jewels. They couldn't reach high enough to hang them over my head. I took off my topee and bent almost double. I tried not to laugh but onlookers did!

"I am three hours late. What happened when the market opened this morning?"

"Market will not open until Sahib arrives. It is customary to delay opening, if necessary, when important person visits."

Important person? Me? Little did they know how far down I was on the company totem pole. This "Important Person" had much to learn about up-country India.

The cotton market was one room in a small, mud-walled, thatched-roof house. When I arrived, a gaggle of barefoot men was sitting on cushions on the floor. We went through Salaam again, without flowers. A chair was found for me and as I sat, the room became quiet, all eyes were on me. Visitors from headquarters must say a few words. I did, very few. Our agent translated my words into Hindi, using more than a bushel of words. God knows what he said.

Bargaining in Hindi began immediately; a noisy, hand-waving affair. When finished about an hour later, our broker informed me we had purchased the entire one hundred bales for sale that day.

"Is Sahib not overjoyed at our good fortune?"

"Of course, I am, but why did we have to paid the highest price of the year?"

"To show everybody"beamed the broker,"That my Sahib is a Raja Sahib!"

It was 2:00 p.m. when I arrived back in Purna. The train to Nanded was due at 4:00 p.m. Ram Chand was waiting for me, collecting on my promise to visit his office, one room in his small house. I sat on wide verandah on an overstuffed chair, upgraded to a throne by throwing a purple cloth over it. Two bullock carts, almost in touching distance, spread barnyard aroma. A dozen town bigwigs gathered to take refreshments with the young Bombay Sahib.

Two barefooted, bare-chested male servants brought large circular brass trays, heaped with mounds of fruit, nuts, and parched grain. Orange segments tempted me, but buzzing flies brought Guy to mind. I munched instead on peanuts, joining others in littering the floor with shells. I tested the tea and was surprised. I enjoyed this aromatic tea, from Darjeeling, I was told. I had several cups while talking cotton with Ram and English-speaking guests.

As train time approached, I lifted my teacup, saluted Ram, and managed a small, embarrassed burp. Ram snapped his fingers. The two servants reappeared, one carrying a heavy flower garland, the other, a small silver bowl on a wooden tray. Dipping his fingers in sweet oil from the bowl, Ram gently touched both of my cheeks and said, "May the goddess of mercy always smile on you." Then he draped the flowers around my neck.

WOW! What would small-town Texans say about that?

No more platform pacing; my train was on time, I arrived back in Nanded at 4:30 p.m. My business could have been finished in one hour; it had taken eighteen, navigating the vagaries of up-country train travel. I decided to get a motorcycle.