Behind The Mask ~ NO LOSS, NO GAIN
During what was supposed
to be the final week of a trip in India, in January
1994, misfortune—or what might be considered
such—overtook me, in the following way:
I had just revisited the cave-monasteries
of Ajanta in Central India, and was on my way back
to Madras in the south. To reach that city, however,
meant a journey of 24 hours by train, and I was unwilling
to travel without a reservation, as Indian trains
are usually unpleasantly crowded. I bought a ticket
at Bhusawal junction, but was unable to get a reservation
for that evening’s train and had to settle for
one the next evening; this meant that I had to stay
overnight in Bhusawal. Inquiring about accommodation,
however, I was told I might get a place in the first-class
air-conditioned retiring-rooms of the station itself,
but when I went there, I was informed that there was
only one place left, and that I would have to share
a room with someone else. Well, since it was for only
one night, and the rate not excessive, I agreed to
do so. This was my first mistake; I should have sought
out a room for myself. But if we knew, in advance,
that we were about to make mistakes, we would not
make any; it’s always easy to be wise after
the event.
I was taken up to the room, but the other
occupant was out at the time. When he returned, we
introduced ourselves, and he seemed to be well-educated,
decent and friendly, and gave me one of his business-cards,
saying that he had traveled overseas on business,
and had even stayed in the famous Raffles Hotel in
Singapore. He said he had to meet a business-associate
the next morning, and would not be leaving until the
afternoon. Other than small-talk, however, we did
not have a lot to say to each other.
The next morning, I rose at my usual early
time and went into the bathroom, careful to take with
me the small bag containing my passport, camera and
Indian currency; my travelers’ checks were in
a waist-pouch, and my other bags were kept locked
beside my bed. Later, when I went out for breakfast,
he must have observed that I took my small bag with
me, and waited for an opportunity to get his hands
on it. This came later, when I went into the bathroom
to get some water and carelessly left my bag on my
bed. No sooner had the bathroom door closed behind
me on its spring-hinges than he jumped up, bolted
the door from the outside, and made off with my bag
and his own stuff, ripping out the phone before he
went. By the time my shouts and bangings had brought
someone running to let me out it was too late for
pursuit, of course, and I could do nothing but go
to the nearby police-station to make a report.
When I finally completed this rather-lengthy
and slow process, I asked where I might change money,
as all my Indian currency—enough, I had thought,
to last for my few remaining days in India—had
gone in my bag; I had not a single rupee left. One
plain-clothes policeman offered to drive me to a bank
on his scooter, which was very kind of him as it was
not part of his duty. The bank, however, would not
cash a travelers’ check for me, and told me
that I would have to go to the next town for this,
but I didn’t want to do so. The policeman then
dropped me back at the railway-station, but came running
after me and pressed 40 rupees into my hand, knowing
that I had no Indian money; then, without waiting
for me to get his name and address so that I might
send him back the money, he went off.
I then went over to the reservations-office
to report the loss of my ticket, and while there,
I met someone who was willing to change some money
for me, though at a very low rate. Then I was sent
back to the ticket-counter to get a replacement ticket,
for which I had to pay a 25% fee. I also went back
to the police-station, but the officer who had helped
me had already gone home, so I left a sum of money
for him with other officers, trusting them to pass
it to him.
All this time, I had not been feeling very
happy, of course, but I consoled myself with the thought
that whatever can be lost will be lost, sometime or
other. I also reminded myself that I was lucky, as
it was my eighth trip in India and this was the first
time anything like this had happened to me, while
I had heard of people going there for the first time
and losing everything except the clothes they were
wearing! It could have been much worse, I reasoned;
I could have lost everything, too, and even been physically
wounded or killed, instead of losing just one small
bag and its contents.
My train was five hours late, and I boarded
it for the long trip to Madras, hoping to find an
Australian Consulate where I might get a new passport.
Arriving there, however, I discovered that there was
none, and so had to return to Delhi. To save time,
I reluctantly paid US$170 for a plane-ticket, and
flew out the next day. In Delhi, I underwent the usual
hassles of finding a taxi and a hotel-room, but finally
triumphed, and the next morning, went to the Australian
High Commission where I was told a new passport could
not be issued that day, and that I should come back
for it the following day. I was greatly relieved to
hear this, plus being surprised at the friendliness
of the staff there, as I fully expected to have to
wait about a week for it.
The next day, when I went to get my new
passport, I met someone from Tasmania who was there
for exactly the same reason; his passport had been
stolen in Madras airport, just as he was about to
leave for Australia! With so much in common, therefore,
we decided to travel back to Madras by train together,
so we obtained tickets for that evening’s express,
at about $10, with sleeper reservations for the 36
hours’ trip south. Eventually, we arrived in
Madras, tired and dirty from the journey, and found
a hotel before setting about getting new Indian visas
in our new passports, without which we would not have
been allowed to leave the country.
Several days later, new visa in new passport,
I boarded a flight back to Malaysia, and this was
perhaps the happiest part of my trip in India; it
was so good to get back to friendly faces in Malaysia!
This was not the end of the stolen-stuff
saga however; there was a sequel to it: Three months
later, while I was still in Malaysia, I received a
letter from my sister in Adelaide saying that a big
envelope—containing my old passport, address-book
and some other papers—had arrived for me from
the Aussie High Comm in Delhi. It had received these
things from the police-station in Bhusawal; how the
police-station had got them, I do not know, but I
presume the thief had felt some remorse at stealing
my stuff and somehow handed them in to the police,
because I’m pretty sure that if he had just
discarded them at the roadside or somewhere, they
would never all have come back to me like that. I
was very happy, therefore, because although the old
passport had been cancelled, and I had back-up copies
of most of the addresses in my address-book anyway,
it indicated to me that the thief had learned something
from it all; had he not stolen my stuff, perhaps he
wouldn’t have learned what I think he did. It
made my loss appear quite differently, and I am, after
all, in the business of trying to help others understand
things like this, am I not? Can I expect any success
without any outlay or expenditure? And this is also
probably not the end of the matter; there might be
further developments yet. |