It was a hot day away from the cool riverside maze of the  Old City, where the sun’s rays never reach far enough into the warren of lanes to make it uncomfortably warm. If the Cantonment wasn’t already bad enough, with its exhaust clouds, absurd Hindi billboards, and honking autos, the heat put me in a mood. I had been in Varanasi, India, for six weeks, and was standing in a very long, very slow line at the Central Railway Station, trying to buy a ticket south.
Bored, I watched two British tourists in front of me, standing stooped under the weight of their giant backpacks. To pass time, I struck up a conversation.
The two had just arrived and were only staying for a few days before moving on. They were buying their tickets ahead of time, sensibly and just like the guidebook recommended. With their rosy cheeks and white hands fingering copies of “Lonely Planet” books, I knew that they would make the worst sort of marks for the predatory rickshaw drivers who ferried people to the Old City.
These rickshaw wallahs test the western sense of justice in every possible way, and are notorious in travel lore. Here is a sample of my first ride:
Me (politely): “I’d like to go to Goudalia crossing.”
Wallah: “Okay, very good (with an obsequious smile and waggle of the head). Sixty rupees (12 times the going price).”
Me (briskly): “No, way too much. Ten rupees.”
(Dramatic haggling ensues, the price eventually dropping down to 10 rupees. The price and the destination agreed on, we go.)
Wallah (ingratiatingly): “You have hotel? I know good one (nodding his head with a hopeful smile).”
Me: “Yeah, I have one, thanks. Hotel Shanti (a mistake, revealing that).”
Wallah (after a bout of insane driving right out of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride): “Okay, we're here.”
Me (skeptically): “Umm, this doesn't look like Goudalia on the map, and that sign says Hotel Shiva.”
Wallah: “Ahhh, yes sir, Hotel Shanti (gesturing at a dubious building, where he obviously receives commission). ”
Me: “No, but this isn't it (frustration growing, not at all sure of myself, but not trusting this guy). ”
Wallah: “Yes, yes, name just changes, acha? All good. Good hotel. First-class rooms. (With a grin and waggle). ”
(More one-sided argument. Disgusted, eventually I decide to pay him off and walk)
Wallah: “Okay, 50 rupees (holding out his hand). ”
Me (angrily): “Wait a second! We agreed on 10, and you didn't even take me where I wanted to go. Here! (handing him 10 rupees and stalking off). ”
 Wanting to spare these two the inevitable frustration, I offered to split a rickshaw with them to my hotel, which was cheap and had great views of the Ganges River. They accepted.
Well, apparently they had already engaged a driver, who was probably savoring the thought of his hotel commission as he waited out at the taxi stand, chewing pan and spitting great red splotches on the sidewalk.
When we emerged together from the building, the man sprinted over, eyeing me suspiciously. I told him, “Take us to Goudalia."
"No, you cannot ride. Only two," he said, shaking his head sadly.
"You have room for three, sir," I insisted, having ridden with three before.
Unfortunately, I pushed it and it got ugly. Bored and jostling, the other rickshaw wallahs encircled us.
The man loudly declared me a notorious hotel agent, bringing in tourists in exchange for my room. All of his colleagues nodded solemnly in agreement with this bit of gospel truth. Of course, this was a lie and it made me furious, only because I could see that the two Brits believed it. With uneasy smiles, they backed away as if from madmen, and let themselves be hurried into another auto-rickshaw. As I watched them go, I didn’t blame them. It was no business of theirs. But for me, this was a matter of honor now.
Heated words escalated into pushing. All I could see were the red pan-stained teeth in the man’s twisted mouth, feeling his hands tugging at my shirt while shouting and honking filled my ears.
Suddenly, a voice like God’s cut through the din and said: “Would you like to make a complaint, sir?” Everything stopped.
Turning around, I saw a police officer in a smart beret and crisp trousers, standing on the sidewalk, patiently looking at us and fingering his truncheon.
“Yes,” I said in a triumphant voice, looking maliciously at the rickshaw wallah.
“Follow me, please,” said the officer, who pushed the man toward the station, slapping him hard on the side of his head. We entered and went through a maze of dingy hallways before coming to a door with a plaque reading: “Superintendent.”
The superintendent, a pot-bellied man wearing sunglasses and green fatigues, stood up and welcomed me, motioning for me to sit down. The driver was herded into the corner, where he sat sullenly on the floor, not having been offered a chair. The officer whispered in the superintendent’s ear for a moment.
He turned to me and said, “You wish to make a complaint regarding this man?” He motioned disdainfully at the driver. “Correct?”
“Yes,” I nodded with eagerness, despite myself.
He nodded sagely, and said, “Tell me exactly what happened, and your statement will be taken down.”
So I embarked on my version while a secretary recorded it on carbon paper. When I came to certain points, the rickshaw wallah would begin to defend himself, as would be entirely natural for one party in a dispute. But when he opened his mouth to protest, a third officer would give him a cuff, delivering him back into sullen silence. Finally, my statement was finished. The man had no opportunity to tell his side of the story. In my righteous indignation, the injustice of it failed to strike me.
The rickshaw wallah was then given the opportunity to plead for forgiveness. He was pushed forward, clasping his hands in front of him, to ask for mercy. Looking into his face, I thought only of his red-stained lies. Averting my eyes, I said, “Nahi! Chelo!” (No! Go away!). The superintendent shrugged indifferently, and the man shuffled dejectedly back to his corner.
After reading my statement and affirming with my signature that it was correct, I waited while a third and fourth copy were made by hand, one of them for me. While this was being done, the superintendent and I drank chai and discussed the more pleasant aspects of visiting India. He told me a bit about himself, lazily leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, watching the slowly swishing ceiling fan. He concluded with a list of places I should visit and dismissed me politely, assuring me that the matter would be dealt with. As I left, I saw the rickshaw wallah being led out the back door, heavy chains about his wrists.
 India, with its chaos and crowds, noise and heat, dust and squalor, its beggars, lepers and wallahs, had gotten to me. I had finally tasted the petty sense of justice that I had been seeking for two months, but my triumph was short-lived.
I began to feel uneasy when I heard the story of hapless Pakistanis caught on the border and imprisoned for 20 years, merely because the Indian authorities couldn’t verify their addresses in Pakistan. Had I condemned this man, a man with a family, to a Kafkaesque bureaucratic purgatory?
Or had the police let him go as soon as he was out of the back door? This was the year the bubonic plague was raging in the north, and great measures were being taken to placate income-generating tourists.
Since I hoped it was the latter, I should have gone back and pleaded for the man’s release. But, as so often in life, my own selfish concerns diverted me from doing the right thing.
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