Random Strangers with Sob Stories

When I was in the twelfth, I think, I had this short story by Saki, Dusk, in my English textbook. The protagonist is conned into giving money to stranger-with-a-sob-story. After I read this story, I have always been wary of these money-grabbing strangers with brilliant acting skills and a carefully crafted story.

Over the years, I have come across these people in almost every city - I remember this middle-aged man who came to me in Bombay last December claiming to be from Nepal. He said he'd lost his wallet with his passport (big wallet it must've been!), and didn't know what to do, and asked me for money to call his relatives in Nepal. Alas, little did he know that you don't need a passport to travel between India and Nepal - even a driving licence would do!

The domestic help at my cousin's house in Vasant Kunj asked my cousin once for a 1000 bucks. Apparently, she wanted to buy a car - a Honda City at that - and fell 1000 bucks short!

This man on Brigade Road asked me faltered in the first sentence itself, "Bhaisaab, hum Bihar se hain. Aapko Hindi aata hai?"

Then there is that one auto ride I'll never forget. This was one morning in my first year when I decided that I needed a bookrack in my room. Periamma, as always, had a spare one. Then, I was still a small-town-boy-in-big-city-who-only-travels-by-bus-irrespective-of-what-the-circumstances-are. So, my bookrack and I prepared ourselves for this journey from high-society Sadasivanagar to in-the-wilderness Nagarbhavi changing two buses on the way. The first leg of the journey was uneventful, barring some strange looks from conductor.

Then, at Majestic, everything went wrong - one leg of the bookrack decided that it had had enough of the journey, and settled itself in a dirty gutter from where I couldn't take it out and I boarded the wrong bus with the rest of my bookrack! When I realised that, I got off and decided enough was enough. I took an auto to law school - a princely sum of sixty rupees it would cost me - approximately what I spent every week in those glory days of eating only mess food. The autodriver was of the strangest variety. He had Greatest Sai Baba Hits (a cassette with famous Hindi songs with Sia Baba lyrics - famously parodied in Boys) playing in loud volume, which he refused to turn down - it was his morning prayer time, allegedly.

Autodrivers make for the most interesting conversation, and I never pass up an opportunity. If you can speak a smattering of Kannada, Bangalore autodrivers are more than willing to tell you their views on inflation, Virender Sehwag's flawed technique, Upendra's latest philosophy, and the elections in Punjab. They have simple solutions to every problem in the world, usually involving ridding Bangalore of North Indians and Tamilians! Couple of them have even reminded me of Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver, their disgust for the evils of urbanisation and a certain disconnect from life in general.

This one was unlike any I had ever met! He spoke in perfect English and told me that he was a B.A., used to work at a bank in the 80s and early 90s, and circumstances had forced him to do this job. His wife apparently had an affair with another man, and he now lived alone with his son and mother. Now, the mother was ill, and needed an operation. I remembered watching this plot in some movie. Apparently, the last time he needed money, he stole from the bank, and was fired for that. This time, he decided to ask me. I didn't want to tell him on his face that I thought he was a fraud, for I feared that however filmy his story might have seemed, he could be genuine. I didn't believe him at all, until he started weeping. Now, I have seen sob stories before, but this was too much for me to handle. When I got off at Nagarbhavi, I gave him all the money in my wallet - three hundred bucks. He said, "Sir, please tell me your name and class, and I'll return it to you in some days." I gave him the details.

When I related this incident to my senior, he laughed for a whole five minutes non-stop. I still believed that he was genuine. I wrote an email to my cousin. She also told me the same thing - he conned you. He must've been a really good actor! I have never felt like more of an idiot. Given all my worship for Saki and his wonderful writing, how did I fall for something like this? I vowed to never give anything to any stranger ever again, irrespective of how genuine he sounded.

Some one month later, there was some commotion at the Law School gate, and by the time I reached there, it was over. When I asked the guards what had happened, they told me that there was this auto driver who came looking for this boy whose name he had forgotten. Apparently, he had to return three hundred bucks to him. The guards didn't believe his story and asked him to leave!