Mumbai, India: Chowpatty Beach, along which runs Marine Drive.A mumbai pickpocket at work and arrested.
Our law enforcement friends in Mumbai do some creative police work. Methods that would never be tolerated in the U.S.
Okay, so they knew that a gang of pickpockets was targeting people on Marine Drive, the famous beach road. At 3 a.m. a week ago Thursday, a uniformed cop stood watching with a birds-eye view from a pedestrian overpass. Constable Bhaidas Chavana, the police officer, had his eye on a 16-year-old boy sitting beside a sleeping man.
Up on the overpass, Constable Chavan stopped a passerby who happened to be a photographer on a night assignment. Then he stopped a juvenile, also walking along. He enlisted the two civilians to run down to the beach road and nab the criminal! He ordered them to do it! One of them a child, the other presumably carrying expensive photography equipment! Can you imagine?
This must not be odd in Mumbai because the two citizens obeyed, trotting down to the beach as they were directed to, and grabbing the pickpocket. In the commotion, the victim woke up and confirmed that 500 rupees were gone. The pickpocket was searched—by the enlisted civilians—but they found no cash on him.
The Mumbai pickpocket
By then the constable arrived and his expertise proved itself. He turned up the thief’s shirt collar, felt for an opened seam, and from it withdrew the victim’s 500 rupees. Then he found a razor blade hidden in a slit seam of the pickpocket’s shirt cuff.
The pickpocket admitted that he’d dipped into the pockets of 16 other people in the area that night. Where then, was the rest of his loot? He also admitted to being a drug user. Perhaps he purchased drugs with the cash he stole earlier—weed was found in his pants pocket. Or he may have paid off a boss or a debt, or simply stashed his loot for safekeeping.
“Horn OK Please,” in one form or another, is written prominently on the back of almost every truck—large or small—in Mumbai. The signs intrigued me. Why is the horn okay? What’s the point of the invitation? Mumbai is a constant cacophony of honking without additional encouragement—or maybe because of it.
Indian truckChicken truckFree mortuary van in Chennai, India
What I learned, finally, after years of silent, befuddled amusement, is that “horn ok please” actually means “please do not use your horn.”
You know: yes means no.
Even the chicken truck says “Horn OK Please.” Only the free mortuary van lacks the sign, due to its protruding casket.
A small fraction of the flower market behind Dadar train station in Mumbai.
What’s in all the brilliant-colored baskets? Spice? Dye? After witnessing the most amazing train-boarding process ever, we descended from the “flyover footpath” and found ourselves behind the Dadar train station. As we cautiously came down the dilapidated stairs, we saw a vast, chaotic marketplace bustling in all directions and under the highway overpass.
It was a huge flower market with endless baskets containing every color, and shifting fragrances of marigold, rose, mint, carnation, jasmine, lilies-of-the-valley, something like lilac, and more. In places it just smelled very green. A few steps away the scent of sewage rose to overpower the flowers. Everything was overpowering: the noise, the smells, the colors, the commotion, the press of the crowd. Someone accidentally kicked my toe and made it bleed. I looked down at my dusty foot, a thin buffalo skin away from the filthy ground, and wondered what germs might find their way into the wound. The crowd swept me forward.
I sent home a few photos and got back questions that surprised me: “Who has the money to buy flowers? I can hardly spend the money to buy cut flowers. Do they just put them in vases in their homes? If it’s just for the wealthy, would it be their help going to make the purchases?”
The questions made me realize how much I take for granted. Because I’ve been to India so many times, and read so many books about and taking place in India, I forget that much of what I’ve learned isn’t common knowledge. Cow manure patties are used as fuel; betelnut is chewed with lime; the backs of all trucks say “Horn OK Please;” children call strangers “auntie” and “uncle;” and flowers are offerings to the gods. Even a man with only ten limes to sell will have three fresh flower heads on the corner of his spread-out rag, as an offering.
I’ve been fascinated by India since the late 70s, when I had daily lunches at a tiny Indian joint in Sunnyvale. That led to my study of Indian cooking and reading Indian cookbooks padded with details of regional family life in India. I’ve since read so many books about the country, both fiction and non-fiction, that I forget I might be a little more familiar with some of the country’s peculiar customs.
An alter at the hotel front desk.On the lobby floor.Over the hotel’s front entrance.In taxis.At the front of cars and trucks.Flowers strung like living chandeliers.
So to answer those excellent questions: everybody buys flowers, rich and poor! Most of the flowers at the market are just the stemless heads. They’re strung in long or short strands in different combinations and offered to the god of choice. Every business, from the biggest bank to the humble man with only a box-top of moldy oranges to sell, displays a flower offering for luck. It may be an elaborate living chandelier of multicolored blossoms strung fresh and fragrant, or a single wilting marigold head. Scrutinize any truck or taxi and you’ll find a string of three fresh carnation or marigold heads and a couple of chili peppers swinging from the front bumper. The police car we rode in so many times this trip had on its dashboard a tiny altar to Ganesha draped with a string of orange flowers.
There’s often fruit, too. An orange, some sliced coconut, a few pomegranate seeds, whatever. So most of the flowers in the flower market are just the blossoms, ready for stringing. Workers sit on the ground everywhere stringing and selling pretty strands.
Our grubby hotel has a long strand over the entrance, rose petals on the lobby floor around candles, a little altar on the front desk, and a small heap of flowers on a front entry step.
Out the window of our Mumbai hotel room, across the street: a beautiful building of apartments, or maybe it’s another hotel. On the roof were two lounge chairs backed right up to the ledgeless edge. Who could sit in them? Lean back too far and it’s six stories down!
Professional beggars who understand the power of eye contact.
I’m a sucker for adorable beggar children on the streets of Mumbai. It’s impossible to look away, not reach for a coin. Now that I understand that so many poor farmers from faraway villages flock to the big city in desperation after their crops fail, that they can’t find work, have families to feed and debts to pay, my heart breaks for adult beggars, too.
But begging is also an industry; one that can sometimes net a better living than many honest jobs—hard labor earning barely enough money for food. A Mumbai local explained that these professional beggars know exactly where to hang out for the biggest return. While the locals may offer a rupee, tourists will easily hand over a 100 rupee note. Though only worth about two U.S. dollars, it’s a windfall to the panhandler. This sort of begging is so lucrative, my friend told me, that it for some it is a career. He described seeing beggars don shabby costumes, muss their hair, and dirty their faces before going to work.
And there are begging scams, too, like the mothers-with-babies (rented) who beg for milk powder, lead you to a nearby shop where you buy milk at an inflated price, and when you leave she returns the milk to the shop and splits the money with the shopkeeper.
Makes a person skeptical, even suspicious. And confused, because Mumbai has severe poverty, destitution, despair, and wretchedness. Heartstrings tugged, or legs pulled?
Beggars can be compelling. I fell for this family, a mother and her three boys, at Mumbai’s Dadar train station, in a chaotic crossroads like a Third World Times Square, an area far from any tourist zone.
The woman made a continuous loud honking noise by rubbing a stick on one side of a drum she carried hanging from her neck, and beating it on the other side. Meanwhile, her gorgeous painted boys turned their enormous eyes up to me. The boys had rope whips slung on their shoulders, wore bright skirts and anklets of bells. I was transfixed; couldn’t be bothered with a camera—I fumbled for coins. Bob, as always, had a video running.
Why the whips? Why the awful racket scraped on the drum? What’s on the woman’s head?
The heavy load on her head causes perfect posture and slow, elegant movements.
These are the Potraj people, seldom seen nowadays and said to be fast-vanishing. They are nomads who represent the goddess Kadak Lakshmi, or Mariai. When the Potraj are heard in the neighborhood, superstitious and religious women, of which there are many, run out and give alms. What is frightening about the ritual performed by the Potraj is the fierce self-flagellation practiced during trance-like dances to the “music” produced by the woman with the drum. A wonderful description of a child petrified by the mysterious Potraj is told by that child grown up. He called his nemesis the “boogoo-boogoo man,” and although he had nightmares about the Potraj as if he were a bogeyman, he refers to the sound of the scraping of the drum: boogoo-boogoo-boogoo-boogoo.
Watch the video if you dare. The sound may haunt you.
The male beats himself—hard—while his wife or mother stands by like a one-man-band and takes offerings. She balances a heavy wooden altar on her head, in which sits a statue of her goddess. Children begin as trainees at a painfully young age, and have their own little whips.
Disappearing into the crowd, the woman takes one last look at us.
I saw one of these Potraj in Chennai a few months ago. He was on a tea break. I didn’t notice if a woman was with him. I had no idea what he did, either. His colorful costume was arresting, and the long yellow rope whip slung over his shoulder fascinated me.
Two Mumbai pickpockets handcuffed together and roped to a cop.
All these Mumbai stories of trains, crowds, swamis, the slum called Dharavi, and promises of more stories… What you’re really wondering is: did the Thiefhunters find any pickpockets in Mumbai?
The Thiefhunters did, and lets not even count the two boys found handcuffed together at Kurla train station, roped to an undercover policeman. We rode the train with them where they had to sit on the floor, like dogs on a leash.
Bob and I spent days on trains so crowded we couldn’t move, and joined pushing-shoving boarding mobs that were a pickpocket heaven. With opportunities like those, we thought we’d find plenty of thieves.
The pickpocket shows his method, which is classic: he uses one hand to raise the wallet from outside the pocket.
We road buses all over the city, which turned out to be a fascinating way to see Mumbai off the tourist track. At stops along the way, we hopped off and onto buses that barely paused for passengers. Where large groups waited to board, the rush was sudden and desperate—perfect for pickpockets. They should be able to do their work without boarding at all, putting instant miles between themselves and their victims. At a bus stop on the edge of a large slum, we spotted a pair that did board. The ticket-taker noticed them too, and pushed them off at the next stop.
Interestingly, every bus we rode carried a human ticket man who checked and sold tickets. Whereas on trains, we saw no controls whatsoever.
At end-of-the-line bus stations, huge orderly crowds lined up in a metal cattle mill for each route. Buses came at short intervals, again barely stopping. Passengers surged on while a uniformed people-manager tried to keep order. These men too watched for pickpockets, and told us that most thieves stalked bus passengers on the two monthly paydays. Those are only the pickpockets who get caught, I say.
He’s got the wallet. Look at those thumbnails—polished by the inside of many pockets?
From the excellent, new, non-fiction book I just read, Behind the Beautiful Forevers, I gather that beating is a common enterprise in Mumbai. Among the book’s stressed-out, almost-zero-income community members, everyone partakes: parents beat children, brothers beat sisters, and kids beat each other up regularly. In the book, police are notoriously brutal. When we interviewed Mumbai pickpocket Rahul some years ago, he’d been beaten to a pulp by train passengers who’d caught him in the act. This, we are told over and over, is the way it works in Mumbai. A deterrent, possibly.
And when our friend Paul McFarland was mugged for his wallet, the wallet, his ID, and credit cards were all returned some 15 minutes later, with only the cash missing. Why? Karma.
The pickpocket we spoke with this visit was from Andhra Pradesh, an Indian state southeast of Maharashtra (where Mumbai is). He specializes in highway robberies, getting a driver to pull over whereupon he steals their stuff. But the smooth pickpocket moves he showed us betrayed his real job skills.
We promised not to photograph his face, but I will say this: although he was of average height, weight, and appearance, he was the type who would stand out in a crowd as suspicious. Perhaps it was his demeanor.
The pickpocket raises his leg and presses his knee into his victim’s leg.
Our translator spoke English and Marathi. Our barefoot pickpocket spoke something else, so our conversation was rough. The routine problem and frustration with impromptu interviews with thieves—not everyone is willing to get involved with criminals.
The thief described himself as a married Muslim with a wife and five children living in the next-door state. In the time-honored tradition, he learned pickpocketing from his father. When he demonstrated his technique, he couldn’t help using a specific move with his leg, in which he raised it to press his knee into the back of his victim’s leg. One indicator common to career pickpockets that we notice over and over is that their particular style is engrained and they can’t change it, even for a demonstration. His fluid motions and the confidence with which he showed them telegraphed that he was very practiced. We couldn’t figure out whether he currently practices both pickpocketing and highway robbery, or if he’d shifted from one to the other.
Bob and I have spent a lot of time thiefhunting in Mumbai, and our conclusion remains: although pickpocketing is not unheard of, a visitor is not very likely to be a victim. That doesn’t mean one shouldn’t practice safe-stowing and down-dressing—but I assume that readers of this blog already know that.
The train to the slum wasn’t crowded, due to the hour and our direction of travel. Although there were plenty of seats, the swami made a beeline for us and planted himself next to Bob so that we sat three-in-a-row.
Our first impressions: he’s smiley, charming, has near-perfect English and a headband. Why were we the subject of his intense curiosity? He started asking questions, and when we asked him questions, his answers were very long. He’s a conman, we thought. Let’s see what his game is.
Our second impressions: He’s wearing at least five shirts and a heavy jacket (it’s 90°). His headband is actually hospital gauze and it’s stained yellow in back. He’s carrying belongings in a Kellogg’s cereal box. Is he a madman or a nutcase? Delusional, or suffering a concussion? Has he just had an accident or an operation? I can see a bit of shaved head above the gauze.
“I can guess your age plus minus one year,” he announced. Aha—he’s a circus performer! Or is this just one of the functions swamis perform? He was a little short on Bob’s age, but Bob said he’d have been right if it weren’t for the haircolor. I can’t guess the swami’s age at all.
As more and more men gathered around our conversation, I tried to catch an eye; none gave me a smile or an ironic grin.
Observing this eccentric conversation, a solemn audience formed around us. What do the ordinary Indians recognize that we do not? Is he a well-known character? Infamous? Is he sending out some cultural signals we’re just not getting? No one smiled. No one winked.
“Where do you alight?” Mahim Junction, we said. He is traveling to the end of the line. We have four or five more stops together.
Confident and commanding with a sweetness about him; we are confounded as to his motives.
He leaned in to us though he was already thigh-to-thigh, with endless important things to tell us. Most urgent was that he is our host in India, and next time we visit we need only phone his mobile on arrival and we will be his guests. He’s the founder and CEO of a huge, multinational entertainment company, makes documentary films, he said, and owns seven bungalows in Goa. We have to visit him in Goa. We have to stay with him there.
“How often are you in Goa?” Bob asked.
“Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Mondays I am back in Mumbai.”
I raised my camera with a questioning face.
“Wait, wait, wait, your light is not sufficient!” the swami scolded. Maybe he is a filmmaker.
He insisted on giving us his contact information and demanded paper from Bob. Bob unfolded a page from his pocket and began to tear off a corner.
The swami writes out his contact information, covering both sides of the sheet of paper in small cursive.
“No! Don’t tear it. Give it to me!” The swami grabbed it, smoothed it onto his Kellogg’s box, and began writing in cursive with his own pencil. He was quiet and concentrated for long stretches. Each time he raised his head to speak, Bob reached for the paper, presuming he was finished writing. Bob’s paper had important notes for the day on it.
“I’m not finished!” the swami whined, and bent over the paper each time. He’d already completely filled the front and back, his handwriting becoming smaller and filling corners.
Dharavi slum, as seen from a speeding train.
The train approached Mahim Junction along the perimeter of the slum Dharavi, our destination. I filmed the edge of the slum from the speeding train window: slow-moving people and colorful, skewed huts among a of confetti of beaten trash. Bob reached for his notepaper once more.
“I’m not finished. Do you want incomplete things or full things? Don’t worry, I am getting down with you at Mahim Station. I am busy, but I have ample time for a visitor. I want you to be comfortable in India!” He finished with a beatific smile.
The swami writes.
The swami followed us off the train, clearly intending to stick with us (or manipulate us somehow?). Suddenly, he was leading us. Attempting a graceful separation and needing that piece of paper, we trailed him to a bench on the platform where he sat down. He began reading aloud every word he’d written on the paper, front and back. A new audience encircled us, men who were not ashamed to show their interest, leaning in and cocking their heads to read the notes. The swami read on, unaffected. He read his name, his long important titles, his Mumbai address and phone numbers, his Goa home address, his office address, his mobile phone, and several email addresses. His Facebook address, and a description of his Facebook profile picture (a white lion). And still he was not ready to let us go.
Bob took the paper and thanked the swami, who rose from the bench as we backed away. Politely but forcefully, we extricated ourselves. We meant to phone some of the numbers the following day but we didn’t. We’re not sure, but we’re pegging him a harmless nutcase. And if not the CEO of a multinational entertainment company, at least an entertainment himself.
UPDATE 5/7/12: The swami does have a facebook page with the white lion profile pic he wrote of. All that’s on it though is a photo of him with a woman and two young boys. I could easily jump to the conclusion that they are his family. “About” himself, he says “I AM A HUMAN BEAGIN & SPEAK LANGAUGE OPF HUMANITY.” He’s in an “open relationship” and “interested in men and women,” but I can imagine him interpreting these labels in the broadest, loosest terms. But who am I to say? Probably, he’s the CEO of a multinational entertainment company.—B
You saw Slumdog Millionaire, right? It was filmed in Dharavi, one of the world’s largest, densest slums. Bob and I spent half a day in this Mumbai slum, walking around with a couple of residents, Tauseef and Shanu, who showed off selected areas of the slum with a certain pride.
Anyone who’s visited Mumbai has driven past the slums. Awestruck and saddened by the unspeakable destitution, the flimsiness of building materials used, the population density, the proximity to lavish wealth, the naked children running in traffic, the sheer vastness, the visitor stares, horrified. Now that Mumbai’s airport has successfully banished them, the beggars come into view later; they are where the tourists go. Beautiful, tiny women with delicate features, red bindi, and elegant saris, they carry their infants and ask for money for milk powder. Or they are small, adorable children, half naked. Or maimed men. Strong impressions, for sure.
Dharavi—the biggest Mumbai slum
These images of the Mumbai slum are so renowned, and so off-putting to some, that many people say flatly “That’s one place I don’t want to visit. I don’t want to see the poverty.” Those ostriches will miss extraordinary and unforgettable scenes of lives lived in the open, from the gut-wrenching to the joyous, the heart-rending to the beautiful, the stereotypical to the eye-opening.
Dharavi from Mahim Junction overpass
In Dharavi, one million people live in about a square mile. Bob and I were accompanied by two college student residents who were born and raised there. They led us through narrow, muddy alleys humming with activity, where we had to watch our footing, dodge men, women, and children with gigantic loads on their heads, avoid refrigerator-sized sacks of stuff lined against walls, mud puddles, and barely-covered holes in the ground.
The biggest business in Dharavi is trash recycling, exactly as in the book I’m reading, Behind the Beautiful Forevers. The trash that is sorted is not what we Westerners know as recyclables; value is found in the smallest, most insignificant things, which are heaped into piles in small, dark, brick rooms and in sacks and stacks in the alleyways. I saw four men sitting in the dirt untangling a nest of wires, the copper and aluminum from which would be stripped out. Oil drums were being scraped clean, their painted linings burned out. Cardboard was cut into new boxes; plastic cleaned, ground, melted, extruded into spaghetti and chopped into pellets; electronics taken apart; toys reconstructed; and bottles, bottles, bottles…
We visited a bakery, where a hundred infant-sized lumps of yellow dough were lined up to rise on the floor. A boy cradled them against his stomach one by one, carrying them to a shelf where men rolled them into thin sheets, folded, rerolled, and folded; then they were sliced, baked into crispness, and packaged. I ate one there, to the delight of the workers: a “puff,” they call it, a delicious flaky pastry. Yes, there were flies everywhere. Yes, men walked across the floor the dough rose upon. Yes, the boy’s undershirt was sweaty. No, I did not get sick.
A one-room batik factory was most fascinating. Fabric was laid on mounds of perfectly-smooth packed sand where men stood like machines, dipping a wooden block in hot wax then stamping it precisely in position to make a continuous pattern, swiveling, dipping, stamping. The fabric is dyed three times for ultimate brilliance.
A Dharavi laundryworks?
We entered unlit workshops (sweatshops?) where men and women barely looked up from their jobs except to return our greetings: a black-soap mill; a pottery shop; a wood-carvery; a room with long rows of computerized embroidery machines. We climbed a rickety ladder to see silk chiffon stretched on giant wooden frames being hand embroidered with sequins. Up another crude ladder and we were on the roof: dusty, gray corrugated metal as far as the eye could see. We saw leather tanneries and proudly-displayed belts, wallets, and purses, all plastic-wrapped for export. Who knew such incredible industry occurred inside a Mumbai slum? Dharavi is an economic hub with a billion-dollar annual production.
From a Dharavi rooftop
The wide, litter-strewn main street was itself a thriving market lined with vegetable, spice, and legume sellers, cooked food stalls, barbers, delivery trucks and carts, motorcycles, and people on cellphones. We peeked into a cinema—men allowed only—with no chairs, where tickets cost 20 rupees, forty US cents.
Our sense was of continuous productivity, ingenuity, and ability to squeeze a tiny profit out of almost nothing. The mood was somber. We didn’t get the spontaneous greetings we received everywhere outside of the slum. Rarely did someone in Dharavi volunteer a hello or even a smile, but they never hesitated to return ours. We did not sense hostility, and certainly not danger. We noticed a few children working, but most were supposed to be in school, of which Dharavi has many. We heard very little music, but saw a few TVs on, and there were many satellites on the roofs. We were told that as well as TVs, some residents even have washing machines.
The Mahim Junction train station, with Dharavi behind
Though that was hard to believe, based on the residential area we walked through. Between buildings were mazes of narrow tunnels—not more than shoulder-width—with low ceilings, dangling wires, and wet ground made of rows of cement manhole covers. The tunnels were pitch dark and seemed to go in every direction. We got glimpses into tiny rooms which spilled a little light into the tunnels, smelled cooking here and there, heard children playing and wailing, adults talking, and the occasional TV. There were steep ladders leading to upper levels. It was otherworldly.
We came out of the dark and into a litter-filled schoolyard, where small kids played on the edge of the Mithi river, basically a cement-lined sluggish stream of sewage. Bob stood over some kids playing with a marble or something—they didn’t even look up at him. The men’s and women’s public toilets were there. Free for residents, who are expected to keep them spotless.
Bob and I had other obligations in Mumbai and had to leave Dharavi before we’d seen enough. I’m sure that in such a huge community there are celebrations, musical gatherings, sports competitions, and scenes of simple happiness. Although we didn’t get to see these, I have no doubt that they exist, despite the hard work and poor conditions that are so obvious.
Tauseef and Shanu
Except for our rooftop vantage point, we were discouraged from taking photos “to protect the residents.” Imagine the images I could have posted! Instead, I can only encourage you to visit Dharavi yourselves. Tauseef is co-owner of another Mumbai slum industry: Be The Local Tours & Travel. Owned and run by college students, the company’s mission statement is “With the help of students of Dharavi Be The Local is trying to dispel the negative image of Dharavi. By participating in the tour with Be The Local, you are helping the students of Dharavi.”
I’ve written here about the Mumbai slum called Dharavi, where the city’s poorest live. Many residents are migrants from India’s rural villages, seeking employment. This is by no means a story of Mumbai; just a subset of it, albeit a large one. More on Mumbai to come.
We bought second-class train tickets (for our thiefhunting) and rode the most crowded Mumbai trains ever. No—you can’t imagine how crowded. Speeding into the stations, people jump off before the trains even slow down. But more amazingly, they leap on, right through the mobs waiting at the doors, before the trains stop.
I panicked the first time I experienced this, standing among the masses at the open door ready to get off. Like salmon swimming upstream, men lept on—like iron filings attracted to a magnet, against gravity. And once the train stopped, it was too late. Everyone else had hopped off and I was buffeted and spun in the doorway by men desperate to board. Only uncharacteristic aggression got me off before the train pulled out again.
Mumbai trains are mind-blowing
The behavior of Mumbai train commuters is a consequence of the efficient trains which stop very briefly at the stations; huge, huge mobs pack the platforms, and the men hope to get a seat for their long commutes. The benches in second class hold three men each, but four squeeze onto each. They alternate leaning back. Two more commuters stand between facing benches among the many knees. Everyone seems to permit and accept the squeezing. There is no “personal space.”
I’ve spoken only of men because most women and children ride in the ladies’ cars. In fact, I didn’t see a single other woman in the many second-class cars I rode all week. I was told though that the women are also aggressive about boarding during peak commute times. They can’t match the men, I’m sure.
Dadar Station is one of Mumbai’s busiest, but as it’s totally off the tourist track, you will likely never experience the huge madhouse that it is. Crossing over the rickety pedestrian “flyway” over the tracks and platform, we happened to see the awful scrum of getting-on-versus-getting-off from directly above. We were awestruck, and stayed to film the next train. Have a look:
We meandered through the enormous flower market in the streets and underpasses around Dadar Station. It was evening commute time when we were ready to go back to our hotel in Colaba. Bob and I stood on the platform in the middle of the pushing-fighting-desperate-madness. Bob filmed the scene while being knocked around like a punching bag. In the relative calm between two Mumbai trains a man next to us found the shoes he’d been pushed out of. “I can’t do this,” I said as we let a couple more trains come and go. Bob said “come on,” and grabbed my hand. Then we were in the middle, trying to board through a flood of debarking passengers, then pushed from behind with nowhere to go in front and the train about to move whether people were on, half on, hanging on, or whatever.
With a firm grip on the patient’s big toe, the hospital orderly entered the police inspector’s office. He carried the full weight of the patient’s plastered leg, which extended from the wheelchair without any other support. As he was pushed from behind and pulled by the toe, the patient hunched awkwardly in the rusty iron wheelchair. A male nurse had the ancient chair tipped precariously back, which thrust the broken leg to a painful height.
As he was wheeled in, the patient gripped the armrest of the chair with one hand and clutched his broken ribs with the other. A procession of plainclothes police and hospital staff followed. The patient was a pickpocket, brutally beaten by his most recent victim.
Mumbai Police Inspector Ashok Desai had not required much prodding to produce a pickpocket. He sat behind the desk in his lilac-colored office at Victoria Terminus and chatted amiably with us, shoes and socks off, cap off, smooth bald head reflecting the slow revolutions of a ceiling fan. Curiously eager to cooperate, he buzzed his peon and ordered him in Hindi when we asked to interview a thief. Shortly thereafter, his office doors were thrown open and the broken criminal wheeled in.
“Now let me explain something,” Bob said, leaning forward. “If he lies to me, I will know. I want only the truth.”
Without waiting for translation, the pickpocket replied in Hindi. “I speak only the truth to you,” he said, Inspector Desai translating. “I swear to you.” He raised his open right hand and placed it stiffly against his nose and forehead, thumbtip to nosetip, like a vertical salute.
Bob Arno shows pickpocket video to VT Police
Before the battered thief was brought in, the Inspector wanted to be certain that he wouldn’t be glorified in the press, nor made fun of by us. The man had received the beating he deserved, Desai said. His huge curled mustache held the shadow of a smile. While we waited, he dictated a memo to an assistant and sent another running for masala chai, spiced milky tea. Pigeon feathers swirled on the floor in a mini whirlwind.
Rahul was wheeled in and parked beside Bob. A posse of police and medical staff stood behind his rusty throne like male ladies-in-waiting. After promising truth, Rahul looked back and forth between Bob and the Inspector with alert eyes, and answered without hesitation.
He steals only on trains at the passengers’ moments of boarding or alighting, he explained. Never on buses. His only victims are wealthy businessmen, easily identifiable by the size of their bellies and grooming of their mustaches. He tapped his own thin mustache and sunken belly, indicating the local signifiers of affluence. All the police recognize Rahul and his gang. Therefore, they usually commit their thefts a station or two away from Central Station. He was caught this time because he’d been drinking a little and his reflexes were slow. He was sloppy. It was a bad mistake. He pressed his broken ribs and grimaced.
Rahul works with a sliver of razor blade, which he hides in his mouth between cheek and lower gum. Using a broken match stick, he demonstrated how quickly he can manipulate the blade. With it, he slices open the satchels of affluent businessmen on trains while a partner holds a newspaper or canvas bag at the chest or neck of the victim, preventing his seeing.
“Show me,” Bob said, coming around Rahul and squatting beside him. Rahul was handed a newspaper and then demonstrated how quickly he could open a bag beneath the shield of the paper.
This is done while boarding or exiting trains so crowded that people can barely turn their heads, Rahul and the Inspector explained.
“Do you ever cut pockets with the blade?” Bob asked.
“No, only bags. But I know others who cut pockets. Two brothers, they always work together.”
“I want to talk to them. Where can I find them?” Desai asked.
“I don’t know,” Rahul said. He seemed afraid for a moment.
“Last question,” Bob said. “What will you do when you’re fifty?”
A Mumbai taxi
“I have a taxi medallion and badge. If I get the chance, I would like to ply the taxi on the road.” He paused. “But I do not think I will get the chance.”
It’s possible that Rahul works under an Indian mafia. Neither he nor the inspector suggested this, but other Indians who analyzed portions of this interview on video thought it was likely.
“Where there is big money there is mafia,” an Indian working in the security business told me. “Your pickpocket, he was afraid to talk about other thieves he knows. He didn’t want to tell the police inspector. And as to driving a taxi, probably the mafia will never let him quit the steal business. Your pickpocket will continue his work on the trains, I believe.”
