Recollections of mineral collecting and dealing in India

"Where are you going? Where will you be sleeping?"

"I'll manage," he answered quietly. "I'm used to this." Then he disappeared into the darkness outside.

By now, we three college boys were shivering in our drenched attire. The downpour intensified. Stripping down to our undies, we wrung out our clothes and hung them on the lines in the forlorn hope that they might dry overnight. Virtually naked, we felt a lot warmer not wearing our dripping garb. Glumly, we gobbled down most of our remaining food by the flickering light of the watchman's lantern.

It would be a distressing night, for sure, lying almost nude on hard wooden surfaces. But at least we'd be dry, I thought, as long as we could dodge the trickles of water dribbling from the thatching. We cast lots for sleeping spots. I won. I chose the table; its width promised the least degree of discomfort. Sri Ram and Asif got the long benches. The flame of the lantern was turned down low. Then we stretched out to await the slow coming of daylight. "Ouch! Damn! What was that?"

"What was what? What are y- . . . . Hey! Bloody hell! I'm being attacked!"

"What's going on? Hey! Aaaaagh! Something stung me! Ouch! Ouch! Turn up the light, damn it! Quickly!"

The room flooded with light as the lantern was lifted to view the table and benches, just in time to catch glimpses of veritable armies of insects scurrying for cover underneath the wooden tops of the table and benches. Enormous bed bugs! Dozens and dozens of them, driven to a voracious frenzy by the proximity of fresh, healthy, college-boy flesh. Manna from heaven, after subsisting for months or years on nothing but shriveled watchman!

For an hour or two we attempted various ploys to keep the bed bugs at bay. None succeeded. We dared not permit any physical contact between our exposed skins and the wooden furniture. The only option left was to put on our shoes, squat on the floor with feet drawn in close under our bodies, bowed heads cradled in arms folded across our bent knees, and wait the miserable night through. All the while the rain gathered strength to become a steady, thunderous deluge, which left no dry spot larger than a dinner plate inside the hut.

Dawn broke. The rain ceased abruptly. Gorgeous arrays of clouds punctured by brilliant beams of light decorated the eastern sky. To the west, a vivid rainbow promised that our travails were behind us. We bid adieu and expressed our thanks to our host, who had reappeared magically from the jungle. We donned only our trousers and footwear as we embarked on our return journey, using our bare shoulders as drying racks for our still wet shirts. By the time we reached the road to Tada the sky was clear blue. The morning sun had done its job; our shirts were dry enough to wear again. I began, once more, to feel lucky. Promptly at 11:00 a.m. the bus showed up.

Under ordinary circumstances in the early 1950's, Indian peasants preferred to travel on foot, not least in order to save their sparse funds. But the previous night's rains had persuaded many to opt for the bus. The vehicle was already packed beyond imagining with rural folk, standing and sitting, male and female, adults and children, who good-naturedly squeezed tighter together in order to make space for Sri Ram, Asif, and me. Curious but friendly stares followed our entry, accompanied by a barrage of comments and questions. Sri Ram smoothly handled the queries about us, obvious strangers that we were. Besides the human beings, the bus accommodated four bamboo strip containers stuffed with a dozen or so chickens apiece, five uneasy bleating sheep on rope leashes, and a lone goat whose calm demeanor served to keep the sheep from becoming uncontrollable. With a roar from its engine and black clouds of exhaust belching from its rear, the bus lurched forward toward Tada. As is customary in rural South India, the passengers returned to their several loud conversations.