Recollections of mineral collecting and dealing in India

At a paan-beedi stall that had escaped our attention the previous day, the bus was hailed to a stop. More passengers. They clambered over the chickens, the animals, and their fellow riders, to find whatever cramped perches could still be had. Two uniformed and mustachioed policemen prepared to board the bus, securely holding an unhappy-looking wretch handcuffed between them. In order to accommodate the trio, those riders occupying seats closest to the door were dislodged, and obliged thereafter to ride clinging precariously to the outside railing of the bus. The handcuffed miscreant alternated between angrily yelling at his captors, loudly protesting his innocence, and pleading with his fellow passengers to intercede on his behalf. The police constables coolly ignored him. Some of the passengers chuckled and threw back rude comments at the fellow. "Where are you taking him?" someone asked the cops.

"We're taking this criminal to jail, of course! Where else?" "Very good!" Murmurs of approval circulated among the occupants. Apparently, the captive was a known but unbeloved figure in the area. The two cops smugly savored the approbation.

Onward barreled the bus, till it was brought to a halt at the Irish bridge we had crossed on foot the day before. From bank to bank a swirling torrent drowned all signs of the sturdy stone ford we had previously observed; all signs, that is, except for the upper segments of a line of vertical 2-meter high poles intentionally implanted in cement to mark the upstream margin of the roadway during times of flood. Just a few meters down-current of the line of poles, a standing wave gave clear evidence that part of the submerged stone pavement had already washed away. No bus would be able to cross even after the water receded. And that, of itself, could take days. No alternate route existed to Tada, or even to far-off Madras.

The bus disgorged most of its passengers. They milled around helplessly, wondering what to do next. The handcuffed prisoner finally fell silent; a glimmer of hope seemed to lighten his expression.

On the far bank of the rampaging stream a bus traveling in the opposite direction to ours pulled to a halt. Its passengers too disembarked, then looked disconsolately at us across the rushing waters. A high-decibel interchange of yelled conversation engaged the groups on opposite banks. The verbal exchange seemed to fix the realization that neither bus could hope to ford the stream for a long time to come. A few of the bus riders appeared crestfallen, but most seemed stoic. Three college boys had no idea what to do. Only the two cops, furious at the turn of events, acted with deliberation. Apparently, they were determined not to give up on safely carting away the prize they had captured. Now they took up a conversation of shouts with the driver of the bus on the far side. After several minutes of bellowing, the policemen had made up their minds. They would cross the flooded stream on foot. The driver across the way agreed to wait for them before turning his bus back to Tada. It would be risky, they knew, but if there were others who were willing to literally add their weight to the crossing, it could be accomplished without too much peril. "Any takers?" one of the cops enquired in a Tamil expression. Three college boys, too raw and too stupid to know better, volunteered to join them.