As we sat fretting over out situation a group mothers and their children approached from the direction of the village and stared at us dumbfounded. One woman had a small command of English and to her I described our desire to get a ride into town and the bleak condition of the French guy. At first the best she could offer was a shrug and a smile since there was no sign of traffic in either direction. Then, almost as if on queue, the wheezing motorized rickshaw came puttering back in our direction. The women began shouting to the driver to stop and with reluctance he pulled over. A complex multicultural conversation ensued where I began to describe in wild gestures and half formed English phrases that a - we had to get to Calcutta, b - that the French guy was desperately ill, and c - that we had to catch a flight that evening from the airport. Our women friend translated what I had just said for the benefit of the driver. I gathered from her gestures and the tone of her voice that she embellished the story, perhaps suggesting that the French guy was closer to death than he really was. The driver countered in a stream of rapid fire Bengali from which I imagined he said, "I can't take these foreign yahoos. There is a bandh, and we must respect the bandh at all costs! And, in any case, if I get caught giving these guys a ride I'll have hell to pay." The women countered, in what I fantasized was heartfelt Bengali, "look at him, the boy is sick". In the end it was not the Frenchman's illness that got us a ride. The universal language of money dislodged whatever impasse remained and a deal was finally struck after producing a considerable number of rupee notes.

During the negotiations for the ride one of the selling points was that we needed to get to the airport. Once we were in the rear of the rickshaw I leaned forward and told him to take us to Howrah, one of the three tram stations in the heart of Calcutta. The driver was not pleased to hear me say this and abruptly stopped the rickshaw. It's true that I used the need to get to the airport as a false pretense for the ride. I continued my stream of lies, by suggesting "yes, the French couple wants to go to the airport, but we must get out bags first from the train station." I don't know how the driver figured out what I was saying but somehow the logic of my argument struck him as true and so the ride continued.

Gradually the rich Bengali countryside began to give way to small rows of shops, cement duplexes, and family compounds. The density and complexity of the neighborhood changed further. We passed a large movie house, a dosed wholesale market, apartments and shopping districts. It was difficult to tell if we had entered Calcutta or if this was some other town. A strange quiet stillness hung over the whole place. Not a single person could be seen on the street, the dogs were asleep, and. the stores were all closed. Perhaps most unnerving was the absence of pop music from movie soundtracks. In fact the only sound to be heard was the whine from the rickshaws motor.