Stalin's Smile

We were happy to finally have a chance to return a favor. Stalin needed a ride to the airport. Communism is alive and well here and that really is his name. Believe me, we confirmed.

"Stalin, right or left here?" "Hey Stalin, anybody in that lane behind us?" Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but I used his name as much as possible nevertheless.

Stalin's eyes widened as cops waved us down. He's a bellboy at our Kolkata hotel and, in spite of his name, any interaction with authority deeply freaked him out. I thought he was going to bolt. We explained ourselves to the police and they happily waved us through with smiles and a thumbs-up. Stalin was all smiles himself until we were stopped again. This time, the authorities had clearly seen other teams and we didn't have to say a word-- big smiles and the gate to the forbidden highway opened.

Neither John nor I are really law and order guys, so this was just another day at the office for us. But Stalin's face was pure exhilaration as he cheered out loud.

Rules and bureaucracy soak everything here and in wildly inconsistent ways. Drive your rickshaw on the six-lane expressway? No problem. Tea at 6:30 a.m.? Absolutely not, sir. Tea is at 7:00, as stated on that sign. We were glad to give Stalin a little taste of the dark side.

After his ride with us, I like to think that Stalin rose the next morning to start a punk rock band with the first hit single "No Room For The Man In My Rickshaw."

The reality is probably that he just went back to work, but at least we gave him a really fun ride to the airport. And that's something I've never had.