Theatre.

The great Indian summer rush had begun.

Each year, in early summer, the proletarian backbone of the great Indian metropolis of Bombay bestirs itself , and starts its annual migration to the villages that dot peninsular and river valley India.With a little bit of money frugally saved throughout the year in his pockets, and a great deal of hope in his hearts the common man sallies forth to renew his ties with his kinsmen. There is the coming sowing season to be financed, there are marriages to attend and elderly relatives to be reassured, there is that patch of land to inspect and hopefully, buy. So they all get together, taxi-drivers and mill-hands ,watchmen and pedlars, cooks and milkmen to make this journey across the lap of Mother India. Since this is family business they are accompanied by their own : coy brides and sturdy matrons, unruly children and babes-in-arms, with a sprinkling of elderly relatives thrown in.And what way for them to go other than to buy a ticket to ride on the Great Indian Railways?

So it was that on a May evening many years ago that I found myself in an unreserved second class compartment of the Calcutta Mail at Victoria Terminus(VT) station in Bombay, packed mainly with men, a few women, half a dozen children, and luggage. What a variety of luggage there was! Canvas hold-alls with leather trimmings, brightly striped cotton durries stuffed with bedding tied up with string, steel boxes of all shapes and sizes, jute carry-bags, one or two earthen pitchers full of water, stored under the seats, in the aisles, and on the overhead luggage racks that doubled as sleepers.Roughly half the crowd would be travelling; the other half were hangers-on who had come to see the travellers off :parents, children, siblings, uncles, cousins, neighbors- all part of the great community system that surrounds and cocoons Indians wherever they are.Every one was in animated conversation: I could recognize about half a dozen different languages being spoken, and there were also others that I could not recognize.

The guard blew his whistle, the hangers-on clambered out, the dawdling travellers clambered in, the engine driver sounded a mournful hoot, and with a jerk and a shudder the train steamed out of the platform.The travellers readjusted themselves in the available seating space, and prepared for the long haul ahead.

A quarter of an hour later the train reached Dadar.About a dozen people got in: for them there would be standing room only.In five minutes' time the train resumed its journey: the next scheduled stop was Kalyan, an hour away.

An earnest man with a prominent Adam's apple in a frayed jacket and a lugubrious man in a barred T-shirt holding an enormous carry-bag were the last people to come in.They clearly had business on their minds, and once the train settled down to a rhythmical clackety-clack of the wheels on the track, the earnest man started speaking.His delivery was such that he could be understood over the background din: this, clearly ,was a man with experience

"Brothers," he started,"I stand before you once more to bring you offers you will never see again in a lifetime.How do I do this? All stockists, big and small, from Colaba to Khar know me by name.Whenever any goods has to be sold in a hurry, they know that I am the man with the cash, and the guts, to pick up the stuff within the hour, no questions asked. In turn I sell direct: no money wasted on stocks or middlemen: you, my brothers, benefit by low, low prices."

"To start with,"he continued," I'll auction this heavy lock .Feel its weight, see the riveted construction, and the smooth movement of the eight levers it has. Without a key you'll have to break it with a sledge-hammer.Come now, what am I bid for this masterpiece made in Aligarh?"

"One rupee," came a hesitant bid from one corner."One rupee and twenty-five paise,"came a more confident bid from he right.There was a lull.

"Only one twenty-five for a lock such as you don't even see nowadys?You, sir,"he turned to a moustachioed gentleman clad in a white dhoti and keenly watching the proceedings,"you're going home.Just think how safe you would feel if you had one of these locks on your rooms in Bombay instead of these new cheap Japanese locks that you surely used. "

"Two rupees", moustachio responded gallantly.

The bidding stopped at five rupees.The lock and a five-rupee note changed hands."Well," said the earnest man."Purely as Sales Promotion, I am going to return the money to the successful bidder of the first auction."This worthy, a pale man in a flamboyant bush-shirt, stretched out his palm and took back the five-rupee note without batting an eyelid."And in addition," went on the Master of Ceremonies,"as further incentive, I am going to offer a prize to all those who participated in the auction" He took out packets of playing cards, of a cheap variety available for about twenty-five paise in those days, and distributed them to all who could prove that they had participated.A murmur of appreciation went through the compartment; playing cards were just the kind of thing one needed to survive endless hours of cramped space in a long journey.

Outside, Kurla station whistled past, and the train began a gradual climb to Ghatkopar.

The next item to be auctioned was a torch,"a brass one, brothers, one your grandsons will inherit, with light you can see a mile away; not the cheap newfangled aluminum things now flooding the market."

Rural India values good torches; this one sold for ten rupees.This time as well, purely as Sales Promotion, the successful bidder, a farmer in a khadi cap, was returned the money he had paid,All the participating bidders were given handkerchiefs.The train whistled through Thane station.

The next lot o be auctioned was jewellery."Weighing seven tolas,made with American go ld, which, as you all know, created a storm in Jhaveri Bazar last month by selling at thirty-one rupees a tola." For the record, Jhaveri Bazar is Bombay's bullion market, a tola is the traditional Indian measure for gold weighing about 14 grams, and the price of 22 carat gold at the time was one hundred and eighty rupees a tola.

The jewellery sparkled brightly under the compartment lights.A number of people participated, with moustachio, flamboyant bush-shirt and khadi cap egging each other on."one hundred and ten rupees", came the call from a man in an outsize Kathiawari turban, who had quite immersed himself in the spirit of things.

There being no further bids, the auction came to a halt.

"Here you are,sir.You made a killing, this stuff is worth two hundred rupees at least.Give me the money."

Did the jewellery now sparkle less than heretofore? Kathiawari turban seemed reluctant to part with his cash."Pay up," said barred T-shirt with steel in his voice.Funny how no one had noticed his rippling biceps before.

"Yes, brother, pay up. You bid in the auction.We all did." This came quite sternly from khadi cap. The consensus of opinion, spoken in audible undertones around the compartment was that the bidder had to pay.

The bidder did pay, half-expecting a refund from the earnest man, who did nothing of the sort.The train entered Kalyan station ,the auctioneer and his assistant got down, as did a number of others, some bidders among them.A new lot of passengers entrained.

Kathiawari turban, lightened of cash, burdened with newly acquired stock of ten rupees worth of imitation jewellery and a knowledge of the ways of the world ,continued his journey home.