This is what happened to me: the worst day of my India trip.

Around 5 pm on the 24th of june, 2008, I was walking past the Westside of Jehangir Art Gallery, Fort Area, Mumbai, southwards, on the way to my guest house "Carlton Hotel" in Colaba. I was carrying a shoulder bag and a flower, it was raining softly. I was singing a song while an older Indian man (51 years old, like he later told me), wearing clean shirt and pants, came walking next to me. He was not clean shaven and a little smaller than me. He asked me where I was from, but instead of answering immediately I sang the song loudly, smiling and looking into his eyes. As a foreign tourist, you get this question many times every day, so sometimes it gets really annoying, that was the reason for this reaction. He insisted, and when I finished the song I explained him which song I had sung. He recognised the song, and after answering his question finally, we started a conversation. He asked me if I was from the Flemish part of Belgium, I answered yes. We talked about India and Europe, my studies of Indology and my present education tour in India, about his handicraft Emporium and his plans of moving to London and opening a shop there. His English was very good, but he didn’t talk loud and sometimes unclear. It was raining, so during the conversation we stopped at the nearest bus stop, under a tree. We talked, and during the conversation we moved under the shelter of the bus stop. After 10-15 minutes I told him I was tired and wanted to rest in my hotel. He insisted on a longer conversation, so I suggested to sit somewhere inside and have a tea. So we crossed the street and went into a tea shop. We both ordered Nescafe "acchi banaya" and continued the conversation.
After a few minutes a tall but slim South African Negro (he came from an island nearby South Africa and worked in South Africa) came in. He looked like a tourist and was in his mid 30s; casual clothing, shoulder bag and a copy of Lonely Planet 2007 in his hand. He knew the Indian man already; the first thing he talked about was his wife who had become rather ill and had to stay in the hotel. He said Mumbai was expensive and difficult. He said his room costed 800 IRS and didn’t forget to mention he was a qualified engineer. He told me he was a member of the Zulu tribe. The conversation became more serious. The Indian man asked me to do him a favour. He talked about his shop and his plans for London again. The shop would be located in Notting Hill, near to the street where the film was shot.
But he had a problem. He explained me that, being an Indian, government demands 70% of all the outgoing money. In total he wanted to bring about 250.000 USD out. But there was another possibility. Carrying the money in the form of traveller’s cheques wouldn’t cause him that same problem. Indians are not allowed to exchange money for traveller’s cheques, but foreigners can. He promised me a commission of 20%. Another problem was there. A French guy, who had agreed to help him, had run away with the traveller’s cheque. Therefore he wanted proof that I was not broke. The South African man had done that for him the day before, and after mutual trust had grown, would exchange more for him. I was not sure and asked him to give me some time to think about it and his card to contact him. He was afraid to give his card because he wanted no one to know about it. After asking again, he put his card on the table, I inspected it and put it back on the table. He took it and put it back in his pocket. When he reassured me that I wouldn’t have to give him any money, I agreed to help him.
It was around 5.45 pm. I had to meet someone at the guest house at 6 pm and they agreed to join me. We went out to take a taxi, but it was difficult to find an empty one because of the peak hour. At last we caught one and went to my hotel. They waited in the taxi, I asked around for the beggar lady with child whom I would help with her sweet corn business plan. It was a few minutes past 6 pm; she was not there. I waited a few minutes, went to the toilet in the guest house and went out again to meet the two men in the taxi.
Then we drove past the Indian man’s 18th Century heritage house on the way to the bank. He always insisted on secrecy because of security guards, police men, taxi drivers and people from the neighbourhood. Everything should happen secretly not to have any problems with police, and he kindly asked us not to speak with anyone on the street. He told us about the British passport he had received for 75.000 USD. It would be valuable for 3 years, and if there would be no case or documents against him after those 3 years, the 75.000 USD would be returned, and he would be provided with a life long British citizenship. From Marine drive he pointed at some skyscrapers and said his shop was there, behind the American Embassy. He told us a little about his family and expressed the importance of the family and respect, especially for his parents by saying he would never smoke in front of them.
1000 € would be enough to prove I was not broke. We drove to a branch of Citibank, but it was closed, and I didn’t have the pin code of my VISA card to take the amount from the ATM. So we drove to a branch of Standard Chartered. The limit for Maestro showed 18.000 on the ATM screen. The Indian had told me the Euro was on 64,15 so I wanted to take 64.150 IRS. I went in and asked to take the amount from my VISA, which worked without any problem. It was exciting, for I am not used to carry such big amounts in my pockets. I came out and joined them in the taxi. They had shifted to another one, because the previous driver refused to wait. We drove a few streets further and stopped. Before getting out I received a call from a friend and explained her I didn’t have the time to talk and would call her back later. We got out. When the taxi driver almost drove off without giving the balance on the given 100 IRS, the Indian man stopped him and got the money. Then he asked us to wait at the next corner and asked us again not to talk to anybody.
The South African and I had a nice chat. I came to know that his father –like mine- is a musician, as are four of his seven brothers. He told me he had been to the Indian’s shop and had seen a handmade Kashmiri carpet there, for sale for 20.000 USD. We both agreed the price was very high, but he was interested to buy something for his two storey house in South Africa. We waited on the corner and continued the friendly chat. I asked him if the Indian was trustworthy and he replied that he wasn’t sure either in the beginning, but now he trusted him. He and his wife had met him in the Jehangir Art Gallery. He had seen him do business with a Norwegian couple and said that this law made it very difficult for Indians to take money out and that it was a pity it had to happen in this way. I talked to a man who was reading a Marathi newspaper and showed my reading skills. When I remembered the request not to talk to anyone, I took distance again. After a while the Indian man turned up again and we joined him, walking on the sidewalk. There he returned the blue envelope he had received from the South African after getting out of the taxi. Then he asked him to wait for him in another bank (American Express? I don’t remember exactly). The South African first asked him if he could stay with me, but the Indian refused. He gave him some money for the taxi and he went off.
I walked on with the Indian. At a certain point he made us turn around to the other direction. I told him he was a bit paranoia, but he said it was a difficult neighbourhood and it was about a lot of money. After walking a few minutes he asked me to hand over the money, for he wanted to show it to his uncle for verification. It was in my purse which also contained my personal documents. He insisted I would take out the documents; he didn’t want to carry their responsibility- you never know. So I took them out and gave him the purse in blind trust, containing 64.150 IRS, some small things, my Belgian ID card and 50 USD I kept for emergencies (at that time I didn’t think about those, I was focused on the other documents; it happened quickly as well). We crossed the street. He gave me 20 IRS and asked me to drink a juice on the corner and to wait there for him. I told him in a joking way I would touch his feet later (show of respect to elders in Indian culture). He asked why and said he was not a guru. I told him that, in a way, he is for me. He laughed, gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder and we split. It was almost 8 pm at that time. I waited on the corner till 10 pm. I felt incredibly stupid, cheated on and very sad. It was the worst day of my travel in India since September, and when I will think about Mumbai in the future, I will immediately remember this incident.