Have you ever seen the inside of an Indian Police Station?

Haridwar is the first town we’ve been to on the holy Ganges River. Every night there is a ceremony called Aarti at the centrally located Har-ki-pauri Ghat (basically a series of low steps down to the river). Not having ever been around the Ganges at night, we had no idea what to expect other than fire. When we reached the river there was already a crowd beginning to congregate and uniformed men were giving impassioned speeches and collecting donations from people one by one. Each time someone gave them money they would pocket it and write out a reciept, but not before holding the cash up and goading the crowd into giving more.

At precisely 5:45 the loud speaker behind us came alive with the sound of bells. This was the cue for everyone in our midst to join in and everyone seemed to have either a bell to ring or something metallic to beat on. The mosquito-filled night swelled up into a cacophony of dissonance that began to sound almost refreshing after the first few seconds.

Fires were lit. Big roaring fires inside of handheld metal dishes. I closed my eyes and let the sounds fully sink in. I had never heard anything like this before. It lasted for at least 5 minutes but it felt like an eternity. I looked around at the faces of the faithful and saw the passion on their faces flowing down through their hands into the banged out rhythm.

The loud speaker switched over to a distorted sound of either lapping waves or distant gunshots and all the ringing stopped jarringly. A religious sounding song began to play and people started to walk down the ghat to the river. They all had little boats made of leaves and flowers which they proceeded to light on fire and send downstream.

Their fires lit and their ceremony over, the people began to disperse back into the maze of the markets and we set out to find a cyber cafe. The city server was down, so we were isolated from the world wide web. We stopped by a movie palace to see when the next showing of the ridiculous looking Bollywood flick would start and then my camera got stolen.

I would have completely missed it, were it not for the keen eyes of a shopkeeper who was watching me at the time. His eyes grew wide and he lept out into the street to stop the thief. It was a kid, no more that 10 or 11 and he had already passed it off to another kid who darted into an alleyway and disappeared around a corner. The thief stood with his arms out begging me to search him. He made those eyes that guilty kids make to prove their innocence and I felt an anger welling up inside me.

A crowd formed around us immediately and men began to loudly interrogate the thief in Hindi. The few people that new any English translated bits and pieces to me, but I was left mostly in the dark. We walked back to the scene of the crime where another little delinquient with a bowl cut was standing around and someone told me I needed to take them both to the police station.

A man with a Tom Selleck moustache took charge and slapped the kid in the face before dragging him to his motorcycle. He made the bowl cut kid climb on too, and then with friendly eyes he motioned for me to get on the very back. I walked to the station and arrived a few minutes after the police questioning began. It was still very calm in the room as Tom Selleck told the police what had happened with arms waving and the kids tried to look sad, sorry and poor.

A couple of English speakers had walked with me to the station and they translated my version of the story to the police again. I stepped outside to catch some fresh air and to collect my thoughts when I looked back in to see the real interrogation about to begin. There was a huge leather tongue with a handle in the hands of a burly officer and the kids had their shaking little hands out in front of them.

“NO, NO, NO, NO!” I wasn’t about to watch a beatdown of children done in my honor, but I wasn’t in time to stop the first blow.

Ka-THWACK!

Bowl cut didn’t confess to the crime in time and he paid the price. His big dumb eyes filled up with tears and he started to whimper. He looked even more pathetic than before.

“Please don’t. No more hitting them. Someone translate that and tell them not to hit them anymore. Please, please, NO, NO NO NO!”

I was able to stop the paddle this time and pleaded with the officers not to continue. There was a glimmer of suprise on the thief’s face (and a surge of relief on bowl cut’s) and he confessed to taking the camera. I doubt he expected any compassion from the rich white kid he’d just ripped off. He went with the officers to try to retrieve the camera and I collapsed back onto the bench.

Awkward silence filled the room. Bowl cut was still whimpering in the corner and the officers were all looking back and forth between me, Jacob, and each other wondering what to do next. I gave bowl cut the rest of my crackers and tried to appologize with my eyes.

The police came back with the thief but without the camera and they threw him into an old-fashioned prision cell. I gave my contact information to the head of the station and we chatted a bit about nothing. He was honored to have me in his office and wanted to assure me he would do everything in his power to get that camera back. I simply asked that he not leave the kid in the cell overnight and I told him we would check back with him the next evening. I was torn between mercy and justice as we left with the thief in his cell and bowl cut still moping in the corner of the office. It was starting to get cold.

The next day was bad news. The officer nearly started to cry when he told me that the camera had eluded them and there was little hope. Jacob and I took tea with the head of the station, much to his delight, and tried to convince them both that I didn’t think less of India because of the incident. On the walk to the train station we bumped into the thief and bowl cut and I felt the anger swelling up again. They had the audacity to ask us for money. I hope they at least enjoied all my photos from around their country before they sold the camera in some back alley.