There is a 100% Stupid Foreigner Tax on All Items

On a clear, temperate night just before the monsoon started, I wandered up to the terrace restaurant of the Hotel Lindsay, which is said to be the best place in town for an evening beer. I had two. And when I say two, I mean two Premium Kingfishers. These are some serious beers. I would have watched the sun set over the city, but the designers of the Hotel Lindsay built the terrace restaurant facing East, away from the sunset as well as the river Hoogly. Nonetheless, I had a splendid evening with my book, watching the shadows grow longer over the colorful expanse of India’s second largest city.

Feeling tipsy from the combination of the beer and the heat, but enjoying myself quite a bit, I walked over to New Market, a huge indoor complex in Chowringee, Kolkata’s downtown. As I entered the market, I was swamped by porters, men who will follow you around, lead you to the shops that pay them commission, insist on carrying your things, and then demand a tip. I had two purchases in mind; first, some sort of warm clothing item, which I could wear on my trip up to Sikkim and Darjeeling. Second, some silk scarves, which might serve as good presents to give to people back home.

(And listen, don’t think that you are one of those people who will be getting a scarf, because you’re probably not. I debated for two weeks as to whether or not to tell this story because it involves announcing that I bought certain people presents, and thereby potentially making other people mad at me. So just assume that you’re not on the list so you don’t get disappointed later.)

I told a porter that I wanted to buy a coat.

“Leather jacket?” he asked, at which point 5 other guys swarmed towards me, all shouting, “Leather jacket? You want buy leather jacket?” After getting everything sorted out, I followed one fellow, a hunched elderly man, through the stinking meat market to a clothing shop in the innards of New Market. Within a few seconds, the owner produced a jacket. I held it up to my chest; it looked the right size. The owner said it was usually Rs. 2500, but he would give it to me for Rs. 1850. (The exchange rate is about Rs 45=US$1).

Now, I had never bargained before; and, feeling a little drunk and impulsive, I leaped on this exciting opportunity.

“I’ll give you a thousand for it.” The owner frowned, and, scribbling on the back on an envelope, suggested 1500. I stuck to my mark; he finally came down to 1,200, at which point I agreed. He stuck out his large hand, we shook, I paid, and I was off, with my jacket in the porter’s basket.

I was eccstatic. From Rs. 1850, I had wiggled him down to 1200, which is just about $20! Not too bad! The coat was warm and waterproof, with a nice hood. Feeling successful, I marched on.

Next, I was led to a scarf shop, where two enthusiastic people showed me more scarves than I really cared about. I sat there, comfortably, nodding with appreciative attentive, but making no promises. I was not going to be duped by their wily ways, no sir!

Finally, I had selected 4 scarves. I totaled up the price on the stickers, which came to Rs. 7200, which is about $170. Now, I had no idea how much a silk scarf should cost. Think about it—a silk scarf could cost anything in the US. But I felt that Rs. 4500 for the four (about $100) would be reasonable. From Rs. 7200, I halved the price, and said.

“How about Rs. 3600?” The bargaining began. It was a battle of the wits, each of us trying to guess at the other’s reserve price, seeing how far we could push. Finally, we were stuck. I had said Rs 4500; the clerk wasn’t budging past Rs 6500. I offered Rs 5000. He declined, and I began to walk about.

“Ok, ok” he called me back. “That’s fine.” I paid with my credit card, and left.

I realized, of course, than an Indian would probably have paid less; but I hadn’t done too badly, had I? Four scarves, of very good quality, for $110. A lot of money, sure; but then, they were nice presents for nice people. Done and done.

The trouble began when I got home. After I had put my bags of merchandise on the floor and laid down, exhausted, on my bed, it occurred to me that I had never tried the jacket on. Nervous, I pulled the coat out of the bag, and slid my arms through the sleeves. They only came down to my forearms. Oddly, the torso of the jacket fit just fine—it was only the sleeves that didn’t fit. I had purchased a reject jacket, I realized. Oh well—it hadn’t been too expensive, I reasoned. A silly mistake, partially inspired by alcohol. What’s done is done.

When I told KanuPriya about the price I paid for the scarves the next day in the office, her jaw literally dropped.

“For four scarves,” she said, “there’s no way you should have paid a rupee more than 2000.” She ran around, telling everyone who came in what I had paid, and their reactions were equally as astonished. In some people, the story inspired a kind of patriotic anger.

“How could they treat a foreigner like that,” someone would exclaim, “making him think that all Indians are cheats!” Such anger was supposed to make me feel better, I suppose, but ended up humiliating me even more.

KanuPriya resolved to help me obtain some justice. Upon seeing what I had bought, she revised her earlier estimate, and declared that Rs. 2500 would have been a decent price (“though still more than I would have paid,” she assured me).

“Did you get a receipt?” she asked. I realized that I hadn’t. “You always have to ask for a receipt!” she exclaimed, exasperated. When it came out a few minutes later that I had paid with my credit card, she slapped her palm to her forehead.

“Did you sign the slip?” she asked. I said yes. “And you didn’t get a receipt? Don’t ever pay with credit card in India,” she cautioned me, “because you never know what they’ll do with the number.”

I was severely skeptical that anything could be done on my behalf; I had no receipt, and had agreed freely to the amount proposed. But KanuPriya wasn’t so easily dissuaded. She, you see, is a Marwarti, a particular ethnicity of Indians who are stereotypically shopkeepers, are notoriously stingy, and love to bargain.

“It’s kind of like the Jews in the US,” KP told me. “Not to be anti-Semitic or anything.”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

KP’s plan was as follows; I would lead her back through the labyrinthine New Market to the place where I had bought the scarves. She would approach the owner, and ask how much a scarf similar to the ones I purchased might cost. Upon hearing the real, Indian price, she would beckon me over, exposing the cheating shopkeeper to the light of truth and justice. She would then convince him to give me more merchandise for free.

“It’s very inauspicious to gave back money, but he’ll give you more stuff,” she told me confidently in the cab.

“KP,” I said, “there’s no way this will work. He has no reason to give me anything. I was cheated on my own free will.”

“Just wait,” she said.

We found the shop, and KP left me safely out of sight. To my great embarrassment, several of the porters recognized me as that gullible white kid, and tried to whisk me to their favorite shops, where I might also spend an exorbitant sum of money. But KP soon beckoned me over, and began shouting forcefully at the three men.

At first, the men denied that I had ever purchased anything from their store. This, KP and I had realized, would be our biggest problem, since without a receipt, we couldn’t prove that I hadn’t bought the scarves from one of the dozen other such shops in New Market. But the story of the shopkeepers quickly became convoluted.

“Well, anyway, he signed the credit card slip, so he agreed to the price,” one of the men said. (KP translated for me later).

“Oh, so he did buy from you?” KP charged. I’m sure that explosive glee was hidden behind her severe expression, but she did a fantastic job hiding it.

KP had exactly two things going for her; one, she is extremely persuasive. Two, as long as she was standing there, the shop was going to do no business, being nothing more than a wall of scarves and a counter. She and the two men began a tremendous duel. It was all in rapid Bengali, impossible for me to understand; but the body language itself was superb. KP took the scarves I had bought and plopped them on the counter, pointing to them and to the men with her narrow fingers in that precise and floppy way I’ve come to notice is common amongst Indian women. I couldn’t help but grin a bit. She gave me the glance of death and said, softly, “Don’t smile, you’ll ruin it.”

Victory was inevitable. The men started out insistent and calm. This serenity soon gave way to nervous laughter, which then gave way to overt begging. A great game was played with the purchased scarves—KP would take them out of the bag and throw them on the counter. The men, desperate, would put them back in and push them away, only to have them thrown back in their faces.

When KP sat down at the stool at the counter, I knew it was finished. She assumed a position of perturbed relaxation, and pointed to two scarves much like the most expensive ones I had bought. At this point, the guys looked sheepish. One was idly fuddling with a piece of plastic on the counter. Reluctantly, the men conceded, one more expensive scarf to my stash. KP pointed to another, which caused one of the clerks to clasp his hands together, pleading for KP to be reasonable. She looked around the market, disaffectedly, blurting out the occasional warning. Finally, one more silk scarf was placed carefully inside my sack. KP looked satisfied. I picked up the goods, and we marched off. As we walked away, KP told me,

“Oh, I should have been able to get to two more scarves and some money.” I declared I would buy her lunch, and asked,

“Was that extremely fun?” She flashed a huge, sheepish grin, and then, pointing at some fancy skirts hanging in another shop, she said,

“Oooh, look at these!” We spent the next hour browsing through all her favorite stores.

The total reasonable price of all the merchandise I now had, KP told me, was somewhere around Rs. 4000, leaving me cheated out of $25 instead of $50. Plus I now have presents for two more people. I still feel embarrassed about getting cheated—but, on the other hand, if I had known what I was doing, I never would have gotten to see such an incredible performance. And that $25 was well worth the price of admission.