'The Pickpockets of Paris' - by K J S Chatrath

 I was in Paris on a long training. One of the best things about these foreign trainings for civil servants is that the lady wife too gets a chance to accompany the husband and stay abroad for a year. Of course the amount of fellowship being meager, one has to cut corners and live the Spartan life of a student, but still the reliving of the student days has a charm of its own. As soon as I was able to fix up some accommodation, my wife and five year old son joined me in Paris. However it was to be short stay for them as my son was not willing to miss his school back home in Delhi. I was to get two months fellowship and some winter clothing allowance, which totaled to, what at that time seemed to be, a tidy sum. I was hoping to manage the visit of the family with this amount. However my wife and the little son had an agenda of their own. Besides a long list of places to be visited in Paris, they had prepared a “small” shopping list, which would have neatly taken care of the entire amount so anxiously awaited. The very next day of their arrival, we all marched into the bank near our hostel where I had opened my account in which my fellowship amount was to be received. It was a bright and beautiful Saturday morning, the type of weather the French call as ‘l’ete’ indien’ or the Indian Summer. There was a charming young lady behind one of the computer counters. I put on my best smile and requested her in the purest French that I could muster, to encash my cheque. She reciprocated with a big smile which suspect must have been inspired by the beautiful sunny day and not by me. She noted my account number and deftly punched a few keys of the computer and told me in a low soft voice that the amount of fellowship had not yet been received in my account. While this was not the first time that I had been told so, as back home in India too, I have had a number of similar encounters with my bank. But the words coming from the lovely French lady behind the counter made me feel crest fallen. However I quickly regained my composure. And by that time, having learnt a thing or two from the French, put on my smile again and thanked the lady for her kindness, wished her a good day and left the bank, pretending as if nothing important had happened. Not having understood the conversation in French, but noticing the smiles being exchanged, my wife and son watching from a distance must have thought that the money was in my pockets ready to be spent. Hoping to depress some of the resulting depression, we decided to go to Air-India’s office at the ‘Opera’ for confirming the return journey tickets of my wife and son and then to do a bit of window-shopping. By that time we had already done, what all tourists to Paris do immediately on their arrival – purchase the famous ‘Carte Orange’ or the Orange Card, which is the monthly ticket for unlimited travel on the unparalleled Paris Metro or the underground rail system. Paris Metro appeared to us to be an almost magical way of traveling. As soon as we entered the Metro, we were transported to a different world. And a few quick stoppages and a couple of minutes later, we descended from the train at the Opera Metro station. For moving from the platform level to the road level, one has to climb about a hundred stairs or take an escalator and halfway through change to a narrow escalator which carries only one person on a stair at a time. We climbed the escalator in the typically Indian pecking order. I led the way, followed by my wife a few steps below and my little son in the end. About 4-5 stairs ahead of me was a young man and there was a tall person on the stair just next to my son. When I was about 5 or 6 stairs from the top, the young man ahead of me reached the ground level and suddenly fell down. As soon as my stair reached the ground level, the tall person coming behind my son climbed up quickly, brushed me aside gently, said ‘Pardon’ in the typical French way and overtook me. By that time the person ahead of me had also got up, and both of them walked away briskly. It all took place very suddenly. I realized what had happened only a few minutes later when I discovered that the purse in my back pocket was missing. I told my wife in a calm voice that my purse had been picked. I was calm because there was no money in the purse. Whatever small notes I possessed, I had very gallantly handed over to my wife before starting from our hostel, hoping to receive money from the bank. We started walking towards the exit of the station in a dazed state and just a few steps ahead found those two persons coming angrily towards us. I can’t forget the expression of total outrage on their faces, while I could not suppress my chuckled amusement. The tall person had my purse in his hand, which he handed over to me and said something in French, which I could not decipher. By that time my sense of humour had returned and I said somewhat proudly “Indians”. Those two French pickpockets of ‘voleurs de la tire’, as they are called in French, quickly disappeared in the crowd, swearing I am sure, never to pick the pocket of an Indian in future! Of course I thanked my stars that I did not have any money and my passport was not in the same pocket. I remember that subsequently when I was doing research on the Indo-French Diplomatic Relations, I had come across a small report in one of the prestigious English dailies published from Delhi that two French tourists who were sleeping in a garden in front of the Delhi railway station had been robbed of their purse. Alas, the French press did not reciprocate and the incident of my pocket having been picked did not find any mention in the French press the next day. So much for the reciprocity in bi-lateral relations! The French, and this includes the French pickpockets also, do things in a chic style that is peculiarly French. Where else in the world would the pickpockets have the politeness to worry about what happens to their victims. One of the nightmares that any traveler dreads in a foreign country is the loss of passport. However it is a common phenomenon in Paris that in case while picking the pocket, beside the hard cash, one’s passport or identity papers are also stolen, then the considerate pickpocket puts these in the nearest letter box. In case of the French nationals, since the address is mentioned on the identity card, the post office authorities, showing a touching concern and displaying equal politeness, put it in an envelope and you receive it the next day by post. In case of passport, the postal authorities post it to the embassy of the issuing country in Paris. ‘Quelle Politesse’ or how wonderfully polite! (*It relates to an incident in 1982. This article was published in one of the newspapers about 15 years back.) ... Photo, text & copyright K.J.S.Chatrath ... Readers are advised to cross check the information before taking any decision. Contact: kjschatratth@yahoo.co.in ... ...