We stood beside a busy intersection on a dirty road, far from the tourist trail.

Every rickshaw driver who passed recognized us as lost tourists.

One pulled over and waited.

He knew we needed a ride.

Our destination was three miles away. He named a price higher than the “standard rate.”

I handed him fifty.

He shook his head.

“I don’t have that much. What about this?”

He left.

Another driver stopped.

We started again.

For half an hour, Dani and I stood in the muggy sun, arguing over a few rupees.

Finally, one driver accepted.

Fifty cents.

We climbed in.

The engine rattled beneath us. Wind came through the open sides of the rickshaw.

I smiled.

~

Back home, I told a woman from Kolkata the story.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Did I pay too much?”

“What? No.”

I waited.

“You’re Indian,” I said. “You look the part. You speak the language. What would they charge you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I just get in the first rickshaw that comes and pay whatever they ask.”

“But you’re from there. You should know better.”

She looked at me.

“Know better?”

She shrugged.

“If I want a rickshaw, I get a rickshaw. Three dollars. Five dollars. Ten dollars. Who cares?”

Then she went back to work.