T A B L E_T A L K The adventures of overseas travel with kids is the topic in this discussion in the Wanderlust section of Table Talk   How-to, why-not and what-for -- find it all at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Transylvanian nightmare By Jeffrey Tayler A young man bears the lasting burden of Romania's depraved dictator with a dignity that transcends his grim surroundings (03/23/99) The camel market of Daraw By Kristan Schiller In Egypt, a centuries-old business thrives at the end of the 40 Days Road (03/21/99) Helen of Troy is in my taxi By Rolf Potts A wanderer discovers the ambiguity of language and love in the Philippines (03/19/99) "Don't shoot -- we're Americans!" By Daniel Becker A hike across the Macedonia-Albania border goes wrong (03/18/99) Original sin By Janis Cooke Newman A culinary pilgrim in Italy succumbs to temptations far more wicked than ripe produce (03/17/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		MAY I HELP YOU? | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - Three years later we were back in Calcutta, again staying at the Oberoi Grand. Outside the white porticoed entrance, at his accustomed sidewalk spot, there was Johnny, who recognized us long before we did him. His eyes sparkled in greeting; a scraggly mustache garnished his smile. His face was thinner, his hair graying. "Good morning, Memsahib and Sahib," he said, flicking a salute to his forehead. "I've been expecting you. I knew you were coming one of these days." "You did?" I said in obvious disbelief. Simone jokingly suggested he might have access to the Oberoi's advance reservations list. He grinned mysteriously. But the more we got to know him, the more we believed Johnny had some kind of ESP going. Pleased as we were to see him, we didn't hire Johnny that morning. We preferred to browse on our own down Chowringhee (now renamed Nehru Road) and absorb the ever-compelling Calcutta street scene. As we wandered off, I glanced back. Johnny was still hanging out at his sidewalk post. We made our way through the kaleidoscopic spectacle of hawkers, shoeshiners and touts. Past the gloomy YMCA and the venerable Indian Museum, we angled off into fashionable Park Street with its smart restaurants and upscale stores. While window shopping on Park, I decided I could use a new leather jacket. Simone said she wanted an Indian-patterned cotton dress, maybe two. We were debating whether to venture through the maze of back streets, an unfamiliar shortcut to the New Market where the prices were cheaper, the bargaining more rampant and the shopping more fun, when out of the passing throng appeared Johnny in his flowing white kurta. Coincidence? Hardly likely. Surely he had followed us. Or sensed where we had gone. Yet why did this wraithlike genie seem to materialize at the precise moment we needed him? Smiling, Johnny quickly took over, guiding us through the gritty back streets raucous with vendors clamoring for our attention. Johnny's job, as he saw it, included "shielding" us from persistent peddlers, wheedling street kids and the outstretched hands of beggars who refused to be ignored or shooed away. Johnny's quiet nature never lashed out in anger as he warded them off. He well knew others' desperate need to scrape together a meager daily subsistence. At the Lindsay Street entrance to the New Market, a gang of porters nodded respectfully to Johnny as he escorted us inside. In the streets, Johnny always walked behind us, never alongside. But once in the market, he led the way, piling all our purchases into his round bamboo basket. Our folded umbrellas, guidebooks, even advertising leaflets all went into the basket. Johnny's strict protocol did not allow us to be "burdened" with anything. Most Calcuttans call people like Johnny "coolies," from the Bengali word quli -- porter or unskilled laborer. But Johnny's self-styled title "market boy" implied a dignity he felt about his job. When I once suggested that "market man" was more befitting, he winced in embarrassment. Johnny led us straight to the shops where pukka leather jackets were the "best buy in Calcutta," and where Simone found exactly the cotton prints she was looking for. He had solid marketplace savvy. He knew the "rock-bottom" prices of goods and hated to see his clients overpay. As the middleman between buyer and seller, Johnny was supposedly neutral, but his clients, mostly foreigners, tipped him far more handsomely than the merchants did with their scant handful of rupees as commissions. Consequently, when they bargained in English, Johnny employed a subtle system of signals to special clients (including us) using thumbs and facial expressions. With vendors who spoke only Bengali, of course, Johnny did the bargaining. On our last day in Calcutta I decided to write something about Johnny; I wanted to invite him for a cup of tea and a personal chat to learn more about him. He normally started work about 8 a.m., but this day at 9 a.m. he wasn't at his usual spot outside the hotel. Maybe he already had a client. At 10 a.m., still no Johnny. The concierge offered to send a bellhop to look for him. An hour later the bellhop returned to say he was nowhere to be found, but several porters had told him Johnny hadn't come to work today because he "went to visit his home village," "drank too much last night," "took one of his kids to the clinic." All the porters, of course, eagerly offered their own services. At noon, I headed for my favorite lunchtime haunt, the old Fairlawn Hotel on Sudder Street. Shouldering through the crowds on Lindsay, I felt disappointed at having missed the chance for a personal conversation with Johnny. I scanned the faces of the passersby. To my amazement, there was Johnny walking toward me, the incredible magic of incarnation working again. He seemed sober enough, assured me he was fine and all his family, too. "Write a story about me?" he asked, warily. "Why?" "Maybe it'll bring you more business," I laughed. I invited him for a cup of tea at a tea stall. "No, thank you, Sahib," he fidgeted self-consciously, "is not my place." And so, standing in a quiet corner of an arcaded passage off Lindsay Street, Johnny hesitantly talked about himself. He came from a little village in Bihar, India's poorest state, and began working in his early teens. He didn't know exactly how old he was, nor did he know his birthday. He guessed he was about 36. Twice a year he trekked north to his home village to see his elderly parents. In Calcutta he lived in a one-room hut in a bustee -- a congested slum town -- with his wife and four children. He told me he earned about 300 rupees ($8) a week. "You must come visit us," he said, opening his arms wide. Johnny had a strangely mystical aura about him, with his uncanny capacity for popping up whenever we needed him. And wasn't his calling all about helping people realize their wishes, acquire their material wants? Johnny was a cool latter-day genie who required no magic lamp to summon him. "Will you send me the story after you write it?" he asked. He laboriously scrawled his name and address on my notebook. His actual name turned out be Mosalim Khan, his mailing address care of a New Market textile merchant. Next time I'm in Calcutta I hope I'll still find Johnny in that maelstrom of 12 million people. More likely, however, if I wish it, Johnny will find me. SALON | March 24, 1999 Jack Goldfarb has written for the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Washington Post and other publications.