The Mashidabad Chronciles: Prelude| July 6, 2009
On Friday, the 26th, I began my trip to the Indo-Bangladesh border. My journey began at 8 PM at night via train. Indian trains are like almost everything else in India, overcrowded, pushy, and pungent in smell. The journey took roughly four hours. Along the way we passed the battle site where the British defeated the last king of Bengal which occupied what is now Bangladesh and the western part of India. At 4 AM I was awoken by the ringing of co-workers phone. He was frantically talking in Bengali and I was tired. He saw that I was awake and said that we would be leaving at 6:30 AM and to be ready. I passed out for what seemed like another two seconds of sleep and then was roused from my rest to start the day. The phone call had come from a local villager. Apparently a young girl had gone missing in the night. I would later learn that this is a fairly common occurrence. Smugglers would abduct local villagers and then sell them a sex slaves. My co-worker informed me that if the girl was not found within 48 hours, she was likely lost forever. We then headed to the local police station to petition for their help. Upon arriving at the station the commanding officer requested to see my passport and I complied. Shortly thereafter he and my coworker went to another room to discuss the matter. I had previously heard stories about how the local police in this district were corrupt and how they abused the villagers. So, while waiting I attempted to be standoffish. However, they took great interest in me and one of the local watchmen began asking me questions. It is a lot easier to dislike something on paper than it is to dislike a bg grinner face rattling off questions about my hometown, where in India I had been, and my love life. I relented and talked with the man. He told me about his girl friend in a nearby town and his plans to purpose to her next years. One of the higher ranking officers took note of my presence and started to talk with me as well. He invited me into his office and began to tell about the area. Apparently this district, Mashidabad, was the poorest in all of India. For this individual police precinct over 1,000 people go missing every year. He then showed me what looked like a metal title. He explained that the flat metal object was once round and it was filled with metal shards and gun powder to create a makeshift bomb. He then pulled out a tattered bucket and explained that this particular bomb was being carried in the bucket by the bomb maker when it went off. Luckily the crudely made explosive only injured the bomb-marker. My co-worker then entered the room and told me the police had agreed to help and we quickly left the station. I would later learn the next day that the girl was found 50 KM away at a hotel by some local activists and the police were then called to apprehend the perpetrators.