Niagara classic swim meet 2013 dodge

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Niagara District Swim Meet/ Mason Adams 2013

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However Angeles is alive with spectacle and provides a luxurious retreat in the heart this itinerary is available all year excitement. Maui is a beautiful of the Downtown area, convenient for round unless specified. Prices may island of rainforests, waterfalls and exploring the whole of LA. Half an hour later, as the train was leaving the station Raju pointed at my guitar and asked if I was a musician.

I nodded and asked what he did. The sun had risen in a slow, languid yawn over the horizon as we approached another station. Raju asked if I might do him a favour, and handing me a rupee note, asked if I could buy us both some chai and water. I agreed, but trying to refuse his money found an adamant and almost wounded look in his eyes.

Some minutes later as Raju put the change I handed him into his wallet, he took out a rupee note the largest Indian denomination, worth about 20 US dollars and asked me to look at it. Sipping on my chai, I looked at the note. In every way the notes were identical, except that on one Ghandi was nictitating, and was he also ever so slightly smiling at the corner of his mouth? Seeing the look of consternation on my face Raju placated me: That chai vendor will pass it on.

It will be no problem for him. I had just a day in Mumbai before my flight back to the United States and had no plans whatsoever. I had to admit that as displeased as I was about the forged rupee note, I was intrigued by his obvious talents and so accepted the invitation. We alighted at the Bandra station and stepped through a maze of people, listless dogs, and even the occasional goat sitting on the station platform and overpass.

From the overpass I stopped to stare down at a handful of kids rummaging through the mounds of rubbish collecting on an unused train track, but almost losing sight of Raju in the throng of people, quickly rushed to catch up.

He led me through the twisting, hyperactive jumble of crooked alleyways of the local slum and after about 20 minutes we arrived at his residence, a humble affair of concrete walls and tin roof.

We took off our shoes and he introduced me to his mother, his wife and pointed out his two sons aged 18 months and 3 years sitting against a wall. A naked fluorescent light illuminated the sole room of his house; a make-shift bed on one side, a kitchen on the other, and then making me stop dead in my tracks, I noticed on one wall an absolutely faithful and immaculate reproduction — frame and all — of the Mona Lisa, painted directly onto the concrete surface.

Seeing my astonishment, Raju smiled and said this had been his labour of love over the past six months. Although it had been about seven years since I had seen the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris, at least from memory, this looked as accurate and immaculate as the rupee note he had shown me on the train. We sat down to lunch with his smiling mother and beautiful wife — neither of whom spoke more than a few words of English — and ate a delicious spicy potato curry served with chapattis.

Over lunch Raju told me his life story: Until six months ago he had been living with his wife and kids in Rajasthan, having a fairly successful career as a painter. He had been forced to relocate his family to live in this tiny room with his mother in the slums of Mumbai. Seeing his entire family living in such conditions, his depressing story pulled on each and every one of my heartstrings.

We drank chai as he smoked, and I sat watching his 3-year old son Suresh who was shyly hiding under a large sheet of newspaper, every now and then poking his head out to look at me, giggle, and then with a rustle, return to his self-made cocoon. That afternoon Raju thankfully led me back through the maze of little alleys to the station, and while we were walking asked of me a proposal.

He had amassed 20, rupees in his forged notes, but concerned that one day a scrupulous observer might notice their inauthenticity, asked if I might help him exchange them. His plan was that I give him 18, real rupees for the 20, rupees in forgeries.

At the airport I could take these notes to the bank — the same bank that had repossessed his house and stolen his artworks — and exchange them for US dollars. As a westerner they would never suspect me of passing forgeries, and in addition to my small cut, I would also help his family and help him in but a small way to get some retribution against the bank.

I got his mobile phone number, and promising to think it over, stepped onto the train to Colaba, where I would spend the night in a hostel. A sea of armpits surrounded and suffocated me, as what seemed like a thousand passengers enveloped me, standing room only, in the tiny train carriage as we held onto the overhead metal hand rails. The smell, as in many of the cities in India, was potently overwhelming. I was violently snapped out of my reverie by an elbow in the side, trampling of feet over my toes, and a general pushing and shoving as the train slowed and a mad dash of people started to chaotically get on and off at the next station.

I felt very conflicted. On the one hand I desperately wanted to help him and his family, but I was concerned about the illegality of the task and that I might get caught and end up with 18, rupees of worthless pieces of paper, or worse, get arrested and have to spend time in an Indian prison. I struggled to find a cheap hostel, but eventually found one with comically low ceilings, and then went to an Internet cafe to give Raju a call.

He suggested we meet at 8: I went to an ATM and withdrew the money, leaving my bank account precariously low. I arrived a little early and was drinking a Kingfisher beer when Raju entered. I called over the waiter for another glass and poured Raju the remainder of the bottle on the table. Raju put the note back and handed me the envelope with a gesture that I immediately hide it from view.

I did so and likewise slipped him my envelope with the cash I had withdrawn earlier. We sat in silence, drinking our beers, and Raju rolled us two cigarettes, this time drawing the image of a camel, the symbol of love and fortune, on the cigarette paper.