The selective processes of the memory are very curious. It has been
decreed that one of my most vivid recollections of Bombay should be that
of the embarrassment and half-amused self-consciousness of an American
business man on the platform of the railway station for Delhi. Having
completed his negotiatory visit he was being speeded on his way by
the native staff of the firm, who had hung him with garlands like a
sacrificial bull. In the Crawford Market I had watched the florists at
work tearing the blossoms from a kind of frangipani known as the Temple
Flower, in order to string them tightly into chains; and now and again
in the streets one came upon people wearing them; but to find a
shrewd and portly commercial American thus bedecked was a shock. As it
happened, he was to share my compartment, and on entering, just before
the train started, he apologised very heartily for importing so much
heavy perfume into the atmosphere, but begged to be excused because
it was the custom of the country and he didn't like to hurt anyone's
feelings. He then stood at the door, waving farewells, and directly the
line took a bend flung the wreaths out of the window. I was glad of his
company, for in addition to these floral offerings his Bombay associates
had provided him with a barrel of the best oranges that ever were
grown--sufficient for a battalion--and these we consumed at brief
intervals all the way to Delhi.