Six Suspects (28 page)

'Hah! That may be tolerated in your morally corrupt America,
but I cannot allow activities which go totally against Indian
culture and traditions.' He pointed proudly to a poster stuck on
his wall. 'No sex please, we're Indian,' it said.

I shook my head at the guy. He was so narrow-minded he
could have peeped through a keyhole with both eyes.

'So what are you gonna do?' I asked him.

He smiled like a cunning fox. 'I'm having video cameras
installed in the toilets. This way we shall close the barn door
before the horses bolt.'

'Yeah. But be careful. You own barn door's open.'

'What?'

'Your fly's unzipped,' I said.

He looked down and went all red in the face.

Before I knew it, four weeks had passed. My life fell into a nice
routine. I would work at the call centre all night and then return
to the guesthouse in the morning and sleep most of the day. In the
evening, like clockwork, I would write a letter to Shabnam and try
her mobile. I didn't get a reply to either, but I continued to hope.

I learnt plenty of jargon at the call centre and made many
friends among the associates. These were young kids, fresh out of
college, on their first jobs. They wanted to party, to shop, to have a
good time. There was Vincent (a.k.a. Venkat), who was such a
smooth-talker he could sell a drowning man a glass of water. There
was AJ (Ajay), who was always a day late and a dollar short.
Penelope (Priya) had the best stats in the business, meeting her
weekly targets faster than anyone, and Gina (Geeta) had half the
guys drooling over her. Reggie (Raghvendra) was so short, he'd have
to stand on a brick to kick a duck in the ass! And Kelly's (Kamala's)
sambar vada
was the best food I ever wrapped my lips around.

I learnt to watch a game called cricket with the guys, which
was about as exciting as watching grass grow, but bursting crackers
on Diwali was way more fun than the fourth of July. The girls
shared their tiffin and their secrets with me. The unmarried ones
talked about the guys they liked and the married ones cribbed
about their mothers-in-law. All of them were constantly matchmaking
for me, without realizing it was like going to a goat's house
for wool.

Before I knew it, 23 November arrived. I had a booking to fly
to America the next day. And that's when it hit me – I didn't
want to leave. It was crazy. Suddenly this crowded, congested city
where cows roamed the streets and beggars slept naked seemed to
be the most exciting place on earth. The mosquito-infested,
crummy guesthouse had begun to feel like home. The call-centre
job felt like a million dollars. India had started doing funny things
to me. I had taken to dipping biscuits in tea before nibbling them.
I had begun eating
masala dosa
with my hands. I enjoyed taking a
bath with a bucket. I felt no shame in getting a haircut from the
barber shop on the pavement. Sometimes I even stepped out into
the streets of Paharganj in my pyjamas, which I wouldn't be
caught dead in back home. India had become an extended holiday.
No bills to pay, no driving on I-35, no cooking to do, no tiffs with
Johnny Scarface. And it wasn't as if I had plenty of friends waiting
for me back home. Even Mom, the last time I spoke with her,
seemed more excited about her fourth divorce than my first
marriage. But the real reason I didn't want to return was Shabnam.
There was a little voice in my heart which kept saying maybe she's
still shooting in that town in the Cape. Maybe she didn't get my
letters. So I decided to give myself another fortnight and made a
new booking for Wednesday 5 December. If I didn't hear from her
by then, I would say goodbye to her, chuck her out of my life, and
go home.

Truth be told, I didn't hear a squeak out of Shabnam even in the
next ten days. But I couldn't take the flight on 5 December. That's
coz a very weird thing happened on 3 December. I was heading to
the bank to convert my rupees into dollars. Leaving my wallet in
the guesthouse, I had put all my cash, my mobile and my passport
in a money belt around my waist and was just about to cross the
street when I saw a huge crowd of people marching towards me.
The procession was led by the most frightening girl I'd ever seen.
She had a face as ugly as a mud fence. To top it all, she was blind
as a bat and walked with the help of a stick. Following her were
three people all wrapped in white, looking like ghosts. Behind
them was a guy in an all-black skeleton costume. And behind this
party was a whole group of young people, dressed like students.
They held up placards with the title 'CRUSADERS FOR BHOPAL'
and chanted slogans like 'We demand compensation' and 'Do or
die'.

The procession stopped very close to where I was standing.
The people in white lay down in the middle of the road, pretending
to be dead, while the skeleton guy danced around them.

'Are you guys celebrating Hallowe'en?' I asked a young lady in
jeans and slippers with a cloth bag hanging from her left shoulder
and a big red dot on her forehead.

She looked at me like I was some kind of vermin. 'Excuse me?'

'I said is this the Indian version of Hallowe'en? Back home we
celebrate it on 31 October. But why do you folks need to ask for
compensation like this? Don't they give you chocolates and
sweets here?'

She went wild. 'You think our protest against the worst industrial
accident in the world is funny?'

'Hey, hey, hey, don't get your knickers in a twist!' I tried to
calm her.

'Are you insulting me, you swine? You must be on the payroll
of Dow Chemicals!' she screamed at me.

'Look lady, I don't know what you're talking about. I've never
heard of this Dow dude. You're barking up the wrong tree.' I
threw up my hands.

Another student, a young guy with a goatee, tapped me on the
shoulder. 'What did you just say? Did you call my colleague a
dog?'

A third guy, with a weird hairdo, who looked meaner than a
striped snake, snapped his fingers at me. 'Aren't you American?' he
asked.

'Yeah, I'm American,' I replied.

'Hey! Looks like we've got the son of bloody Warren
Anderson here,' he shouted, and caught me by the scruff of my
sweater.

'Come on, give us our money,' a man in dirty
kurta
pyjamas
demanded.

'Yes, we are not going to wait any longer,' the guy with the
goatee snarled at me.

'No, guys.' I shook my head. 'I'm not going to give any money.
This is not how you should be trick-or-treating.'

'The bastard won't part with his money. Let's teach the bloody
American a lesson!' the weird-hairdo guy shouted and the crowd
pounced on me like dogs on fresh meat. The men started beating
me up. The women began tearing off my clothes. I tried to fight
them off, but I was like a gnat in a hailstorm. Before I knew it,
they'd taken off my sweater. Two minutes later, my shirt was
shredded, my vest was in tatters, one of my sneakers was gone and
I was wrestling with a fat girl in pigtails who was trying
desperately to take my jeans off. I managed somehow to ward her
off. And that's when I discovered that my money-belt had
disappeared.

Mizz Henrietta Loretta had taught us about the weird customs
of foreign tribes. I remember she told us about the Aztec tribe in
Argentina, which ate human skulls, and the Maoris of Mexico,
who sold their daughters. But I didn't know that Indians also had
peculiar customs, like beating up Americans if they didn't give
chocolates on Hallowe'en.

I trudged back to the guesthouse looking like Shawn Michaels
after the Undertaker had pummelled him in the famous 1997
Hell in a Cell match on WWF.

'What happened to you?' Bilal cried.

'I got beaten up by a bunch of loonies. All my money is gone.
And so is my passport. What the hell do I do now?'

'You need to visit the American Embassy to get a new passport,'
advised Bilal.

The American Embassy in Chanakyapuri was a nice building. It
had a huge lawn with fountains, overlooked by a massive golden
eagle. The Marines at the gate didn't seem too happy to see a
fellow American. They told me to go round the corner to another
building which handled passport and visa stuff.

There were two queues, one for Indians and one for
Americans. The Indian queue was a mile long. Whole communities
appeared to be living in front of the Embassy with their
suitcases and slippers. There was a Sikh family saying their prayers.
A harassed-looking mother was feeding her children. A couple of
men were playing cards in the shade. Luckily there were no
Americans needing visas and I managed to enter through the gate
in just ten minutes.

I was frisked like a new inmate in jail. After four security
checks, I finally walked into a reception area.

'I'm Larry Page and I've lost my passport,' I announced to the
Reception lady.

'Please have a seat!' the lady said and called someone on her
phone. In three minutes flat, a glass door opened and a tall blonde
in black high heels came in to greet me. Dressed in a grey skirt and
matching top with golden buttons, she looked hot as a firecracker.

'Welcome, Mr Page,' she said with a big smile and shook my
hand warmly. 'We knew you were coming to India for the
Nasscom Conference. It's a great honour for us to have you visit
the Embassy. I am a huge fan of your work. Please come this way.'

She led me along the corridors, hips swinging like two cats
fighting in a bag. Her office was at the far end of the building. She
unlocked the door with a swipe card and asked me to enter.

I sat down on a beige sofa and took a look around. The room
was quite large and very well furnished. There were all kinds of
maps on the walls and the desk was full of gadgets with long
pointy aerials.

The blonde sat down next to me. 'My name is Elizabeth
Brookner,' she said, crossing her long legs. 'I'm the Head of the
Consular Section in the Embassy. It's very unfortunate that you
have lost your passport, Mr Page, but we'll try to get you a new
one within a day.'

'That'll be real nice,' I replied. 'I gotta catch a flight tomorrow.'

'Aw, come on,' she said, patting my arm. 'People who travel in
their private 767s don't have to worry about flight schedules.'

I had no idea what a 767 was, so I kept quiet.

'So what's Sergey Brin up to these days?'

I'd never heard of Sergey Brin, so I said nothing.

'You don't speak much, do you, Mr Page?'

'Well, Mom always said, don't let your mouth overload your
tail.'

She looked at me again in a funny kind of way. 'Fancy me
having Larry Page in my office. You know, I've been using Google
for, like, ages. In fact, I even own a few shares from the IPO in
2004 . . . Isn't it a bit hot in here?' she said and undid the top two
buttons of her jacket. 'So where are you staying, Mr Page? At the
Sheraton?' She batted her eyes at me and gave me a coy smile.

'Look Ma'am, I'm not—'

'My friends call me Lizzie. And here, let me give you my mobile
number. You can reach me any time, day or night.' She scribbled a
number on a piece of paper and passed it to me. I put it in my wallet,
which was as empty as Jesus's tomb on Easter morning.

'Yes, so you were telling me about where you are staying. And
didn't you recently win an award for Best Innovator of the Year?'

'No, Ma'am. The only award I've ever come close to winning
was last year's Forklift Rodeo over in Cisco. With my Hyster
H130F, I was tops in loading and unloading the trailer and stacking
and shelving pallets, but I didn't do too well in the written
exam coz they had trick questions like "If a forklift travelling at 10
mph takes 22 feet to come to a full stop on a dry surface, how long
will a forklift travelling at 20 mph take?" I wrote the answer as
22 X 2 = 44 feet, but they said the correct answer was the forklift
has no business travelling at that speed.'

'You really have a terrific sense of humour, Mr Page – or can I
call you Larry? How come you know so much about forklifts?'

'That's coz I am a forklift operator at the Walmart store in
Round Rock, Texas. You know, the one on the I-35, exit 251?'

'You mean you are not the Larry Page of Google fame?'

'That's what I've been trying to tell you. My name's Larry
Page, but I'm not that Google guy. I was just visiting India, but
now I can't go back coz I've lost my passport.'

'Oh!' she said and quickly buttoned up her jacket. She stood
up from the sofa and her face became like Johnny Scarface's when
he's about to pull up a worker. 'Well, Mr Page, I am sorry for the
misunderstanding. You are required to complete forms DS-11 and
DS-64, available at the counter. Then you need to submit a copy
of the police report, show us proof of your citizenship, pay ninetyseven
dollars and schedule an appointment with one of the
consular section staff.'

'But I'll still get a new passport tomorrow, won't I?'

'No, Mr Page. That expedited service is available only for
distinguished Americans, which you obviously are not. My
secretary will show you out.'

I stepped out of the Embassy cursing my luck. I wish I hadn't
opened my stupid mouth. Lesson learnt. If people want to think
I'm Mr Google, I should let them.

I went to Lucky Travel and Tours and made yet another booking.
The earliest seat available this time was for 15 January. I had
no option but to stay in India for another forty days.

I didn't stop writing to Shabnam, but seeing that she wasn't
replying, my letters became shorter and shorter. I continued to try
her mobile from the PCO, but didn't strike lucky there either. The
only good news came from the call centre, where they dismissed
Mr Devdutt on 15 December. He was caught with a whole bunch
of pictures of naked girls on his computer. And it was discovered
that for two years he had been using the office telephone
line to speak to some lady by the name of Sexy Sam in Las Vegas.