A little later, I, too, stripped off and entered the bathroom. Standing under the tap, I turned it on full blast. A small trickle of lukewarm water came out. Five minutes later even the trickle stopped, leaving me only half-showered. I now knew why water was more precious than gold in this city.
After breakfast I headed for Reception.
'Where can I make a call to America from?' I asked the manager.
'You should go to a PCO, Sir,' he told me.
'What's that?'
'Public Call Office. There are plenty in the neighbourhood. Best place to make international calls. And they are open twentyfour hours.'
So I stepped into the street and found every second shop to be a PCO. There were more phone booths in Paharganj than strip clubs in Houston. I entered the booth closest to the guesthouse and dialled Mom's number. I sure was glad to hear her voice.
'Larry, when are you bringing my beautiful daughter-in-law home?' she asked, all excited. 'And don't forget to send me the wedding photos.'
I had called to tell her there wouldn't be no wedding, but suddenly I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. 'I won't forget, Mom. Everything is fine,' I mumbled and hung up.
As soon as the market opened, I looked for a travel agent to book my return flight. Luckily, Lucky Travel and Tours was just across the road, in an office complex full of tiny shops. The owner was a friendly man who examined my ticket carefully and spent a lot of time punching keys on his computer screen. 'Sorry, Mr Page,' he shook his head, 'your ticket is of the cheapest category and there is no seat available on any flight. As you know, this is peak tourist season. The earliest I can get you a confirmed seat to Chicago is 24 November.'
'But that's a long way off,' I cried. 'I want to return right now, today if possible.'
'In that case you will have to buy a new one-way ticket. I can arrange one for you immediately. We have a special offer on Tajikistan Airways. Delhi – Dushanbe – New York will cost you just thirty thousand rupees.'
I checked my wallet. 'I've only got thirteen grand.'
'Sorry, then you will have to wait for 24 November. Till then enjoy our country.'
I stepped out of the travel agency feeling madder than a hornet. That's when I came across a nameplate which said 'Shylock Detective Agency. Specialists in matrimonials.' My eyes lit up. A PI was just the man I needed.
I knocked on the door and the sign almost fell off. I tried to tack it back and the door creaked open.
I stepped into a room which looked like it had been hit by a twister. There were cardboard boxes lying around and various things scattered on the floor – some framed pictures, file boxes, a big pile of newspapers, even a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers. The walls looked like they hadn't been painted in years and the room smelt like someone had been pissing in it.
There was a cloud of smoke in the room and for a moment I feared it was on fire. 'Come in, come in, my friend,' a voice announced.
I approached the voice. The clouds parted and I discovered an oldish-looking Indian guy in a tweed jacket and a brown cap sitting behind a wooden desk. With one hand he was busy trying to take dirt out of his ear and with the other he was smoking a pipe.
As soon as he saw me, he dumped the cotton bud, dusted his jacket and stood up. 'Welcome to the Sherlock Detective Agency. I am K. P. Gupta, the owner. What can I do for you?'
'Can you find someone for me?' I asked.
'Elementary, my dear Watson,' he said and puffed on his pipe.
'Page.'
'What?'
'The name's not Watson. It is Larry Page.'
'Oh yes, of course.' He took another puff on his pipe. 'Well, who is this person you want me to find, Mr Larry?'
'Are you moving from here?' I pointed at the stack of boxes.
'Well, this place isn't exactly Baker Street. And the idiots here don't know enough English even to write the name of my agency correctly. But don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. We are merely redecorating. Why don't you take a seat?'
I sat down on a stringy chair which looked so weak I was worried it might collapse at any minute.
'I was wondering if you could find the girl who sent me these pictures,' I said and handed him the brown folder.
He did a quick scan and frowned. 'But this is our famous actress Shabnam Saxena. Why do you need to find her?'
So I explained the whole story of my friendship with Sapna Singh and the reason for my trip to India.
'Tch-tch,' he said, shaking his head. 'This girl Sapna has really duped you, Mr Larry. What do you want me to do?'
'I want you to find her. Before returning to the States I want to meet her just once. Can you locate her for me?'
'Of course. I can even locate Osama bin Laden if the government asks me. Do you have any letters written by this girl?'
'Yes.' I took out a fat bunch of letters from my bag. 'I can give you her address, but I'm afraid I cannot show the letters to you. They are kind of private.'
'And I am a private investigator.' He grinned and snatched them from my hand. 'Hmmm,' he said as he read the first few letters. 'A Delhi PO box has been used. Very clever. But not cleverer than me. Mr Larry, consider your work done. Within a few days I shall have the full details of this girl. Of course, it will cost you.'
'How much?'
'My normal rate is ten thousand rupees, but given that you are a guest in our country, I'll give you a fifty per cent discount. So let's say five thousand rupees. I need half in advance and half when I finish the investigation.'
I took out my wallet and counted out 2,500 rupees.
'Good,' he nodded, and sent another cloud of smoke out of his mouth. 'Come back on Monday 8 October.'
I returned to the guesthouse, first checking to see if that nasty cow was around. Today she was sitting in the middle of the road like a traffic island, with a garland of fresh marigolds draped around her neck. Cars and scooters honked at her, cyclists cursed her, but she sat there like a queen, chewing a plastic bag. I shook my head in despair at this country where cows were treated like goddesses. Back home she'd already have become steak.
Once inside the guesthouse, I headed for the TV lounge. There was only one other guy in the room, sitting in an armchair, with a cushion in his lap. He was fair, with brown eyes and a wispy beard.
The TV set was tuned to CNN. The screen showed rubble in some street and then people lying in hospital all covered in blood and bandages.
'What happened?' I asked the guy.
'Another suicide bombing in Baghdad. Seventy people killed,' he replied tersely. 'You are Larry Page from America, aren't you?'
'Yeah,' I nodded. 'How did you know?'
'I saw your name in the hotel register.'
'And who might you be?'
'I am Bilal Beg, from Kashmir.'
I had no idea where Kashmir was, but I nodded my head again.
'Tell me, Mr Page, why doesn't your country just quit Iraq?' Bilal demanded suddenly.
'I dunno. Isn't it because we need to get that guy Saddam or something?'
'But Saddam has already been hanged!'
'Oh really? Sorry, I haven't watched CNN for, like, a year.'
He looked at me as if I had stolen his wallet and walked out of the room.
That evening I made the mistake of eating out at a roadside restaurant. The food was mind-blowingly hot, some kind of flatbread filled with potatoes and pickle that went to work on my stomach straight away. As soon as I returned to the guesthouse, I had to rush to the john.
The whole of Friday and Saturday I spent in my room, with the worst stomach ache of my life. I felt like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. The only person who came to look me up was Bilal. He even gave me some kind of green syrup which helped me recover. By Sunday morning, I was raring to go out, having been cooped up with the runs for the last two days.