Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

I was saved by a hawker selling bananas in a cart. The cow mooed and made a beeline for him. I quickly stepped into the building.

The guesthouse reception had a tattered green sofa, a dusty red carpet and dying plants. The manager was an oily young man with slick black hair. 'Welcome, Sir, to our five-star guesthouse,' he greeted me. He asked me to pay two thousand rupees as a week's rent deposit and allotted me room number 411 on the second floor without any fuss. A young boy in dirty underpants picked up my suitcase and took me to the room up a creaky staircase.

My room was nothing to write home about. Only a little bigger than a cubby-hole, it had a single bed, a cupboard and a small desk and chair. The walls were painted grey and the floor was covered with a cheap carpet. There was an attached john with a smelly WC, a tap, a bucket and a mug.

'Breakfast from seven to seven thirty in TV lounge,' the boy announced as he placed my suitcase on top of the desk. 'Can I get you anything? Food? Girl? Coke? Smoke?'

I thought about the choices. 'I wouldn't mind a Coke,' I said.

'Five hundred rupees, please,' he demanded. That was more than ten dollars for a can of Coke! I couldn't cotton on to these Indian price tags. Reluctantly, I parted with the money.

After the boy left, I opened the dark-green curtains at the window to check out the view. A tangled mass of cables greeted my eye, stretching from one building to another like a roof above the street. There was enough dodgy wiring here to electrocute the whole of Texas. Some kind of black smog hung in the air. Two people were arguing loudly on a roof below me. A radio was playing a Hindi song. I wondered how I would sleep with this racket going on.

The bell boy returned in ten minutes and handed me a little plastic packet containing some white powder.

'What the hell's this?' I said. 'I asked for a Coke.'

'This is coke. High grade. Top class,' he said and scampered out of the room.

'Hey, wait!' I shouted, but the boy had already disappeared. I sniffed at the powder. It didn't smell like Coke at all. I was wondering whether I needed to mix it with water when the door was kicked open and a fat policeman barged in. 'Hold it right there, Mister,' he announced in a stern voice. 'What is this in your hand?'

'I dunno. I asked for a Coke and I got this,' I said, spreading my hands.

'Aha! So you admit you asked for cocaine.'

'Cocaine? What do you mean?'

'Don't act the innocent. In Paharganj, when a foreigner asks for a smoke, he means marijuana. And when he asks for coke, he means cocaine. But possession of cocaine is a very serious criminal offence in our country. Now you will go to jail for ten years.'

Jail for ten years? For ordering a Coke? I almost puked.

'Come on, I am taking you to the police station,' the cop announced and took out a pair of handcuffs from his hip pocket.

I flipped on seeing the cuffs, and that's when I remembered what had happened at the airport. In a flash I took out a hundreddollar bill from my wallet and waved it at the cop. 'Would you like a little something for your dollar collection?'

The cop's eyes began shining. He grunted and snatched the note. 'I am forgiving you this time. Don't do drugs in India,' he warned me, pocketed the plastic packet and left, tapping his stick on the staircase.

I slumped down on the bed, just plumb tuckered out from all that had happened in a day. I had taken my first foreign trip, been stood up by the girl I'd fallen in love with, almost been sent back from the airport, been head-butted by a cow and nearly arrested by a cop.

I opened the brown folder and took out the pictures I had been sent. I looked into the eyes of this woman – Sapna or Shabnam – and tried to ask her, Why did you do this to me?

The next morning I was woken up by a fluttering sound. I opened my eyes and found two pigeons making out next to my bed. I shooed them out the window, and leaned out to see the morning view. The sun had not yet come out, but the day had already begun for the people on the street. There were little girls in frocks busy filling a whole heap of plastic bottles from a tap. A man was taking a bath on the pavement. He soaped himself, standing in striped underpants next to a plastic bucket, and then rinsed off with a mug of water.

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.