Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

Professor Page? My head got all swole up just hearing that word. I wished Mom could have been here to see her son being called Professor. 'It means, there ain't nothing in life worth your while that don't come hard, you understand? So you keep practising and quick as a hiccup you are gonna start to talk like me.OK folks, time to paint your butts white and run with the antelope.'

It was as easy as that. Quickest thirty grand I've ever made in my life. The rest of my job involved sitting in an office on the mezzanine floor with a headset over my ears, watching the activity in the shop floor, listening in on the chatter, marking crosses against those 'customer-support associates' whose English and manners were not up to speed.

The whole call-centre thing amazed me. Here were Indian boys and gals with perfectly good Indian names who were becoming Robert and Susan and Jason and Jane during the night. In fact there were strict rules that they had to call each other by their American names even during the tea and dinner breaks.

'That's the problem,' a supervisor by the name of Mr Devdutt told me. He was a short guy in his fifties, with a crew-cut and wire-rimmed spectacles. 'These kids think they've really become Americans. Not only do they talk and dress like Americans, they are now even going out on dates like Americans. I work in the callcentre industry, Mr Page, but I will never allow my daughter to join it.'

'Why not?'

'Because call centres have become dens of vice and corruption. You don't know what I have to deal with every day. How can I enforce discipline when I have girls coming in dressed like prostitutes? They wear low-cut tops showing their breasts. One came wearing jeans so low, I could see her underwear. I have conducted random searches of girls' handbags and found condoms in there with their lipsticks. I have a strong suspicion that some of the associates are having sex in the toilets during the dinner break.'

'That's nothing,' I told him. 'Back home, I've seen boys and gals making out in the classrooms of Richfield High.'

'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?'