Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

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.