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.
The days passed quickly and before I knew it, 31 December arrived. I had plenty of offers to attend New Year parties from Vincent, Reggie and Gina, all of whom had taken leave. But after all that had happened, I just didn't feel like celebrating. That's when I received an offer from the management. They wanted volunteers to man the call centre on New Year's Eve and were offering triple pay. Since I had nothing else to do, I volunteered for the night shift and sat down like an associate in what Priya called the 'hot seat' for the first time in my life.
Handling calls in a call centre is not as easy as it looks. In fact, it's a pretty stressful job. As Vincent used to say, it's just a huge crap shoot. You never know what kind of callers you're going to get. There was not much traffic that night, and it was two hours before I got my first call. It was a gentleman by the name of Mr Jim Bolton.
I adjusted the headset and followed the script taped to the screen. 'Thank you for calling American Roadside Assistance. My name is Larry Page. How may I assist you?'
'Thanks, son. We're from San Francisco. We were visiting friends in New York. From there we were going to Philadelphia for a New Year's party, but we got caught in a blizzard. We've lost our bearings a bit. It seems we have crossed Dallas and we are now in White Haven on the I-476. Can you tell us how to get to Philly from here? And please make it quick, the battery on my mobile is running out.'
'Yes, of course, Sir. From Dallas I can give you directions even to the moon. Can I have your ARA customer number, please?'
The guy gave me his subscription number and I pulled up directions from Dallas, Texas to Philadelphia, New York on the computer. The guy appeared to be nearly fifteen hundred miles off course. What was worse, I was unable to locate White Heaven on the map. I punched in all the other colours, even 'Black Hell', but the result was the same. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The place just didn't exist and I was as confused as a cow on Astroturf.
All associates are expected to complete a call in no more than three minutes, but even after ten minutes I was unable to find Mr Bolton's location. He was getting more and more impatient.
'I can't seem to find directions for Philadelphia, Sir. Would you like to travel to Waco?' I asked hopefully.
The guy blew his top. 'Listen, you bastard,' he shouted. 'For the last half-hour you've been giving me the run around. Why don't you just confess that you know shit all about the roads of the United States? You're not really Larry Page. You are some arsehole Indian sitting in some shit-hole office in goddamn Bangalore trying to fleece unsuspecting Americans, aren't you? Come on, admit it, and I might still excuse you.'
'No, Sir. My name is Larry Page and I am an American, just like you,' I replied.
'So you persist in calling yourself American, eh? You think you can fool me? I know all about how your teeny-weeny call centres operate in India. I'll expose your lie in a sec. Tell me, Mr Page, what is the population of the United States?'
&
nbsp; 'I dunno. Is it one billion?'
'Wrong. Name the ten amendments to the US Constitution.'
'Aw, shucks, that's harder than Chinese arithmetic. By the way, what's a Constitution?'
'You've not heard of the Bill of Rights? I suppose it is pointless asking you who wrote our national anthem?'
'Can I take a guess?'
'Go ahead.'
'Is it Stevie Wonder?'
'Wrong again. Can you at least recite "The Star-Spangled Banner"?'
'Gee, I used to sing it in school, but that's a long time ago. All I remember is it had something about rockets bursting in the air and bombs entering the home of the brave.'
'That does it. I can't take it any longer. You are an insult to the American nation.'
'I am sorry, Sir. But then I haven't gone to any of those fancy universities like you have.'
'You don't need an education, son. What you need is a hole in the head. Now tell me, what's your real name?'
'I told you, Sir. It's Larry Page.'
'Look, it's no use pretending any longer. I've already proved that you are not American. So what's your real Indian name? Is it Sitaram? Or is it Venkatswamy?'
'Well, Sir, you can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn't make them biscuits. I told you, I'm Larry Page and I'm an American from the great State of Texas.'
'I am asking you for the last time, what is your real name? Your Indian name, goddamnit.'
'And I'm telling you for the last time, it's Larry Page and I am not Indian, I'm American.'
'You motherfucking Indians are taking jobs away from here and you have the cheek to call yourselves American? Shame on you.'
'Well shame on you, too, Sir, using such language. Mom says, pretty is as pretty does.'
'Listen, arsehole, it's time you crawled back to your black Indian Mama. This is the last time you are going to sit in that Indian shit-hole of yours and waste precious American time. Who is your supervisor? I need to have a word with him.'
'You've done with preaching and gone to meddling now,' I told him.
'I'll tell you what meddling is, arsehole. I belong to the Teamsters. I'm the head of Local 70, and I'm going to pull the plug on you. And if your company doesn't fire you, I'm going to pull the plug on your shitty company. I demand to speak to your supervisor right now. And let me make—'
The call was cut off abruptly. Looked like his battery had died on him. I passed a hand over my face, relieved to be rid of such a nasty caller, when a message started flashing on my computer screen. 'Please see me immediately – MK.'
Madhavan Kutty was the supervisor of supervisors, a nononsense guy with snow-white hair and a foul temper. When I entered his room on the mezzanine floor, he was standing near his desk and there was another guy sitting in his chair. The stranger was dressed flashily in a black leather jacket and pointy white shoes. I wondered if he was blind coz he was wearing shades at one a.m. His face was pretty, but spoiled by a long scar running from his left eye to his cheek. He looked as shifty as a usedcar salesman.
Madhavan looked like the cheese had fallen off his cracker. 'This is Mr Vicky Rai, the owner of our company. He was passing by and decided to check in on how we were doing. He monitored just one call at random and that was yours, Larry. You have set a new benchmark for how not to handle a call.'
'Listen, I can explain. That guy was a loony. Even a blind man on a galloping horse could see it,' I began, but the flashy guy cut me short.
'No need to argue with this idiot, MK. Larry Page, you're fired,' he said and walked out, his spanking white shoes tapping on the tiled floor.
Two days later I was kicking a can aimlessly on the road in front of the guesthouse when Bilal came to me. 'Listen, Larry, now that you are no longer working in the call centre, would you like to come with me to Kashmir for a few days? I am going back today with a couple of friends.'
I had nothing better to do and a fortnight to kill. 'Yeah,' I said and sent the can spinning into the gutter.
We arrived in Srinagar the next night. When I got off the bus the wind was blowing like a tornado in a trailer park and it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. A blast of icy air struck me so hard, I almost fainted. Bilal quickly brought me a blanket and rushed me to a nearby house, where I fell asleep instantly.
The next day, we set out for a spot of sightseeing. It was a very cold day but Bilal had just the right outfit for me – a long, loose gown with upturned sleeves called a phiran, inside which I clutched a small fire-pot – my own private oven. I was as snug as a bug in a rug.
Srinagar was pretty as a picture and the people on the streets seemed very friendly. Children in brightly coloured shawls waved at me, flocks of bright-eyed schoolgirls, their heads covered, giggled shyly, women loaded with silver jewellery looked up from their houses and men wearing gowns and black hats murmured greetings to Bilal. Everyone smiled.
Our first stop was Dal Lake, which was the most awesome lake I have ever seen. It was lined with tall trees and was full of little houses on boats called – what else? – houseboats, with fabulous carved railings. The lake was dotted with lotus flowers and choked with weeds. Dazzling birds kept darting over its surface. A number of small boats paddled in between the lotus plants. As the fog lifted, I saw snow-covered mountains even taller than Mount Livermore.
On the other side of the lake was a white-domed mosque called the Hazratbal Shrine, which blasted the call for prayer from loudspeakers. Bilal said the shrine was very holy and housed a hair of the Prophet Muhammad. Even the beggars were nice here. They offered me a flower before asking for money.
Our next stop was the Jama Masjid mosque at Nowhatta, in the heart of the old city. Bilal said prayers while I browsed round the bustling old bazaar just outside.
For lunch, Bilal took me to Lal Chowk, which was like Main Street, and we had larrupin' Kashmiri food in a small roadside restaurant.
In the evening, however, there was a bomb blast at the bus station and a curfew was declared from eleven p.m., which didn't really matter because in any case the whole city closed down and went to sleep just after six.
In the middle of the night, Bilal suddenly shook me awake. 'Get up, Larry, there's going to be a raid. We need to go.'
'What happened?' I asked.
'Someone has reported you as a suspicious character. The army may come to arrest you. We need to go to a safe house.'
Bleary eyed, I got up and padded out of the house in my phiran. The street was quiet as a graveyard. Litter burned here and there and a couple of men were gathered in a corner warming their hands over a coal brazier. A few stray dogs howled. Bilal knew the city like the back of his hand. He took me through a maze of alleyways, crossing several streets, skirting a bridge, evading a sentry post, to a small, dilapidated house with a green door.
Inside the house were three of the queerest men I've ever met. The leader was a heavy-set guy with a flowing black beard and a black turban. He had a craggy face with a strange dark mark on his forehead. The second guy was younger and wore a woollen jacket over trousers and shirt. He was the same height as me, but so bucktoothed he could have eaten corn through a picket fence. Standing next to him was a tall, fair, wiry dude with long hair and a handsome, scruffy face. He was clad in baggy cream pyjama bottoms and a long black shirt.
Bilal seemed to be in a hurry to leave. 'Bas, my job was only up to here. These are my friends. They will take you to a safe place. I have to go now, Larry. All the best,' he said, and before I could stop him he rushed out like the dogs were after him.
The three guys in the room looked at me like Mike 'Mad Dog' Benson, the security chief at Walmart, looks at shoplifters. Bilal had said they were his friends. To me they seemed just about as friendly as fire ants.
'Take off your phiran,' the turbaned guy ordered.
'Why?' I asked.
'We want to check you're not carrying a weapon.'
'Whatever floats your boat,' I said and took off the gown.
The bucktoothed guy patted my sweatshirt and jeans. 'He's clean,' he announced. The tension in the air cooled a little.
'Howdy!' I said and extended my hand. 'I'm Larry Page.'
The bucktoothed guy brightened up. 'Bilal told us your name, but I didn't believe him. Are you really the Larry Page who invented Google?'
I cursed pa for naming me Larry (Mom said it was his idea). But if the Indian army was after me and my only chance of escaping was these three jokers, I thought it best to play along. Mr Bucktooth obviously didn't know baby shit from butterscotch, and if he thought I was the Google guy, I had no problem with that. No problem at all.
'Why? You think I can't invent an engine?'
His eyes widened. 'You mean you are the real Larry Page?'
'Is a frog's ass waterproof ?'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning yes. I am the guy who invented Google.'
Bucktooth looked like he would faint. 'My name is Rizvan, Mr Page, but everybody calls me Abu Teknikal. It is a great honour to meet you. I am a great fan of Google. I use it all the time,' he gushed.
'Yeah,' I nodded. 'People tell me it's the best thing since sliced bread. But why are you called Teknikal?'
'That's because he is a computer,' said the pyjama guy. 'He knows everything about everything.'
'Really?'
'Show him, Teknikal,' the pyjama guy said.
'Mr Page, I probably know more about you than any other man alive,' Teknikal boasted.
'You're kidding.'
'Yes. I can prove it. You were born on 26 March 1973 in Lansing, Michigan to Dr Carl Victor Page and Gloria Page. While a student on the Ph.D. programme in Computer Science at Stanford University, you met Sergey Brin and together you developed the Google search engine in 1998. The World Economic Forum named you a Global Leader for Tomorrow. You are currently the President of Products at Google Inc. with an estimated net worth of 16.6 billion dollars, making you the twenty-sixth-richest person on Earth. How's that?'