He was asking about something else when Mukesh Sir's son Roshan came running up to us with a plastic bat and ball in his hand.

Ram Persad snapped his fingers for me.

(Playing cricket with any brat in the household who wanted to play-and letting him win, handsomely-was one of the prescribed duties of driver number two.)

Mr. Ashok joined the game. He stood as the wicket-keeper while I bowled full tosses to the brat.

"I'm Azharuddin, captain of India!" the boy shouted every time he hit a six or a four.

"Call yourself Gavaskar. Azharuddin is a Muslim."

It was the Stork. He had come into the courtyard to watch.

Mr. Ashok said, "Father, what a silly thing to say! Hindu or Muslim, what difference does it make?"

"Oh, you young people and your modern ideas!" the Stork said. He put his hands on me. "I have to steal the driver, Roshan-I'm sorry, you'll have him back in an hour, okay?"

The Stork had a special use for driver number two. He had bad legs, with blue veins in them, and had been told by a doctor to sit in the courtyard in the evening with his feet in warm water and have them massaged by a servant.

I had to heat water on the stove, carry it into the courtyard, and then lift the old man's feet up one after the other and immerse them in the hot water and then massage them both gently; as I did this, he would close his eyes and moan.

After half an hour, he would say, "The water's gone cold," and then I had to lift his feet out, one at a time, from the bucket, and carry the bucket in to the toilet. The water in it was dark-dead hair and bits of skin floated on it. I had to fill the bucket with fresh hot water, and bring it back.

As I was massaging, the two sons pulled up chairs and sat down by their father to talk. Ram Persad would bring out a bottle full of a golden liquid, and pour it into three glasses, and drop ice cubes in their glasses, and hand one glass to each of them. The sons would wait for the father to take the first sip and say, "Ah…whiskey. How would we survive this country without it," and then the talking would start. The more they talked, the faster I massaged. They talked about politics, coal, and about your country- China. Somehow these things-politics, coal, China-were linked to the family fortunes of the Stork; and dimly I understood that my own fate, since I was part of this family now, was linked into these three things as well. The chatter of coal and China got mixed up with the aroma of whiskey from the glasses, the stench of sweat rising up from the Stork's feet dipped in the warm water, the flakiness of his skin, and the light jabs of the sandaled feet of Mr. Ashok or the Mongoose when they bumped into my back in the process of moving about. I absorbed everything-that's the amazing thing about entrepreneurs. We are like sponges-we absorb and grow.

A sharp blow landed on my head.

I looked up and saw the Stork, with his palm still raised over my skull, glaring at me.

"Know what that was for?"

"Yes, sir," I said-with a big smile on my face.

"Good."

A minute later he hit me on the head again.

"Tell him what it was for, Father. I don't think he knows. Fellow, you're pressing too hard. You're too excited. Father is getting annoyed. Slow down."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have to hit the servants, Father?"

"This is not America, son. Don't ask questions like that."

"Why can't I ask questions?"

"They expect it from us, Ashok. Remember that-they respect us for it."

Now, Pinky Madam never joined in these conversations. Except to play badminton with Ram Persad, which she did wearing dark glasses, she never left her room. I wondered what was going on with her-was she having a fight with her husband? Was he not sticking it to her well in bed?

When the Stork said, "The water's gone cold," for the second time, and took his feet out of the bucket, my work was done.

I splashed the cold water down the sink.

I washed my hands for ten minutes, and dried them, and washed them again, but it made no difference. No matter how much you wash your hands after you have massaged a man's foot, the smell of his old, flaky skin will stay on your skin for an entire day.

There was only one activity that servant number one and servant number two had to do together. At least once a week, around six o'clock, Ram Persad and I left the house and went down the main road, until we got to a store with a sign that said:

"JACKPOT" ENGLISH LIQUOR SHOP

INDIAN-MADE FOREIGN LIQUOR SOLD HERE

I should explain to you, Mr. Jiabao, that in this country we have two kinds of men: "Indian" liquor men and "English" liquor men. "Indian" liquor was for village boys like me-toddy, arrack, country hooch. "English" liquor, naturally, is for the rich. Rum, whiskey, beer, gin-anything the English left behind. (Is there a "Chinese" liquor, Mr. Premier? I'd love to take a sip.)

One of the most important duties of driver number one was to come to Jackpot once a week and buy a bottle of the most expensive whiskey for the Stork and his sons. It was part of servant protocol, though don't ask me why, that the junior driver accompany him on this outing. I guess I was supposed to make sure he did not run away with the bottle.

Colored bottles of various sizes were stacked up on Jackpot's shelves, and two teenagers behind the counter struggled to take orders from the men shouting at them. On the white wall to the side of the shop, there were hundreds of names of liquor brands, written in a dripping red paint and subdivided into five categories, BEER, RUM, WHISKEY, GIN, and VODKA.

PRICE LIST "JACKPOT" ENGLISH LIQUOR SHOP

OUR WHISKEY

WHISKEY FIRST CLASS

WHISKEY SECOND CLASS

WHISKEY THIRD CLASS

(EVEN CHEAPER WHISKEY IS AVAILABLE: ASK AT THE COUNTER.)

OUR VODKA

VODKA FIRST CLASS…

It was a small store, and at least fifty men were crammed into the ten feet of space in front of the counter, each yelling at the top of his voice, while waving rupee notes of the higher denominations:

"Kinfisher Strong one liter!"

"Old Monk half bottle!"

"Thunderbolt! Thunderbolt!"

They were not going to be drinking this liquor; I could tell from their torn and dirty shirts that they were only servants, like Ram Persad and me, come to buy English liquor for their masters. If we came after eight o'clock on a weekend night to Jackpot, it was like a civil war in front of the counter; I had to keep the men at bay, while Ram Persad shoved his way to the counter and yelled:

"Black Dog! Full bottle!"

Black Dog was the first name in the first-class category of whiskey. It was the only thing that the Stork and his sons drank.

Ram Persad would get the liquor; and then I would swat at the other servants and fight for some space for us to get out, while he cradled the bottle in his arms. It was the only time we were ever like a team.

On our way back to the house, Ram Persad would always stop by the side of the road and slide the Black Dog out of its cardboard box. He said this was to check that Jackpot hadn't cheated us. I knew he was lying. He just wanted to hold the bottle. He wanted to hold the full, virgin bottle of first-class whiskey in his hand. He wanted to imagine that he was buying it for himself. Then he would slide the bottle back into the cardboard box and return to the house, me behind him, my eyes still dazzled by the sight of so much English liquor.

At night, while Ram Persad snored from his bed, I lay on the floor with my head resting on my palms.

I was staring at the ceiling.