"What is it, Country-Mouse? Want another magazine?"

"Not that. Something else."

I got down on my haunches; I squatted by one of the tires of the City. I scraped the grooves of the tire with a fingernail. He squatted too.

I showed him the strand of golden hair-I kept it tied around my wrist, like a locket. He brought my wrist to his nose-he rubbed the strand between his fingers, sniffed it, and let my wrist down.

"No problem." He winked. "I told you your master would get lonely."

"Don't talk about him!" I seized his neck. He shook me off.

"Are you crazy? You tried to choke me!"

I scraped the grooves of the tire again. "How much will it cost?"

"High-class or low-class? Virgin or nonvirgin? All depends."

"I don't care. She just has to have golden hair-like in the shampoo advertisements."

"Cheapest is ten, twelve thousand."

"That's too much. He won't pay more than four thousand seven hundred."

"Six thousand five hundred, Country-Mouse. That's the minimum. White skin has to be respected."

"All right."

"When does he want it, Country-Mouse?"

"I'll tell you. It'll be soon. And another thing-I want to know another thing."

I put my face on the tire and breathed in the smell of the leather. For strength.

"How many ways are there for a driver to cheat his master?"

Mr. Jiabao, I am aware that it is a common feature of those cellophane-wrapped business books to feature small "sidebars." At this stage of the story, to relieve you of tedium, I would like to insert my own "sidebar" into the narrative of the modern entrepreneur's growth and development.

HOW DOES THE ENTERPRISING DRIVER

EARN A LITTLE EXTRA CASH?

1. When his master is not around, he can siphon petrol from the car, with a funnel. Then sell the petrol.

2. When his master orders him to make a repair to the car, he can go to a corrupt mechanic; the mechanic will inflate the price of the repair, and the driver will receive a cut. This is a list of a few entrepreneurial mechanics who help entrepreneurial drivers:

Lucky Mechanics, in Lado Serai, near the Qutub

R.V. Repairs, in Greater Kailash Part Two

Nilofar Mechanics, in DLF Phase One, in Gurgaon.

3. He should study his master's habits, and then ask himself: "Is my master careless? If so, what are the ways in which I can benefit from his carelessness?" For instance, if his master leaves empty English liquor bottles lying around in the car, he can sell the whiskey bottles to the bootleggers. Johnnie Walker Black brings the best resale value.

4. As he gains in experience and confidence and is ready to try something riskier, he can turn his master's car into a freelance taxi. The stretch of the road from Gurgaon to Delhi is excellent for this; lots of Romeos come to see their girlfriends who work in the call centers. Once the entrepreneurial driver is sure that his master is not going to notice the absence of the car-and that none of his master's friends are likely to be on the road at this time-he can spend his free time cruising around, picking up and dropping off paying customers.

At night I lay in my mosquito net, the lightbulb on in my room, and watched the dark roaches crawling on top of the net, their antennae quivering and trembling, like bits of my own nerves: and I lay in bed, too agitated even to reach out and crush them. A cockroach flew down and landed right above my head.

You should have asked them for money when they made you sign that thing. Enough money to sleep with twenty white-skinned girls. It flew away. Another landed on the same spot.

Twenty?

A hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred, a thousand, ten thousand golden-haired whores. And even that would still not have been enough. That would not start to be enough.

Over the next two weeks, I did things I am still ashamed to admit. I cheated my employer. I siphoned his petrol; I took his car to a corrupt mechanic who billed him for work that was not necessary; and three times, while driving back to Buckingham B, I picked up a paying customer.

The strangest thing was that each time I looked at the cash I had made by cheating him, instead of guilt, what did I feel?

Rage.

The more I stole from him, the more I realized how much he had stolen from me.

To go back to the analogy I used when describing Indian politics to you earlier, I was growing a belly at last.

Then one Sunday afternoon, when Mr. Ashok had said he wouldn't need me again that day, I gulped two big glasses of whiskey for courage, then went to the servants' dormitory. Vitiligo-Lips was sitting beneath the poster of a film actress-each time his master "hammered" an actress, he put her poster up on the wall-playing cards with the other drivers.

"Well, you can say what you want, but I know that these jokers aren't going to win reelection."

He looked up and saw me.

"Well, look who's here. It's the yoga guru, paying us a rare visit. Welcome, honored sir."

They showed me their teeth. I showed them my teeth.

"We were discussing the elections, Country-Mouse. You know, it's not like the Darkness here. The elections aren't rigged. Are you going to vote this time?"

I summoned him with a finger.

He shook his head. "Later, Country-Mouse, I'm having too much fun discussing the elections."

I waved the brown envelope in the air. He put his cards down at once.

I insisted that we walk down to the parking lot; he counted the money there, in the shadow of the Honda City.

"Good, Country-Mouse. It's all here. And where is your master? Will you drive him there?"

"I am my own master."

He didn't get it for a minute. Then his jaw dropped-he rushed forward-he hugged me. "Country-Mouse!" He hugged me again. "My man!"

He was from the Darkness too-and you feel proud when you see one of your own kind showing some ambition in life.

He drove me in the Qualis-his master's Qualis-to the hotel, explaining on the way that he ran an informal "taxi" service when the boss wasn't around.

This hotel was in South Extension, Part Two-one of the best shopping areas in Delhi. Vitiligo-Lips locked his Qualis, smiled reassuringly, and walked with me up to the reception desk. A man in a white shirt and black bow tie was running his finger down the entries in a long ledger; leaving his finger on the book, he looked at me as Vitiligo-Lips explained things into his ear.

The manager shook his head. "A golden-haired woman-for him?"

He put his hands on the counter and leaned over so he could see me from the toes up.

"For him?"

Vitiligo-Lips smiled. "Look here, the rich of Delhi have had all the golden-haired women they want; who knows what they'll want next? Green-haired women from the moon? Now it's going to be the working class that lines up for the white women. This fellow is the future of your business, I tell you-treat him well."

The manager seemed uncertain for a moment; then he slammed the ledger shut and showed me an open palm. "Give me five hundred rupees extra." He grinned. "Working-class surcharge."

"I don't have it!"

"Give me five hundred or forget it."

I took out the last three hundred rupees I had. He took the cash, straightened his tie, and then went up the stairs. Vitiligo-Lips patted me on the shoulder and said, "Good luck, Country-Mouse-do it for all of us!"

I ran up the stairs.

Room 114A. The manager was standing at the door, with his ear to it. He whispered, "Anastasia?"

He knocked, then put his ear to the door again and said, "Anastasia, are you in?"

He pushed the door open. A chandelier, a window, a green bed-and a girl with golden hair sitting on the bed.