I sighed, because this one looked nothing like Kim Basinger. Not half as pretty. That was when it hit me-in a way it never had before-how the rich always get the best things in life, and all that we get is their leftovers.

The manager brought both his palms up to my face; he opened and closed them, and then did it again.

Twenty minutes.

Then he made a knocking motion with his fist-followed by a kicking motion with his shiny black boot.

"Get it?"

That's what would happen to me after twenty minutes.

"Yes."

He slammed the door. The woman with the golden hair still wasn't looking at me.

I had only summoned up the courage to sit down by her side when there was banging on the door outside.

"When you hear that-it's over! Get it?" The manager's voice.

"All right!"

I moved closer to the woman on the bed. She neither resisted nor encouraged. I touched a curl of her hair and pulled it gently to get her to turn her face toward me. She looked tired, and worn out, and there were bruises around her eyes, as if someone had scratched her.

She gave me a big smile-I knew it well: it was the smile a servant gives a master.

"What's your name?" she asked in Hindi.

This one too! They must have a Hindi language school for girls in this country, Ukraine, I swear!

"Munna."

She smiled. "That's not a real name. It just means 'boy.'"

"That's right. But it's my name," I said. "My family gave me no other name."

She began laughing-a high-pitched, silvery laugh that made her whole golden head of hair bob up and down. My heart beat like a horse's. Her perfume went straight to my brain.

"You know, when I was young, I was given a name in my language that just meant 'girl.' My family did the same thing to me!"

"Wow," I said, curling my legs up on the bed.

We talked. She told me she hated the mosquitoes in this hotel and the manager, and I nodded. We talked for a while like this, and then she said, "You're not a bad-looking fellow-and you're quite sweet," and then ran her finger through my hair.

At this point, I jumped out of the bed. I said, "Why are you here, sister? If you want to leave this hotel, why don't you? Don't worry about the manager. I'm here to protect you! I am your own brother, Balram Halwai!"

Sure, I said that-in the Hindi film they'll make of my life.

"Seven thousand sweet rupees for twenty minutes! Time to get started!"

That was what I actually said.

I climbed on top of her-and held her arms behind her head with one hand. Time to dip my beak in her. I let the other hand run through her golden curls.

And then I shrieked. I could not have shrieked louder if you had shown me a lizard.

"What happened, Munna?" she asked.

I jumped off the bed, and slapped her.

My, these foreigners can yell when they want to.

Immediately-as if the manager had been there all the time, his ear to the door, grinning-the door burst open, and he came in.

"This," I shouted at him, pulling the girl by her hair, "is not real gold."

The roots were black! It was all a dye job!

He shrugged. "What do you expect, for seven thousand? The real thing costs forty, fifty."

I leapt at him, caught his chin in my hand, and rammed it against the door. "I want my money back!"

The woman let out a scream from behind me. I turned around-that was the mistake I made. I should've finished off that manager right there and then.

Ten minutes later, with a scratched and bruised face, I came tumbling out the front door. It slammed behind me.

Vitiligo-Lips hadn't waited. I had to take a bus back home; I was rubbing my head the whole time. Seven thousand rupees-I wanted to cry! Do you know how many water buffaloes you could have bought for that much money?-I could feel Granny's fingers wringing my ears.

Back in Buckingham Towers at last-after a one-hour traffic jam on the road-I washed the wound on my head in the common sink, and then spat a dozen times. To hell with everything-I scratched my groin. I needed that. I slouched toward my room, kicked opened the door, and froze.

Someone was inside the mosquito net. I saw a silhouette in the lotus position.

"Don't worry, Balram. I know what you were doing."

A man's voice. Well, at least it wasn't Granny-that was my first thought.

Mr. Ashok lifted up a corner of the net and looked at me, a sly grin on his face.

"I know exactly what you were doing."

"Sir?"

"I was calling your name and you weren't responding. So I came down to see. But I know exactly what you were doing…that other driver, the man with pink lips, he told me."

My heart pounded. I looked down at the ground.

"He said you were at the temple, offering prayers for my health."

"Yes, sir," I said, with sweat pouring down my face in relief. "That's right, sir."

"Come inside the net," he said softly. I went in and sat next to him inside the mosquito net. He was looking at the roaches walking above us.

"You live in such a hole, Balram. I never knew. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, sir. I'm used to it."

"I'll give you some money, Balram. You go into some better housing tomorrow, okay?"

He caught my hand and turned it over. "Balram, what are all these red marks on your palm? Have you been pinching yourself?"

"No, sir…it's a skin disease. I've got it here too, behind my ear-see-all those pink spots?"

He came close, filling my nostrils with his perfume. Bending my ear with a finger, gently, he looked.

"My. I never noticed. I sit behind you every day and I never-"

"A lot of people have this disease, sir. A lot of poor people."

"Really. I haven't noticed. Can you get it treated?"

"No, sir. The diseases of the poor can never get treated. My father had TB and it killed him."

"It's the twenty-first century, Balram. Anything can be treated. You go to the hospital and get it treated. Send me the bill, I'll pay it."

"Thank you, sir," I said. "Sir…do you want me to take you somewhere in the City?"

He opened his lips and then closed them without making any noise. He did this a couple of times, and then he said, "My way of living is all wrong, Balram. I know it, but I don't have the courage to change it. I just don't have…the balls."

"Don't think so much about it, sir. And sir, let's go upstairs, I beg you. This is not a place for a man of quality like yourself."

"I let people exploit me, Balram. I've never done what I've wanted, my whole life. I…"

His head sagged; his whole body looked tired and worn.

"You should eat something, sir," I said. "You look tired."

He smiled-a big, trusting baby's smile.

"You're always thinking of me, Balram. Yes, I want to eat. But I don't want to go to another hotel, Balram. I'm sick of hotels. Take me to the kind of place you go to eat, Balram."

"Sir?"

"I'm sick of the food I eat, Balram. I'm sick of the life I lead. We rich people, we've lost our way, Balram. I want to be a simple man like you, Balram."

"Yes, sir."

We walked outside, and I led him across the road and into a tea shop.

"Order for us, Balram. Order the commoners' food."

I ordered okra, cauliflower, radish, spinach, and daal. Enough to feed a whole family, or one rich man.

He ate and burped and ate some more.

"This food is fantastic. And just twenty-five rupees! You people eat so well!"

When he was done, I ordered him a lassi, and when he took the first sip, he smiled. "I like eating your kind of food!"

I smiled and thought, I like eating your kind of food too.

"The divorce papers will come through soon. That's what the lawyer said."