'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?'

'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.