The white Mercedes left the compound, with Shankar—Willy’s driver—at the wheel, and Sushmita and Willy in the back seat. The guard saluted the departing car then closed the gate. I was alone in Willy’s house. Sushmita’s house. Not quite alone. There was Govind, the butler or majordomo—whatever his title was—Kamal, the cook; Pooja, who washed the clothes; the guard at the gate; and the gardener. I suddenly felt unwelcome. What if these people resented having me around? Maybe they enjoyed the brief periods of relaxed duties when the cat was away. I was spoiling that for them.

After a six-mile run and my bath, I relaxed in the garden behind the house. It was another rare day without rain, so I wanted to make the most of it. I checked the matrimonial ads, as I’d been doing each morning, but there was no message.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Govind, appearing before me. He smiled. “Chai, sir?”

I drew a long breath, thinking how spoiled rotten I’d become. But, at the same time, I couldn’t deny this was a comfortable setup. And his smile made me reconsider my worries of not being welcome by the staff.

“Thank you, Govind. Some masala chai would be nice.”

Indians can either be an obstacle to your happiness here, or the means to achieve it. Willy’s first words to me echoed in my ears, and I felt like an entitled prick.

The next three days passed slowly. I lurched from meal to meal. The schedule was maddeningly regular. Morning tea and biscuits (Shrewsbury) at 8:30, breakfast at 10:00, lunch at 1:30, afternoon tea at 5:00, cocktails at 7:00, and dinner at 9:00. I tried to explore the city between meals, but it rained the entire week after the first day. Still, I kept to my exercise regimen, running several miles each morning. And Govind was kind enough to take me out in the second car, the blue Ambassador. I sensed he longed to be a driver instead of a generic servant.

The first time we went out together, I tried to sit in front with him, but he nearly had a seizure. His face went red at my attempt to show my egalitarianism. He was having none of it. I came to understand that my gesture upset his worldview. He was proud to be a driver, if only for a few hours. He even had a cap, which he donned only when behind the wheel. To him, I could only assume, driving a gora who sat beside him in the front seat invalidated somehow his value as a professional chauffeur. His place was in the front, mine was in the back.