Reluctantly, I climbed into the back seat and, appearing quite relieved, Govind put the car in gear and drove off. The guard at the gate saluted us as we left, and I sighed. The world was right again, at least for Govind and the saluting guard, who clearly took as much pride in his duties as Govind did in his driving.

I didn’t know where to go, so I asked Govind to show me something interesting in Poona. He was a sweet man, and I was growing fond of him. He’d learned how many ice cubes to add to my scotch, as well as how many pegs I enjoyed in each drink. He knew I liked to wait five minutes for my masala chai to cool just so, and that I hated the milk skin that formed on top of the tea. I appreciated that he took the trouble to let my tea cool before bringing it to me. And he always made sure to remove the skin off the top. He even demonstrated how he did it.

“Put the chammach—spoon—in the chai and wait chaar minnit. Four,” he said. “Maybe panch, five.”

Once the skin had formed, he gently grasped the spoon and held it vertically. As straight as an arrow. Then he pulled it slowly out of the cup. The skin wrapped itself around the stem and bowl of the spoon, clinging to it like … well, like skin. My tea was left epidermis-free.

I was living a lie of a life, in more ways than one. I wasn’t some gentleman to the manor born, with servants at my beck and call, and yet … There I was, alone in the house, enjoying the perks of a rich man’s privilege.

The first time Govind took me driving, he wanted to be sure I saw the great Dagdusheth Ganpati Temple. Ganpati was the Maharashtrian name for Ganesh. He raved about it as we crossed Poona, traveling west for nearly twenty minutes. The temple, located in the Budhwar Peth section of town, was built by a grieving father for his sons who’d died of plague in the late 1800s.

“Look, sir,” he said, beaming as we stood before the temple. “Ganpati.”

The idol, measuring about six feet high, sat on a throne and was bedecked with an impressive amount of gold and garlands. Worshippers jammed the street, waiting to enter the temple to make their offerings of coconuts and flowers to the deity. They removed their chappals and filed in barefoot, ringing a loud bell of some kind once inside.

Standing there with my driver/guide, I had to admit that this was a better tourist experience than oohing and aahing at Clorox® bleach in the cleaning products aisle of Dorabjee’s. I thanked Govind warmly for the honor of visiting the temple with him.