A policeman appeared, lathi at the ready, and barked something at me in Marathi. He motioned to Sagar Darshan with his left hand, as if ordering me to go back inside. I made a proper fool of myself, repeating “Santa Cruz” over and over to communicate where I needed to go. But his insistence grew stronger, and he approached me in a menacing manner. With no other choice, I retreated into the lobby.

I was an experienced traveler who knew how to get by in less-than-ideal conditions. I’d reported from Africa, Vietnam, and Chile, after all. But this was different. Besides the language barrier, there was also the time of day working against me. The city was asleep. No one to ask for help. At least no one who spoke English. Then there was my flight. I was sure to miss it, and my huge story, if I didn’t get into a taxi soon.

I tried asking the liftman what was going on. Why had the policeman sent me back inside? Of course I knew he didn’t speak English, but I took a stab at it anyway. Next, I woke the sweeper and the durwan. Same language barrier. I made a dialing gesture, and the durwan caught on. Somewhat reluctantly, he opened the small cabin at the rear of the dim lobby. There was a radio, a cluttered desk with schedules, rubber stamps, papers, and a telephone.

A baksheesh was in order. I slipped the man a couple of rupees and lifted the receiver, intending to dial the number on my ticket. But the phone and my sorry luck had other ideas. No dial tone. What the hell was happening?

Peering out through the security gate, I caught sight of the policeman who’d chased me back inside. He was prowling around a tree on the other side of the lane. Then he clamped his lathi under one arm and began to undo his fly. I put the phone down and scooped up my bag. There was a side entrance to the lobby for the servants’ use, and I dashed through it into the compound with the building between me and the cop. Sticking close to the trees along the wall, I emerged into the lane out of his line of sight. Two minutes later, I strode up to the entrance of the President Hotel, confident I could still make my flight.

The door was locked. No durwan. That was strange. At the finer hotels, there was always a mustachioed doorman in a turban, ready to salute you. Even odder, there were no taxis waiting outside. Not one. Through the glass, I could see staff at the reception desk. I tapped on the door, and a smart-looking young man in a maroon blazer came to open up. He unlocked and stepped aside to let me in. His name tag read “Akshay.”

“Sir, please come in,” he said. “It’s not safe.”