“I need a taxi. I’m going to miss my flight.”

“No, sir. Flights are canceled. No taxis are plying.”

“What? Why? What’s happened?”

“The government has declared an emergency,” he said. “That’s all we know. Please go back to your room.”

The staff at deluxe hotels in India always assumed that any foreigner walking through the door was a guest. I was sure they didn’t extend the same respect to Indians.

“I’m staying across the road,” I said. “In the Sagar Darshan building.”

“It’s all right, sir,” he said. “Come sit in the lobby or the coffee shop. It’s not safe to be out.”

I resigned myself to missing my plane and my scoop. What did an “emergency” mean, anyway? Had another war broken out with Pakistan? Akshay didn’t know much.

“We received a tip from Delhi about five hours ago,” he said. “Before the phones and electricity were cut. We’re running on generators now.”

I wandered across the darkened lobby to the coffee shop. In Indian hotels, coffee shops were the in-house restaurants, usually open twenty-four hours. It was a misnomer, at least for Americans, as they in no way resembled what we would call a coffee shop back home. The restaurant was empty at 5:10 in the morning except for an American businessman, dressed for the day in a dark suit and narrow tie. He sat at a table near one of the walls, reviewing some papers through his horn-rimmed glasses. We made eye contact, and the connection was instant. We had to talk to each other and right away.

“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, offering me the seat across from him with a tilt of his head. I joined him.

“Not much,” I said. “Everything was fine when I turned in last night. I was supposed to catch a flight to Delhi at six. But no car, no taxis. I had to sneak out of my building and avoid a cop to get here. How about you? Any idea what’s happened?”

He neatened his papers then leaned forward to speak. His accent was Southern. Maybe lower Midwestern, and his hair was cropped close to his scalp on the sides. Mine was wavy and longish. We must have looked as mismatched as Mutt and Jeff.

“Mrs. Gandhi has taken over,” he said in a low voice. “Might as well be a coup. Mark my words, no court is going to throw her out of office. That conviction of hers will disappear faster than shit goes through a goose. World’s largest democracy, my ass. This country’s no better than a tinpot dictatorship.”

I considered his words. He might well have been right. One thing was for sure, though. He was an asshole. The ugly American. I wished I hadn’t sat down, but I wanted information, and he seemed to have some.