Jennifer took the business card the driver extended toward her, but didn’t answer. She was gazing at the immensity of the fort and recognizing the futility of trying to see a famous edifice the size of the Red Fort in an hour. It certainly would not do it justice. Adding to that negative feeling was the general exhaustion she felt with her jet lag, the lulling sensation the car had provided, and her admission she was not much of a sightseer of old buildings. Jennifer was a people person. If she was to make an effort, she’d prefer to see people than crumbling architecture any day of the week. She was far more interested in the spectacle of Indian street life, a portion of which she’d just witnessed from the car.

“Is there something wrong, Miss Hernandez?” Ranjeet asked. After handing her his card he’d continued looking at Jennifer. She’d made no effort to move.

“No,” Jennifer said. “I’ve just changed my mind. I assume we’re close to the bazaar area?”

“Oh, yes,” Ranjeet said. He pointed across the road running the length of the Red Fort. “The whole area south of Chandni Chowk, that main street leading away from the Red Fort, is the bazaar area.”

“Is there somewhere convenient for you to park so I can wander in the bazaar?”

“There is. There is parking at the Jama Masjid mosque, which is at the southern end of the bazaar.”

“Let’s go there,” Jennifer said.

Ranjeet made a rapid three-point turn and accelerated back the way they’d come, raising a cloud of yellowish dust. He also hit his horn as they bore down on a man dressed in black and carrying a jacket over his arm. What Ranjeet didn’t see was a short man standing at a refreshment stand toss away a canned soda and sprint for his car.

“Is Chandni Chowk both a street and a district?” Jennifer asked. She had gone back to reading her guidebook. “It’s a little confusing.”

“It is both,” Ranjeet said. Although stopped at the traffic light, he hit his horn again as a taxi turned into the parking area for the Lahore Gate more rapidly than appropriate, came within inches, and sped past. Ranjeet shook his fist and shouted some words in Hindi that Jennifer assumed were not used at “high tea.”

“Sorry,” Ranjeet said.

“That’s quite alright,” Jennifer said. The taxi had alarmed her as well.

The light changed and Ranjeet accelerated out into the broad multilaned Netaji Subhash Marg that fronted the Red Fort, turning south. “Have you been on a cycle rickshaw, Miss Hernandez?”

“No, I haven’t,” Jennifer admitted. “I’ve been on an auto rickshaw, though.”