Six Suspects (29 page)

The days passed quickly and before I knew it, 31 December
arrived. I had plenty of offers to attend New Year parties from
Vincent, Reggie and Gina, all of whom had taken leave. But after
all that had happened, I just didn't feel like celebrating. That's
when I received an offer from the management. They wanted volunteers
to man the call centre on New Year's Eve and were
offering triple pay. Since I had nothing else to do, I volunteered for
the night shift and sat down like an associate in what Priya called
the 'hot seat' for the first time in my life.

Handling calls in a call centre is not as easy as it looks. In fact,
it's a pretty stressful job. As Vincent used to say, it's just a huge crap
shoot. You never know what kind of callers you're going to get.
There was not much traffic that night, and it was two hours before
I got my first call. It was a gentleman by the name of Mr Jim Bolton.

I adjusted the headset and followed the script taped to the
screen. 'Thank you for calling American Roadside Assistance. My
name is Larry Page. How may I assist you?'

'Thanks, son. We're from San Francisco. We were visiting
friends in New York. From there we were going to Philadelphia for
a New Year's party, but we got caught in a blizzard. We've lost our
bearings a bit. It seems we have crossed Dallas and we are now in
White Haven on the I-476. Can you tell us how to get to Philly
from here? And please make it quick, the battery on my mobile is
running out.'

'Yes, of course, Sir. From Dallas I can give you directions even
to the moon. Can I have your ARA customer number, please?'

The guy gave me his subscription number and I pulled up
directions from Dallas, Texas to Philadelphia, New York on the
computer. The guy appeared to be nearly fifteen hundred miles
off course. What was worse, I was unable to locate White Heaven
on the map. I punched in all the other colours, even 'Black Hell',
but the result was the same. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The place just didn't
exist and I was as confused as a cow on Astroturf.

All associates are expected to complete a call in no more than
three minutes, but even after ten minutes I was unable to find Mr
Bolton's location. He was getting more and more impatient.

'I can't seem to find directions for Philadelphia, Sir. Would you
like to travel to Waco?' I asked hopefully.

The guy blew his top. 'Listen, you bastard,' he shouted. 'For
the last half-hour you've been giving me the run around. Why
don't you just confess that you know shit all about the roads of
the United States? You're not really Larry Page. You are some arsehole
Indian sitting in some shit-hole office in goddamn Bangalore
trying to fleece unsuspecting Americans, aren't you? Come on,
admit it, and I might still excuse you.'

'No, Sir. My name is Larry Page and I am an American, just like
you,' I replied.

'So you persist in calling yourself American, eh? You think you
can fool me? I know all about how your teeny-weeny call centres
operate in India. I'll expose your lie in a sec. Tell me, Mr Page,
what is the population of the United States?'

'I dunno. Is it one billion?'

'Wrong. Name the ten amendments to the US Constitution.'

'Aw, shucks, that's harder than Chinese arithmetic. By the way,
what's a Constitution?'

'You've not heard of the Bill of Rights? I suppose it is pointless
asking you who wrote our national anthem?'

'Can I take a guess?'

'Go ahead.'

'Is it Stevie Wonder?'

'Wrong again. Can you at least recite "The Star-Spangled
Banner"?'

'Gee, I used to sing it in school, but that's a long time ago. All
I remember is it had something about rockets bursting in the air
and bombs entering the home of the brave.'

'That does it. I can't take it any longer. You are an insult to the
American nation.'

'I am sorry, Sir. But then I haven't gone to any of those fancy
universities like you have.'

'You don't need an education, son. What you need is a hole in
the head. Now tell me, what's your real name?'

'I told you, Sir. It's Larry Page.'

'Look, it's no use pretending any longer. I've already proved
that you are not American. So what's your real Indian name? Is it
Sitaram? Or is it Venkatswamy?'

'Well, Sir, you can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn't
make them biscuits. I told you, I'm Larry Page and I'm an
American from the great State of Texas.'

'I am asking you for the last time, what is your
real
name? Your
Indian name, goddamnit.'

'And I'm telling you for the last time, it's Larry Page and I am
not Indian, I'm American.'

'You motherfucking Indians are taking jobs away from here
and you have the cheek to call yourselves American? Shame on
you.'

'Well shame on you, too, Sir, using such language. Mom says,
pretty is as pretty does.'

'Listen, arsehole, it's time you crawled back to your black
Indian Mama. This is the last time you are going to sit in that
Indian shit-hole of yours and waste precious American time. Who
is your supervisor? I need to have a word with him.'

'You've done with preaching and gone to meddling now,' I told
him.

'I'll tell you what meddling is, arsehole. I belong to the
Teamsters. I'm the head of Local 70, and I'm going to pull the plug
on you. And if your company doesn't fire you, I'm going to pull
the plug on your shitty company. I demand to speak to your
supervisor right now. And let me make—'

The call was cut off abruptly. Looked like his battery had died
on him. I passed a hand over my face, relieved to be rid of such a
nasty caller, when a message started flashing on my computer
screen. 'Please see me immediately – MK.'

Madhavan Kutty was the supervisor of supervisors, a nononsense
guy with snow-white hair and a foul temper. When I
entered his room on the mezzanine floor, he was standing near his
desk and there was another guy sitting in his chair. The stranger
was dressed flashily in a black leather jacket and pointy white
shoes. I wondered if he was blind coz he was wearing shades at
one a.m. His face was pretty, but spoiled by a long scar running
from his left eye to his cheek. He looked as shifty as a usedcar
salesman.

Madhavan looked like the cheese had fallen off his cracker.
'This is Mr Vicky Rai, the owner of our company. He was passing
by and decided to check in on how we were doing. He monitored
just one call at random and that was yours, Larry. You have set a
new benchmark for how not to handle a call.'

'Listen, I can explain. That guy was a loony. Even a blind man
on a galloping horse could see it,' I began, but the flashy guy cut
me short.

'No need to argue with this idiot, MK. Larry Page, you're
fired,' he said and walked out, his spanking white shoes tapping on
the tiled floor.

Two days later I was kicking a can aimlessly on the road in front
of the guesthouse when Bilal came to me. 'Listen, Larry, now that
you are no longer working in the call centre, would you like to
come with me to Kashmir for a few days? I am going back today
with a couple of friends.'

I had nothing better to do and a fortnight to kill. 'Yeah,' I said
and sent the can spinning into the gutter.

We arrived in Srinagar the next night. When I got off the bus the wind
was blowing like a tornado in a trailer park and it was cold enough to
freeze the balls off a brass monkey. A blast of icy air struck me so hard,
I almost fainted. Bilal quickly brought me a blanket and rushed me to
a nearby house, where I fell asleep instantly.

The next day, we set out for a spot of sightseeing. It was a very
cold day but Bilal had just the right outfit for me – a long, loose
gown with upturned sleeves called a
phiran
, inside which I
clutched a small fire-pot – my own private oven. I was as snug as
a bug in a rug.

Srinagar was pretty as a picture and the people on the streets
seemed very friendly. Children in brightly coloured shawls waved at
me, flocks of bright-eyed schoolgirls, their heads covered, giggled
shyly, women loaded with silver jewellery looked up from their
houses and men wearing gowns and black hats murmured greetings
to Bilal. Everyone smiled.

Our first stop was Dal Lake, which was the most awesome
lake I have ever seen. It was lined with tall trees and was full of
little houses on boats called – what else? – houseboats, with
fabulous carved railings. The lake was dotted with lotus flowers
and choked with weeds. Dazzling birds kept darting over its
surface. A number of small boats paddled in between the lotus
plants. As the fog lifted, I saw snow-covered mountains even taller
than Mount Livermore.

On the other side of the lake was a white-domed mosque
called the Hazratbal Shrine, which blasted the call for prayer from
loudspeakers. Bilal said the shrine was very holy and housed a hair
of the Prophet Muhammad. Even the beggars were nice here.
They offered me a flower before asking for money.

Our next stop was the Jama Masjid mosque at Nowhatta,
in the heart of the old city. Bilal said prayers while I browsed
round the bustling old bazaar just outside.

For lunch, Bilal took me to Lal Chowk, which was like Main
Street, and we had larrupin' Kashmiri food in a small roadside
restaurant.

In the evening, however, there was a bomb blast at the bus station
and a curfew was declared from eleven p.m., which didn't really
matter because in any case the whole city closed down and went
to sleep just after six.

In the middle of the night, Bilal suddenly shook me awake.
'Get up, Larry, there's going to be a raid. We need to go.'

'What happened?' I asked.

'Someone has reported you as a suspicious character. The army
may come to arrest you. We need to go to a safe house.'

Bleary eyed, I got up and padded out of the house in my
phiran
. The street was quiet as a graveyard. Litter burned here and
there and a couple of men were gathered in a corner warming
their hands over a coal brazier. A few stray dogs howled. Bilal
knew the city like the back of his hand. He took me through a
maze of alleyways, crossing several streets, skirting a bridge, evading
a sentry post, to a small, dilapidated house with a green door.

Inside the house were three of the queerest men I've ever met.
The leader was a heavy-set guy with a flowing black beard and a
black turban. He had a craggy face with a strange dark mark on his
forehead. The second guy was younger and wore a woollen jacket
over trousers and shirt. He was the same height as me, but so
bucktoothed he could have eaten corn through a picket fence.
Standing next to him was a tall, fair, wiry dude with long hair and
a handsome, scruffy face. He was clad in baggy cream pyjama
bottoms and a long black shirt.

Bilal seemed to be in a hurry to leave. '
Bas
, my job was only
up to here. These are my friends. They will take you to a safe
place. I have to go now, Larry. All the best,' he said, and before I
could stop him he rushed out like the dogs were after him.

The three guys in the room looked at me like Mike 'Mad Dog'
Benson, the security chief at Walmart, looks at shoplifters. Bilal
had said they were his friends. To me they seemed just about as
friendly as fire ants.

'Take off your
phiran
,' the turbaned guy ordered.

'Why?' I asked.

'We want to check you're not carrying a weapon.'

'Whatever floats your boat,' I said and took off the gown.

The bucktoothed guy patted my sweatshirt and jeans. 'He's
clean,' he announced. The tension in the air cooled a little.

'Howdy!' I said and extended my hand. 'I'm Larry Page.'

The bucktoothed guy brightened up. 'Bilal told us your name,
but I didn't believe him. Are you really the Larry Page who
invented Google?'

I cursed pa for naming me Larry (Mom said it was his idea).
But if the Indian army was after me and my only chance of
escaping was these three jokers, I thought it best to play along. Mr
Bucktooth obviously didn't know baby shit from butterscotch,
and if he thought I was the Google guy, I had no problem with
that. No problem at all.

'Why? You think I can't invent an engine?'

His eyes widened. 'You mean you are the real Larry Page?'

'Is a frog's ass waterproof ?'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning yes. I am the guy who invented Google.'

Bucktooth looked like he would faint. 'My name is Rizvan, Mr
Page, but everybody calls me Abu Teknikal. It is a great honour to
meet you. I am a great fan of Google. I use it all the time,' he
gushed.

'Yeah,' I nodded. 'People tell me it's the best thing since sliced
bread. But why are you called Teknikal?'

'That's because he is a computer,' said the pyjama guy. 'He
knows everything about everything.'

'Really?'

'Show him, Teknikal,' the pyjama guy said.

'Mr Page, I probably know more about you than any other
man alive,' Teknikal boasted.

'You're kidding.'

'Yes. I can prove it. You were born on 26 March 1973 in
Lansing, Michigan to Dr Carl Victor Page and Gloria Page. While
a student on the Ph.D. programme in Computer Science at
Stanford University, you met Sergey Brin and together you
developed the Google search engine in 1998. The World
Economic Forum named you a Global Leader for Tomorrow. You
are currently the President of Products at Google Inc. with an
estimated net worth of 16.6 billion dollars, making you the
twenty-sixth-richest person on Earth. How's that?'

The twenty-sixth-richest person on Earth! The guy was off his
rocker. Mom always said it is better to keep your mouth shut and
let people think you are an idiot than to open it and remove all
doubt. But I pretended he was the cat's whiskers. 'Well, sock my
jaw, that's pretty impressive!'

'What has fascinated me, Mr Page, is your Page Rank
technology. How on earth did you get the idea to use an iterative
algorithm which corresponds to the principal eigenvector of the
normalized link matrix of the web to determine the ranking of an
individual site?'