A man in Bangalore found me on the street. I was carrying a camera and staring at some building.

Like everyone else, he asked, "Where are you from, sir?" and "Your good name, sir?" As usual I asked him his name—I've forgotten now—and one or two things about Bangalore.

Then he asked me what I wanted to see, and I mentioned some dull standard destination—the palace, or the government buildings. He said, "I'll take you there."

I like being alone. I dislike following anyone. But in good humor and a sense of openness I went and followed him; he took me to the government building, maybe a mile from where he found me.

Wasn't he working today? No, he said, he had worked in a call center but was just laid off.

What else did I want to see? I didn't want to say—in fact I had no plans and just wanted to wander—en flâneur—but nor did I want to be rude and I was duty-bound to make as much of my contact with local people as possible.

He took me here, there, and everywhere. Statue to a local man; largest branch of Mysore Bank; a new postmodern office building for Coffee Day, the coffee-shop chain. He knew lots about the local sights, though nothing especially remarkable. We walked about two hours; he would take me to the edge of a street and wait, then step out and say, "Please come." I was being led by the nose and my inner introvert was becoming very tired.

I had to shake him loose, so I set a final destination for our menage: the rail station. It was a long walk and hard to find, and I might not have found it without directions.

By then I'd realized I would have to pay him something. I planned my attack. When we got to the station, I told him I appreciated what he had done for me and said I wanted to give him something. I named a figure that I thought would be impressive, knowing I could go higher if I had to: 100 Rupees. This is about two dollars and change, enough for a decent meal. "Whatever you like, sir," he said very politely, and maybe sadly, which I took as a hint for more. I waffled a moment and revised: "two hundred." Then I looked in my wallet. All I had was a 500 Rupee note. Big money: something more than what an auto-rickshaw driver told me he makes in a day—gross.

He started pleading with me then, "Please sir, my mother is sick..." I didn't want to hear it. I had offered him good money for a simple service that I had never wanted. But I needed change. I started trying the stalls in the station for something cheap I could buy—I needed water after the walk in the sun—and managed to break my 500 note with something like a Rs40 bottle of Sprite-like beverage (foreigner price, I'm sure). To the man I gave two hundred and he pleaded with me more. I said "Two fifty, that's all I can give you." And that was firm. He took the two-fifty and I shook him loose in the station crowd (people camping out; mobs of people queueing; loudspeaker announcements in Hindi or Kannada).