A man rang my doorbell (the hotel room had a doorbell) soon after I got in on the second night in India.

"I will take your room service order, sir!" He gave his name.

"Oh. But I've already eaten."

"Yes, I'm hear to take your room service order!"

"Ah, I see. Well, no thanks. I've just eaten."

"We have veg, non-veg, breads, rice, dosa..."

"No, I'm not hungry."

"To drink: Mocktails, cocktails, beer, wine."

"No, thanks."

"Nothing?"

"No, thanks."

"If you please, sir, what country?"

"Uh, ... UK."

"Ah. UK. Britain?"

"Yeah, Britain."

"Ah! I had a friend from Britain staying last week, Daniel. He gave me his mobile number. Look, yesterday, he called me from Britain to ask how am I, to talk with me, his friend!" He showed me "Daniel" in his recent calls.

"Great." I began shuddering to think what lifelong relationship I'd entered into by opening the door.

"Anything you need, sir? As your friend.

"Well, in fact, I could use some kind of map of Bangalore. Do you have anything like that?"

"Ah, a map? I will see... by 9:00 I will come with this. What time is it now? It is 8:00. By 9:00 I will be back here."

Then ensued several more minutes of declining other favors. Eventually he went away and I forgot about him, assuming he'd never return.

At quarter to nine the room doorbell rang again. It was him.

"Look! I have this. And what time is it? It is ten to nine! What time did I say I would have it? Nine o'clock! I am ten minutes early. A map, sir."

He had a sheet of photocopied A3 paper with the hotel's logo on it, giving a schematic roadmap of the main streets, essentially.

What else did I want, he wanted to know? Nothing. Could he show me things about Bangalore? To placate him, I asked what I should see. He looked at my guidebook and fumbled around about various attractions that were noted in the guidebook with great mildness. Bangalore is not a great city for sightseeing, as it out turnsunless you consider the marvel that it exists and functions at all to be a sight, which I do. Eventually, tired to the bones, I decided I had to get rid of him. I found a fifty-rupee or a hundred-rupee note—not a small amount but perhaps decent baksheesh for a western hotel bellhop and held it out in my fingertips, saying, "Listen, I really appreciate all this." He did something I've never seen anyone do: he tried to shake my hand and palm the note, as if I were slipping it to him secretly, bribing him, or as if it were forbidden, which maybe it was in this posh hotel. After this awkward moment he was happy and left me alone.

On the third night I did not answer the doorbell.