The constable laughed — a short, dry sound. "Angrez chala gaya, desi reh gaya," he said to the driver. The Englishman has left, but the native remains. Then to me, in slow, cruel Hindi: "Aap ghar bhool gaye, sahab?" Have you forgotten your home, sir?

The constable ignored me. He spoke to the driver in a rapid-fire Hindi I could only chase, not catch: " Tera baap ka rickshaw hai? Tu jaanta hai iska maalik kaun hai? "

I checked my watch. The interview was in twenty minutes. My polished English, my corporate jargon, my entire vocabulary of "synergy" and "deliverables" — none of it could fix a flat tire. I leaned out. "How long?" I asked, my accent crisp, sharp as a new banknote.

Then the police whistles started.

I paid five hundred. Not because I was kind. Because I had no words to argue.

The constable cut him off. "Bolna mat. Paisa ya jail."

He nodded. And for the first time, he didn't hear an accent. He just heard a destination.

I opened my wallet. Inside: two thousand rupees, a platinum credit card, and an American Express. Worthless here. Worthless in this language.