I lie back.

I lie back. They’ve ‘refurbished’ the room. I loathe the word, its blunt sound (as if someone with a cold were trying to say ‘furnished’), and don’t use it without irony. But the room is new. Oddly, it’s erased the old room from my memory – all I recall is the bathroom, and the plastic bucket that was left under the shower for good measure. I close my eyes. The air conditioning is fixed at 23 degrees centigrade – although there’s a remote control on the bedside table, it’s symbolic; you can make no alteration to the temperature. Why didn’t I accept my hosts’ invitation to stay in a new boutique hotel in Apollo Bunder? Perhaps it was the temptation to be an interloper – to spend a few nights, not by proxy but by stealth, in Little Gibbs Road: our address when I was a boy. Close, but not too close. Just to be able to catch a heartbeat. And make my getaway. The refurbished room, with its new bed, prints, mirror, and unfluctuating weather, is more expensive than the old version – but absurdly affordable. I’ll claim the expenses, of course. We writers might not earn much by way of fees, but every part of our trip is covered. On tour, we are on loan. We’re the pound of flesh that must be repaid in full.