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that’s the laundry service on Fort Road.
    But they’re not in the guide, Jora said. Why would we put them in the—
    Jora went door to door. He asked his friends and neighbours if they wanted to appear
in a new edition of Lonely Planet . He sat cross-legged in their homes and invented
prices according to the sweetness of their tea. He charged the shawl sellers in the
old fort one hundred rupees for a listing. Srinagar’s Jewellers paid two thousand.
Nisha wrote the entries and pasted them in, and if a business wanted a photo but
didn’t have one, she drew them a picture. In a month they had enough money to buy
paper.
    This time the printing was quicker, but sales were slower than the Jodhpur bus. Local
bookwallahs shook their heads and pointed to their existing stock, and Jora didn’t
dare send anyone back to the capital. The few copies Raj sold at the bus station
made little difference to bookings at the hotel.
    The only vendor Jora could find who didn’t seem to stock Lonely Planet was in the
waiting room at Jodhpur Station. The gap-toothed old Marxist who ran the stall was always busy. People came to sit and argue politics with him, and most left with a
book under their arm. Jora studied his wares and then approached.
    Do you have Lonely Planet India ? he asked.
    No sir. Imperialist trash. What I have is this.
    The man pulled a foxed volume from the bottom of a pile. This is the only guide to
India you’ll ever need.
    Jora studied the faded red cover. The characters seemed more unfamiliar than usual.
What language is this? he asked.
    Russian. Hotels all approved for their socialist values. This is the latest edition.
Nineteen sixty-six.
    Listen, baba , Jora said. How would you like to sell an up-to-date, um, socialist
version of Lonely Planet ?
    The man jumped to his feet. Does such a thing exist?
    Jora pulled the guide from his
bag. See here, he said. Everyone’s listed. No one is turned away. I’ll give them
to you very cheap.
    The man took the book and flicked through. He paused at Kabir Bedi’s tiny shorts.
    And I’ll feature your stall in the next edition, Jora said.
    The man’s eyes gleamed. You would put me in Lonely Planet ? he asked.
    For free.
    The bookwallah smiled. He had a mischievous gap between his paan -stained incisors.
I can sell these, he said. How many have you got?
    The Jodhpur bookwallah pressed copies on every tourist coming through the station.
His whole family was in the book trade, and within a month the guide was displayed
in markets and bazaars across the city. The vendors bragged to friends that they
themselves would appear in the next edition, and by the end of winter the second
printing was nearly sold out. Bookings at the hotel slowly rose.
    With the change in seasons the heat began to build. Nisha stayed home from school,
working beneath the turning fans to add the new material. Word had spread far beyond
the bookwallahs that it was now possible for anyone to get themselves listed in Lonely
Planet . Jora held court in the rooftop restaurant. Officials from the surrounding panchayats climbed the stairs to beg for the inclusion of their villages. Wealthy
families had their weddings and mansions written in. For a handful of coins even
the fruit vendors who lined the market could have their work praised in the guide.
    There is always room, Jora cried. India is never full!
    The tannery blazed with the light of photocopiers long into each night. They went
through a third printing, and then a fourth, and with each new addition the book
became more idiosyncratic. Nisha grew tired of imitating the guide’s original style.
Her entries began to sound like a studious thirteen-year-old Rajastani girl, and
when she could no longer keep pace with new additions, people were allowed to write
their own.
    The fonts grew wildly mixed. Hinglish and Bengali and hyperbole crept in. People
supplied their own skewed maps that placed themselves at the centre of