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ten?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Okay.’ So much for my bartering skills.
    Devendra and I looked around for the switch for the overhead fan and found ourselves staring at a panel of buttons, the envy of a 747 cockpit (this was a common feature of hotels in rural India). Devendra hit every one of them; none worked. I don’t know why there were so many switches; there were only two things we could possibly turn on: the fan and a naked light bulb. (When the generator kicked in later that night, I woke with a start to find myself with wind gushing in my face and the night suddenly day).
    Devendra helped me lug the bike and bags up the stairs and then, as quickly as he had arrived, was gone. I felt suddenly alone. It had been a week since I had really spent any time talking to someone and now his company had vanished like the days behind me.
    ***
    In the morning I was inordinately tired. My body creaked. My eyes hurt. I had spent most of the night in a frustrated rage fighting off mosquitoes that burgled their way through my net.
    The next town, some distance away, was Yeoli, a tiny dot on my map just before a slightly bigger dot representing the city of Aurangabad, known for its Taj Mahal imitation, the Bibi Ka Maqbara. Yeoli was only 80 kilometres away but in cycle terms, it was a good day’s ride. My guidebook, however, gave me few clues (Yeoli wasn’t even listed), so I decided to stock up on bottled water, and spent all morning fighting the bluey haze of Nasik trying to find some.
    For environmental reasons, I wasn’t overly hip to the idea of buying countless plastic bottles, but I didn’t have much choice. Ground water in rural areas had been contaminated by the over-use of pesticides and heavy industry, and in some parts of India, such as Uttar Pradesh, nearly 70 per cent of the population lacked access to safe drinking water.
    In a ramshackle store, I came across rows of bottled water that were out of date, unsealed and ringed with dust. Most Indians can barely afford to buy bottled water, and at 15 rupees a throw, it was more than I was prepared to pay. I went to another store.
    ‘Water?’
    The assistant looked confused. ‘Water?’
    ‘Water. Pani .’
    ‘Oh, water! Yes!’
    ‘How much?’
    He went off to consult with his boss then came back.
    ‘Fifteen.’
    ‘It’s ten everywhere else.’
    ‘No. Fifteen.’
    As the morning was getting on, I gave in. ‘All right. I’ll take two.’
    ‘No. Fifteen.’
    ‘Yes. Fifteen. I’ll take two.’
    ‘No two. Fifteen.’
    ‘Yes! Fifteen! I want two.’
    ‘Two?’
    ‘Yes!’
    ‘Moment.’ He went off behind the counter and consulted his boss. A crowd began to gather round me. He came back.
    ‘I am sorry. Fifteen.’
    ‘Wait a minute …’ I thrust 30 rupees in his hand and made a two-finger gesture.
    ‘Ah! Two!’ He pulled two bottles of cold water out of the fridge and plopped them down, to the applause of the crowd.
    As I put on my helmet, a man, late 50s, dark, torn shirt and big potbelly held out his hand.
    ‘ Baksheesh .’
    I waved him off but as I did I stepped in a big pile of poo – and the worst kind, human, by the smell of it. The beggar boomed a big baritone laugh.
    ‘I bet you’re thinking “fate, mate”,’ I smiled. He raised his eyebrows and laughed again. I shook the shit off and squelched the cycle shoe cleat into the bindings, bits of soft brownness flying off as I pedalled toward Yeoli. Disgusting, no?
    ***
    ‘Everywhere is different in India,’ Deejay had said to me on the plane. ‘Different culture, different language, different looks.’
    I thought of this now as I cycled the rural plains of Maharashtra. The people became darker, shorter, thinner, eyes more deeply set. The fierce sun, it seemed, had dried the people out as well as the countryside. The sparsely vegetated forest floor was bare of any ground litter, picked and stripped for firewood. It was hard to imagine that this area was once a rich, lush forest. Most of India’s