Assurance seemed to be a family preoccupation with the Mukerjis.

I squatted in the bath and got to work with the soap while carrying on the same conversation with Amit that I’d had at the corner of every street I’d walked down in India for the previous three months.

“You are from which country,” he ordered. Reluctantly I gave a straight and honest answer: “Ireland”.

It was a response I gave unwillingly because it usually needed to be followed with an explanation. Sometimes, to move a conversation on, I resorted with annoyance to lying that I’m from England. Sometimes it is easier to pretend that I’m American, and to many Indian ears Ireland seems to sound like Holland or Iceland, but Amit’s reaction made three months of national identity angst worthwhile.

“Catholic or Protestant?”

“We would never ask a stranger what their religion is in Ireland,” I replied with what was probably far too patronizing a smile, trying to make sense of an increasingly bizarre situation, and still hoping to avoid a conversation I wasn’t in the mood for having.

“But we need to know your caste for the hotel register,” he persisted.

Amit had been educated by Irish missionaries and was well versed in one or other of the many renderings that abound regarding Irish political and religious affairs. He knew about North and South, the problem with the English and the exiles who had to live in America. He demonstrated his opinions sitting on the floor beside the bath while the water I was squatting and scrubbing in grew dirtier by the minute. Eventually strained calf muscles overcame modesty and I stood up to shower myself with the clean water from the other buckets. That however was Amit’s job it seemed. He grabbed the jug before I got to it, and started pouring clean water over my head. It was scalding hot. When the bath was almost full he dragged another in from outside and told me to switch baths, which I did, and he kept on pouring hot water over me, eight big buckets of it. After another change of baths I was told to sit and relax in the final supply of clean, hot, herb-infused water, and when I finally stepped out of the shower my skin was scalded bright pink. Amit threw a large towel over to me that was unbelievably soft, white and warm. More clean, white towels appeared and in no time not only was I warmed inside and out, but I was wrapped in pure softness, a white and pink beacon of luxury in the murky, brown room, and still there was steam swirling everywhere. The room had become a different place; even the light bulb had been washed of its grime as the steam had risen round it, and the glass over JFK’s face was gleaming, if a bit streaked. I leaned back on the bed propped up on pillows that had appeared through the door, and Amit shouted for people to take away the buckets and baths. Then the food and tea arrived. It was a sumptuous meal and I asked Amit to join me thinking that some sort of friendship or fellow-feeling must have developed between us given his knowledge about my origins and his helpful involvement with my toilette, but he put up his hand in refusal saying “My job is to be here to serve you my good friend, now what about your caste. Catholic or Protestant?”