The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey

middle of the road to overtake a bus. A truck was heading straight for us, but the driver didn’t seem bothered, serenely passing first one bus, then another, before pulling back in. The truck’s slipstream shook us from side to side.
    To my surprise, we arrived in Srirangapatna alive. As we approached the city through some anonymous suburbs, the driver asked us where we wanted to be dropped and Uncle Harvey said, “Right here.”
    â€œYou want here?”
    â€œYes. Here. Pull up here.”
    â€œBut here is not Srirangapatna. Here is nowhere!”
    â€œThat’s perfect.”
    The driver swerved and parked by the side of the road. We must have been on the outskirts of Srirangapatna, nowhere special, just a suburban road lined with cheap houses. I could see a shop selling satellite dishes and a café with a few old men sitting outside at flimsy wooden tables. Traffic roared past, heading into the city center. No one else was stopping here.
    Uncle Harvey counted out fifteen hundred rupees, as agreed.
    The driver took the money, then asked, “One tip?”
    â€œYou’d be lucky.”
    â€œI am very lucky,” said the driver with a cheeky grin, and I couldn’t help liking him, even if he was a suicidal maniac. My uncle must have liked him too, because he handed over another grubby bill. The driver thanked him and jumped back into his car. He executed a nifty U-turn, narrowly missing a bus coming the other way, and accelerated back toward Bangalore.
    Once he’d disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust, my uncle said, “Now let’s find another taxi.”
    â€œWhy didn’t we just keep that one?”
    â€œTaxis are easy to trace. I don’t want to leave a trail for Marko. Or J.J. Or anyone else who might be following us. Shall we walk into town? I think it must be this way.”
    My uncle led the way along the wonky pavement. The houses looked as if they’d been recently bombed or experienced an earthquake. Cracks shimmied up the walls, and some of the windows had no glass. Two nervous dogs skittered out of our way. A man hurried across the street and smiled at us. “You want a Tipu guide?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” replied my uncle.
    â€œI am all-knowing Tipu Sultan. You will come with me and see the remains of his fort and palace?”
    I couldn’t see any ruins and ancient monuments, let alone other tourists, so I couldn’t imagine this guy was a real guide. If he wanted to take people around the fort and the palace, wouldn’t he be waiting there, meeting them as they came off their coaches? Why would he be out here in the suburbs?
    My uncle didn’t bother asking any of these questions. “We don’t need a guide,” he said. “We just need a taxi.”
    â€œCome this way. Follow me. I will guide you for taxi.”
    I wouldn’t have followed some random guy who came up to me in the street, but my uncle seemed perfectly happy to trust him, so we let the guide lead us around the corner to a shady spot where a yellow auto-rickshaw was parked by the side of the road. I could see a pair of bare feet poking out of the window; the driver must have been having a nap inside his vehicle. Our guide whistled. The driver sat up and poked his head out. To my surprise, he was just a kid. He looked about the same age as me, and maybe a year or two younger. I’m thin, but this guy was so skinny that his bones would have snapped in a strong breeze. “You want one taxi?” he called to us. “I am ready and available for hire! Please to come aboard!”
    My uncle gave a few rupees to our guide, who bowed his head gratefully. “Thank you so much, sir. If you change your mind and wish for full Tipu tour, you will please come to find me. I have expert knowledge of all relevant historical monuments.”
    The kid was already ushering us eagerly toward his rickshaw. “Welcome in my taxi,” he