When I checked into my Bangalore hotel - an unexpectedly lavish establishment - I was politely shown to my room. A few minutes later, a gentleman in a crisp white evening jacket appeared at my door. "Watermelon juice?" he asked. He entered the room and placed it on the desk. "I'm your butler," he said. "If you need me, just call." He pointed to a red button on the wall labelled "Butler". Then he handed me his card. Under his name, in neat script, it read "Butler." I smiled, slightly taken aback. He bowed and grinned as he backed out the door, tray in one hand.
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