“Have you spoken to him?” I asked, pointing to her, miming what was supposed to pass for speech, then saying her son’s name.

“Ji,” she said. “He’s fine. Safe.”

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I managed to glean that the poor guy was arrested for making a film that somehow had been interpreted as a critique of the government, even though it had been released nearly a year before the Emergency. The film featured unrest and protests from workers, led by the handsome star, as he fought for social justice in a provincial town beset with corruption and crime. She gave me the name of the picture—Nyaay!—Justice!—and I made a note to research the newspaper reviews from a year before.

She also gave me the name and address of the starlet her son had been involved with. Someone named simply Ruchika. Maybe she was trying to achieve that single-name fame of someone like Rekha. Or Cher.

“Please help mera Mukesh,” she said, as she saw me to the door.

I told her I’d try, though I doubted I could do him any good. I had no idea how the arrestees were being treated. Maybe his girlfriend Ruchika could tell me more.

It took me forty minutes by train to reach the Borivali station in the far northern suburbs. Then another twenty minutes to find the place on foot. It was a newish development, a society—a sort of co-op—on Rohan Nagar Road. Modest, to be sure, with low ceilings and little air. But I was a spoiled American, used to space, air-conditioning, and electrical service without daily interruptions.

Sharma’s mother had told me the girl’s surname was Pillai. I found the flat number on the residents’ board in the entryway to Building D, Block II. R. Pillai, number 3-B. I climbed the stairs—no lift—and knocked, well aware that if she wasn’t in, there was no way I’d ever take the train out to Borivali again. This was Ruchika’s one chance at international stardom, in the form of an interview via a wire service.

It took a minute, but eventually the door opened a crack, and a very pretty young woman peered out. Clearly surprised to find a gora outside her flat, she asked in good English what I wanted. I told her who I was and that I’d like to talk to her about Mukesh Sharma. She said no and tried to shut the door on me, but I explained this could help him and give her some international publicity at the same time. That did the trick.

“You may come in,” she said, standing to one side.