I put my key in the lock and opened the door. Ramu didn’t come to greet me with my drink and slippers. But the lights were on. He was there. I found him in his room—the second bedroom—working on a report of some kind.

“You’re back,” he said, looking up at me from the bed. “Where have you been?”

“None of your business.”

“I see. You were with her. You know, Dan, you don’t need to be rude to me simply because you feel guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“Yes. For not doing what is right. For putting your own selfish interests before others.”

I told him to go to hell and went to change my clothes.

“Wait, Dan. I want to take you out for a little fun.”

“Why?”

“To be nice. Come on. There’s a show, too. We’ll get you a drink and enjoy the entertainment.”

“It’s not that European cabaret at the Venice, is it? I got roped into that when I first arrived.”

“No, not there. I promise. This place is like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

Ranjit transformed himself into Ramu in order to leave the building unnoticed. People truly did ignore the servant class, just as if they were invisible. We crossed the marg and climbed into the back of a black-and-yellow taxi waiting outside the President Hotel. I jokingly asked why he didn’t have a police car at his disposal. In turn, he asked me if I understood the concept of undercover. He told the driver in Hindi where to go, and we were off.

A light rain fell as we gained Marine Drive and sped past Ash Pethe’s flat, Cream Centre, and finally Chowpatty Beach, where we turned right, away from the sea. We cruised by the opera house and continued on through Girgaon and Khetwadi before finally turning left then right into small, dank, crowded lanes.

“Where are we going?” I asked. “This looks like an iffy part of town.”

“It is,” he said, then gave the driver more instructions.

With foot traffic and loiterers blocking the way, we crawled along through more garbage-strewn roads.

“Almost there,” said Ranjit.

“What are those women doing standing in the doorways?” I asked.

“Those are prostitutes, Dan.”

“But they’re fully clothed.”

“Ours is a modest culture. This isn’t Amsterdam.”

I wanted to know why he’d brought me to the red-light district, and he assured me the trip would be worth it.

Now the driver piped up, grinning at me in the rearview mirror as he said something in Hindi. Ranjit translated.

“He says you should try one of the Nepali girls. You’ll have to pay more, but they’re worth it.”

We climbed out of the taxi and Ranjit explained that this was Falkland Road, the heart of the red-light district of Kamathipura.