I rummaged through my wallet and produced a few tens that may or may not have come to fifty. She opened the door and climbed out. Thirty seconds later, she was back behind the wheel and the car was in gear. We were off.

“What happened?” I asked, once we were cruising down the road, away from the cop who was on foot.

“I bribed him,” she said.

“But we hadn’t done anything. We were only kissing.”

“Oh, Danny, my love, you have so much to learn about this country.”

Our close call on the side of the road prompted another lecture from Sushmita. She acknowledged that this had been her fault—not mine—but, in her defense, I was irresistible.

“I was wrong to do that in public, Danny,” she said as she drove on. “Please don’t follow my example. We’ll end up arrested and all will be lost. We were lucky that policeman was happy with fifty rupees. Another might have been a zealot who hates the idea of foreigners with Indian women. The only time we can touch each other is in the bedroom. At night, when everyone is asleep. Promise me you’ll be stronger-willed than I am.”

“I promise. Take a deep breath and relax. We’re safe now.”

She stared straight down the road. “If only that were true.”

A few minutes later, she pulled over and parked on MG Road, drawing a sigh as she did. I waited as she composed herself, all too aware that we were in a very public spot in the center of Camp. Would it have been better if I’d been sitting in the back seat? I hadn’t seen any women drivers, but who knew? I thought the sooner we got out of the car and maintained a respectable distance, the better.

“Come, Sush,” I said. “Let’s walk a bit.”

She agreed and we climbed down from the car.

“This is Mahatma Gandhi Road,” she said with a lilt in her voice to let me know she was having a good time at my expense.

I glanced to our left and saw a long three-storied building with a sign above advertising “Dorabjee and Sons.” Harlan’s detailed instructions came to mind and I thought of a low-caste divorcée with a skin condition and a limp.

“I’ve heard of this place,” I said. “Read about it in the guidebooks. What is it?”

“An old Parsee market,” she said. “A Poona institution. You can get anything you want.”

“Like Alice’s restaurant?” I asked.

“What rubbish are you saying, Danny?”

“It’s a song. Never mind.”

“Come. There’s a small café on the top floor. You must try some of their famous biryani.”

“Clorox® bleach,” I said, browsing the aisles of the market once we’d finished our delicious veg biryani. “That’s amazing. I should get a bottle.”