Reluctant to face either Willy or Sushmita, and certainly with no clear idea of what I’d tell them, I rose early intending to walk and think. But, instead, I ran. Far. In my long pants. I ended up in Camp, where I wandered around for several hours, stopping for a late lunch at Marz-o-rin on MG Road. That was the sandwich place Sushmita had said was her favorite while at St. Mary’s. Then I made my way west to Shivajinagar before crossing the Mula Mutha River and heading back east. I rehearsed what I would say to Sushmita and Willy, still no closer to a practiced speech.

When I came to the Poona Club Golf Course, I was desperate for a cool drink. There was a vendor on the side of the road, grinding sugarcane into juice. That looked good. Probably not wise, but I was in a fatalistic mood. The man urged me to try a coconut instead. Safer for a gora, he said. Then, refreshed, I walked for miles more, taking advantage of the respite from the rain.

MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1975, 7:02 P.M.

When I finally returned to the house, it was empty. Or nearly. No Sushmita, no Willy, no Govind, or Kamal. But Chhotu was there, sitting in the drawing room.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Do Willy’s chappals need licking?”

“Clever,” he said, smiling broadly at me. “But you should know that your time has come.”

“Does Willy know you’re here?”

“My dear chap, he arranged for me to be here.”

“Too late for threats. He knows about Sushmita and me. He was saddened, but insisted that I stay.”

Chhotu scoffed. “Of course he did. He wanted you to be here when I arrived.”

A doubt crossed my mind. “What? Where’s Willy? Where’s Sushmita?”

He made a great show of looking around the room, as if searching for them. “They don’t seem to be here. Bad luck, eh, Danny Boy?”

I strode to the dining room, then to the kitchen. No one. I returned to the drawing room where Chhotu was waiting, still wedged into his seat. We were alone.

Then I heard the sound of crunching gravel coming through the open garden door. A car.

“Willy’s back,” I said, trying to convince myself.

“I doubt that.”

Moments later, the front door opened, and a familiar-looking man stepped inside. About five eight or nine, he was dressed in a light shirt and dark pants. Once he closed the door and turned to face me, I knew it was Bikas.

“Surprised, Dan?” asked Chhotu.

I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of begging for answers. But I stood rooted in place, frantically trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. There was no connection between Bikas and Willy. Or Chhotu. How could there be? The bomber was some kind of revolutionary. And Willy’s politics, if he had any, were fiercely anti-Communist.