Keeping my head down and working hard, for the past week, I’d been taking Janice’s advice. I’d been thinking about where the roll of film could be. The two most likely scenarios presented themselves again and again: either I’d lost the film wrestling with Sushmita on the hood of her car atop the ghats, or I’d left it in my wet pants that were thrown away by Willy’s Poona staff the next day. But only if I hadn’t actually transferred the film to my dry pants as I changed in the rain. I thought I had; I just couldn’t remember. I’d rehashed that trip so many times that I was dreaming about it. It was invading my thoughts when I was working, running, eating. Everywhere, at any time, it sprang up unannounced. But it wasn’t helping. I still couldn’t remember.

The thing about living in India with household help is that there’s always an extra pair of eyes to search for missing things. Of course, some might say that there’s also an extra pair of hands to palm items. But, in my experience, I hadn’t heard of any servants actually stealing, despite the warnings I’d received to the contrary.

I no longer had a servant to help me search for the missing roll of film. And even if I’d had one, I was sure it had been lost elsewhere. Not in my Sagar Darshan flat. I distinctly remembered having put it in my pocket as Sushmita and I set off for our first fateful trip to Poona.

I left the office early that Tuesday, hoping to work on my film story in the quiet of my own flat. Arriving back at Sagar Darshan around noon, I asked the durwan and liftman, as was my new habit, if anyone had been looking for me. Then I checked the cello tape above my door. Still there. Undisturbed. I slipped inside and locked myself up tight.

Having fired up the hob, I made myself some of the dal and rice I’d bought at Dadabhoy’s in Colaba weeks before. I even used the pressure cooker, recalling Sushmita’s instructions and demonstration in Lonavala. The result was fast, thanks to the pressure cooker, and good, thanks to luck and salt.