In addition to being a first-class chef, wall-climber, and driver, Ranjit was also something of a weightlifter. He’d pulled both Birgit and me to safety. And I weighed 190 pounds. The man was a marvel.

Harlan visited me to extend his thanks. He confirmed that Willy, Chhotu, and Bikas had been found dead in the crumpled blue Ambassador, 350 meters below the sharp turn they’d missed. I recalled Willy with conflicting emotions. I’d once been grateful to him, if not loyal. And he was a monster who deserved his fate. But that man had been kind to me. Loved me. I didn’t know why that mattered, but somehow it did. Even though I hated him.

The monsoons retreated in September, and life took on a hot, dry regularity. I went to work, wrote my stories, and chatted with Janice over Vikky’s tea. Then I’d go home to my flat and new servant, Tinku, a really sweet guy who, I knew, would never slit my throat in the night. I enjoyed one drink before and one after my pure veg dinners. And then I would read Graham Greene and Evelyn Waugh—that was the mood I was in—as I listened to Hindi film songs on the radio.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1975, 3:40 P.M.

Christmas was approaching. It promised to be a strange holiday season for me, what with no snow, family, or close friends. I was about to return a call to Zubin Mehta, the music director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. He was in Bombay and had agreed to meet me for a quick meal and an interview at Britannia, the old Parsee restaurant I’d visited with Janice in Ballard Estates months before. We only had to arrange the date. But Janice interrupted me before I could dial.

“This arrived for you a few minutes ago,” she said, handing me a small parcel about six inches long and three inches wide.

“No return address?” I asked. “Maybe it’s a bomb.” I held it to my ear and shook it.

“Just open it, Mr. Jacobs.”

I untied the string and tore away the paper. Inside there was no note, no card. Nothing but a bag of sev.

Sev.

“Mr. Jacobs,” called Janice as I ran for the door. “Where are you going?”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Over the past twenty-five years, I’ve been lucky enough to make more than fifty trips to India. For work, pleasure, and family. In fact, I’ve spent nearly four years there. Bombay (Mumbai), Poona (Pune), and Bangalore have been second homes to me. I even held a PIO card (Person of Indian Origin), thanks to my marital status with an Indian citizen. PIO cards no longer exist, but, as I write this note, I’m waiting for my Overseas Citizen of India card to arrive. All this to say that I consider myself an honorary Indian, and am supremely proud of that imagined status.