He had a point.

By ten, I’d finished my modest thali: some dal, rice, palak, and sabzi. Vegetables. I signed the bill to my room and headed up to the nineteenth floor where there was a bar, what the Indians called a “permit room.” After the day I’d had, I felt a drink was the least I could do for myself.

A pleasant surprise. They had Dewar’s White Label, my dad’s brand. A black-vested waiter took my order and dutifully repeated it to me, before returning a few minutes later with my scotch and soda. He asked how many ice cubes I wanted, then doled out the exact number into my glass with a pair of silver tongs. The floor show aside, I wanted my drink. This guy was taking his time. But when I caught sight of the little carafe with my peg of whisky, I did a double take. The tiniest puddle of amber liquid sat at the bottom.

“Excuse me,” I said. “May I get a double?”

“A large whisky, sir?” he asked.

“Maybe a triple.”

At length, I had my scotch. I didn’t even add the soda for fear of drowning what little whisky was in my glass. The triple amounted to a short single back home. Resigned to paying the exorbitant price for my night at the President, I ordered a second drink a few minutes later. Not exactly “one to whet your appetite and one to rinse down dessert,” but the addition still came to two.

“Pretty miserly with the imported liquor, aren’t they?”

I turned to see who had spoken. It was Russell Harlan, the American I’d met early that same morning in the coffee shop.

“They serve it with an eye dropper,” he continued, referring to the liquor. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest,” I said, wishing he’d push off instead.

He took the seat opposite me. “Does that mean you’re buying?”

I must have blanched, because he assured me he was kidding. In fact, he offered to stand me another drink.

“What’ll you have?”

“Dewar’s,” I said. “My dad’s scotch. They don’t give you very much, I’m afraid.”

“The thing you have to realize,” he said, “is that you’re going to spend a fortune on alcohol in this country. Might as well accept the fact. I’d rather blow forty bucks on a few healthy-sized drinks than three on the fumes they serve here.”

When the waiter arrived, Harlan ordered a double large for each of us. I made an exception to my dad’s rule. If I had to listen to this guy, I wanted some anesthesia. And double large sounded worse than it was; four pegs at the President amounted to a modest double back home.