I’d stashed the roll in a drawer in my flat. Not good enough. That film was dynamite, what with the dangerous photograph of Bikas’s uncovered face. I finished sending a couple of urgent responses to New York, then grabbed my umbrella. I wanted to get to that film and find a place for safekeeping, but a commotion across the newsroom caught my attention. A couple of men and three police officers were on the receiving end of Frank’s ire. I approached and asked Janice what was up.

“They’re from the government,” she said, as we watched the tug-of-war before us. “The one in the white outfit is the censor. We can’t send out any news stories without his approval.”

I studied the censor. His long white kurta—under a beige vest—reached halfway down the thigh of his cotton pants. A Gandhi topee sat atop his head. A Mahatma Gandhi cap. No relation to the PM.

“Who’s the other man?” I asked.

“An undersecretary from the Information and Broadcasting Ministry. Censorship falls under their purview.”

“I figured there’d be some trouble, but this is fast.”

Janice regarded me with concern. “Mr. Jacobs, I don’t think that babu even speaks English. How can he censor our dispatches?”

“Babu? What’s that?”

“It used to be a respectable title for clerks. But it’s become a pejorative term for lazy, corrupt, entitled civil servants.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I’ve been here for a while. I’ve picked up a few words. Quite a few, actually.”

“And? There must be more to it than that.”

She allowed herself a little smile and leaned in to whisper to me. “My gentleman friend is an excellent teacher.”

I grinned. “Gentleman friend? You’ve been keeping secrets from us, Janice. Come on. Spill it.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, Mr. Jacobs,” she said. “I have a life outside of work, you know.”

“Wait. Your gentleman friend knows Hindi?”

Her cheeks flushed red. “Mr. Jacobs, I’d prefer to keep my personal life private.”

“Sorry, Janice. Question withdrawn.”

“It’s all right,” she said at length. “He’s an accountant.”

“An American accountant over here?”

She drew a sigh. “No, Mr. Jacobs. You might not approve, but he’s Indian.”

“Jesus, no,” I said, feeling like a heel. “Don’t think that. Tell me, what’s his name?”

“Shirish. He’s a widower. And as I said, he’s an accountant. Has his own firm that does very well.”

“How did this romance start?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a romance. I met him four years ago. We have an … understanding.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Please don’t mention it to Mr. Muller,” she said. “Or to anyone else. Who knows how they’d react?”