Janice knew the ropes. Ordered the berry pulao, since she was keeping vegetarian in India, and the chicken dhansak for me, even though I, too, was trying to avoid meat. It was delicious nevertheless, and I had a nice chat with the proprietor, who asked me to tell Richard Nixon that he was a naughty boy. I wasn’t sure if he thought Tricky Dick was still president, or if he meant it as a general observation. Smiling and doing my best to show my appreciation, I complimented him on the food and fine service.

Once he’d moved on to chat with other customers, I found myself asking Janice about English in India. Exactly how many Indians spoke it well?

“Impossible to say. Some estimate one or two percent speak it as a first language. Maybe ten percent as a second language.”

“That means ninety percent don’t speak English at all?”

“Or barely. In the big cities and the South, you’ll find more people who know some English.”

“That’s not much.”

“Yes, but if you speak it well, you enjoy tremendous advantages, both social and professional.”

“How so?”

“You get to run in the fancier circles if you have a good English accent. And employers think you’re smart and educated and cultured. They give you jobs you’re not even qualified for. It may not be fair, but that’s how people are prejudged here. That and by the color of their skin.”

It was true. Indians obsessed over fairness. The privilege that light skin afforded was at least as advantageous as good English skills. It didn’t seem right. I suggested a change of subject.

“What does your gentleman friend say about all this?” I asked as I sipped my fresh lime soda through a straw. “The Emergency, I mean.”

“Please, Mr. Jacobs,” she said in a whisper. “We’re in public. Be careful what you say.”

“Sorry. And call me Danny. We’re old friends, aren’t we?”

She weighed my request. “I’m only a secretary. You’re a reporter. I know my place.”

“I’ll make a deal with you. You call me Mr. Jacobs in the office, and I’ll call you Miss Spenser. But I’m Danny and you’re Janice when we’re not.”

“All right, Danny,” she said, her eyes crinkling just so.

“What does he say about all this, your accountant?” I repeated in a low voice.

“Shirish is a Congress man,” she said. “He has mixed feelings. It’s hard to denounce the party and family that led the fight for independence. He’s struggling with that.”

I nodded, all the while uncomfortable with half measures and excuses when it came to right and wrong.

“I’d love to meet him sometime,” I said. “Your gentleman friend.”