The last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed and take a long run, followed by a cold bucket bath. I lay under the sheet for a few minutes recalling the night before. God, I’d almost found the courage to kiss Sushmita in the garage. She’d seemed sad. She was often sad. I should have listened to her the night before and ditched Ash Pethe’s dinner.

I groaned, rose, and dressed. Moments later, I was running—past the Machhimar Nagar fishing village—pushing myself to ever-faster speeds. I ignored the curious stares from the pedestrians, commuters, and even the men in lungis brushing their teeth and taking bucket baths on the side of the road. People surely wondered why this crazy gora tortured himself so every morning in the heat and rain.

I wrote a long piece, outlining the current situation in the country including updates on the opposition. Onkar, the censor, cut it to shreds. Maybe his English was better than we thought.

The other news of the day came from our own Chuck Kohlner, stringer extraordinaire, in Delhi. Mrs. Gandhi had declared that democracy was alive in India. A whole lot of folks disagreed. Thousands of her opponents were under arrest, with the number growing each day. There was more. She charged that the opposition had taken advantage of India’s democracy to weaken the nation.

As if on cue, at two in the afternoon, Onkar informed us, somewhat apologetically, that we were not to file any more stories that day. Frank tried and failed to maintain his cool. He lost it and started cursing loudly to himself, all the while pulling at his hair and pacing back and forth in his office. When Onkar went to the loo, I dashed off a quick telex to New York, telling them not to expect anything from us today.

I closed with, “Do not reply. Big brother is watching,” then tore up the printed copy of my message.

THURSDAY, JULY 3, 1975, 9:21 P.M.

Everyday life in Bombay seemed to have returned to normal. Delhi might have been a different story. But in Bombay, the buses were running—not that I wanted to squeeze myself into one of those smoke-belching behemoths any time soon—and the trains were packed as always with the armies of workers commuting to and from the suburbs. Still, I sensed a wariness about me. People were vigilant and distrustful. Of each other, of the police, of me.

After work, I dropped by Dadabhoy’s in Colaba and picked up some rice and dal. The vegetable stands had long since shuttered and disappeared for the night, so rice it was. In a low voice, I asked the proprietor if he knew where I might find some whisky. A thank-you bottle for Ash Pethe. He said nothing and gave me my change.

I wished him good night, and ceded the right of way at the door to another customer who was leaving.