“Sir,” called the proprietor, waving me back. “Come, sir.”

He told me to wait, and he disappeared into the back of the shop. A minute passed before he returned with a parcel rolled up in newspaper. He unwrapped it to reveal three bottles, two scotches—a Black and White and a Haig Dimple—and one red wine. The wine had no label. I examined the Dimple and, fairly confident the cap hadn’t been tampered with, I asked him how much.

He wrote “Rs. 280” on a scrap of paper. Christ, that was more than thirty dollars. “No duty, sir. Good price.”

That was steep. I asked him where he’d got it, still not entirely sure it was the first time around for this particular bottle.

“Air India pilot,” he said. “No issues. Bohut acchha.”

He seemed sure it was good. And I knew he wasn’t going anywhere if the bottle turned out to be filled with something other than scotch. So I decided to trust him and fished out the bills. It was a lot to part with, but I figured when in Rome … I wondered how I was going to eat for the next week.

Back home, I couldn’t bring myself to make rice and lentils at that hour, so I nibbled on some more of Ramu’s orphaned snacks and listened to the radio. Hindi film music.

By eleven, I was flagging. I’d been out late the night before. And that reminded me of Sushmita three floors above. I wondered if I would have the guts to climb up the drainpipe to reach her. Like some latter-day Romeo. Unlikely. I was ridiculously afraid of heights. Seriously terrified. They turned my stomach over and paralyzed me. So with a yawn, I dropped onto the bed. Lying on my back, I reached over for the radio and checked to make sure my film was safe. It was.

FRIDAY, JULY 4, 1975, 10:06 A.M.

I made a short detour on my way to work to drop off the bottle of Dimple and a thank-you note for Ash Pethe. I’d totally forgotten it was the Fourth. A hundred ninety-nine years of American independence. Janice had hung some bunting around the office. That was what jogged my memory. She told me that Onkar had pitched in, too. Got right into the spirit and helped distribute the miniature American flags she’d brought out of storage.

“What are we doing to celebrate, boss?” I asked Frank.

“Celebrate? Are you kidding? We’re working today. You can have August fifteenth off for Indian Independence.”

What a jerk.

Yes, it was the 199th birthday of the United States. Despite our warts—and there were many—the U.S. still held free elections, didn’t throw political opponents in jail, and enjoyed freedom of the press. India, on the other hand, was approaching her twenty-eighth birthday on August 15, in fact—thank you, Frank—and she’d just kicked democracy in the teeth.