I drew a deep breath. “Pathetic is more like it. What was he yelling at Onkar about anyway?”

“He wasn’t happy about the American flag on his desk. Wanted to know where his Indian flag was.”

Poor Onkar. I liked the guy. But after the encounter with the fire hydrant of a police inspector, he was changed. Less friendly, more inclined to distrust us. That day, without even reading what we’d written, he rejected everything we submitted to him.

Unable to find a taxi in the rain, I made my way home on foot. My umbrella gave up the ghost when a particularly strong gust of wind broke its ribs. I lost hold of it, watched it pirouette away, and forged on, pelted mercilessly by the rain.

Passing the Machhimar Nagar village, I covered my nose to block the smell of fish. Depending on the wind, the air near Cuffe Parade was either tolerable or you needed a gas mask. I asked myself what the hell I was doing in India, drenched and unable to do my job thanks to the censor and my asshole of a boss. I was wasting my time.

Then there was Sushmita. I’d known her about a week, had pined after her, lusted after her, and gotten nowhere. She belonged to another man, anyway. A man much more interesting than I would ever be. And he was rich. Willy Smets could give her the best imported goods, diamond bangles, beautiful saris, a penthouse flat, and even a Mercedes 280SE.

And the cherry on top was that Inspector Lokhande might arrest me at any time.

When I finally turned onto the marg, I was waterlogged and feeling quite sorry for myself. Then I could have sworn I saw him. Ramu. He was hurrying along the other side of the road in the opposite direction. Like me, he had no umbrella. Lokhande had told me he was free to run errands for the cops at the station, but it was after nine. Where could he be rushing to?

I watched him from the shelter of the overhang of the Mafco stall, a tiny little shop that sold milk and eggs and bread on the corner opposite the President. He turned into the drive of the hotel, where I lost sight of him. There was no way he went inside, I thought. They would have given him the boot before he reached the door. That’s how it was in India. A guy dressed like Ramu, with the hungry look in his eyes, would never be allowed in a high-end business hotel. Unless it was through the staff entrance. And maybe not even there.