The host at the entrance nearly choked at Sushmita’s outfit. He informed us there was a dress code. Sushmita refused to hear it, and when I mentioned we were guests of Shirish’s, he reluctantly acquiesced and let us in. I noted the turned heads and the raised eyebrows as we made our way past Bombay’s elite. I figured their disapproval was one part foreigner-with-an-Indian-girl, one part Sushmita’s tight Western outfit. We weren’t in New York or London, after all.

I spotted Janice at a table about twenty yards ahead. She was looking like a proper memsahib in an elegant light-blue sari. At her side sat a silver-haired gentleman in a white-collared shirt and tan slacks. He was holding an English cigarette in one hand and a tumbler of something delicious in the other. He rose as Sushmita and I approached.

Janice beamed at me. Had I not known better, I would have sworn she was a matron of high society, not a harassed, underappreciated secretary. She was lovely.

She extended a hand from her seated position and greeted Sushmita warmly. Then she turned to me. “I thought you were lying about this young lady, Dan. Bravo to you.”

A stocky man of sixty or sixty-five, Shirish was charming and strikingly handsome, with a full head of silver hair slicked back with a sweet-smelling pomade.

We enjoyed our drinks as the rain poured down onto the grass not ten feet from our table. Well-dressed folks strolled by and greeted Shirish and Janice and—it seemed to me—turned up their noses at Sushmita. We chatted about the weather, the traffic, and the best Hindi films of the year. Janice said Deewaar—The Wall—was her favorite so far.

“I’m in love with Amitabh Bachchan,” cooed Sushmita. “I’ve got a secret fantasy that I’ll marry him one day.”

“He’s already married,” said Janice. “What will you do about Jaya?”

I assumed Jaya was Bachchan’s wife. Sushmita said she’d give it some thought. Janice wanted to know more, and the two huddled for a few minutes in discussion. Shirish agreed Deewaar was an important film. I had nothing to add to the conversation and sipped my Red Label instead. The bottle had come from Shirish’s private stash, stored in a locker in the bar where he kept his preferred brands.

Sushmita and Shirish were soon engaged in intense consultation over some tax issue or other. I knew not to broach the topic of the Emergency. Not with someone I’d just met. Not in public. Perhaps noticing how quiet I’d been, Janice took pity on me, scooting her chair closer to mine and leaning in to speak.

“She’s lovely, Danny. Why didn’t you tell me you had a girl?”

“She’s not my girl,” I said. “She’s … with a friend of mine.”

“All’s fair …”