Thinking of Willy reminded me of Sushmita and the crappy end to our evening. Served me right, I supposed, for trying to steal a friend’s girl. And yet I wondered if I was in love with her. Obsessed, for sure. Love was too soon, wasn’t it? Hell, no. I’d fallen in love faster than that plenty of times.

She was wittier and more beguiling than any woman I’d ever met. Our ages were well suited and, while I was aware of the race difference, it didn’t matter to me. Nothing prevented us from falling in love and making a go of things. Nothing at all. If you didn’t count Willy Smets. And I was counting him.

My fear of heights convinced me to chuck the idea about bus safety, and I went to work on the latest Emergency news. Not sure it would pass the censor, I nevertheless wrote an article profiling the most prominent figures who’d been arrested, including JP Narayan, Morarji Desai, and Raj Narain, the guy who’d lit the fuse leading to the Emergency in the first place. He’d opposed Mrs. Gandhi for her seat in parliament in ’71 and lost by a mile. But he’d sued over her election victory, charging irregularities and abuses—minor though they were—of governmental power. When he won the case, it forced the PM’s hand. And now Raj Narain and the opposition were in the shit, along with Indian democracy.

After he’d waved a reproachful finger at me, Onkar tore up my story and deposited it in the dustbin.

Janice joined me for our afternoon tea. She said I’d received a strange phone call when I was out to lunch. Someone named Bikas wanted to talk to me urgently.

“Did he say what about?” I asked.

“No. Just that he’d call again.”

MONDAY, JULY 7, 1975, 8:25 P.M.

It took a couple of beats before I realized the smell of food cooking was coming not through the open window, but from my own flat. I noticed a pair of chappals against the wall in the entryway, and went to investigate. Ramu was in the kitchen, preparing dinner in his bare feet. He’d also had the foresight to pour me a glass of whisky, which he’d covered with a small saucer to keep dust and flying bugs away. He shooed me back into the drawing room.

“Come, sir. Aapka drink. Khana soon.”

“But how?” I asked. “How did you get in here?”

“Inspector, sir. Take your drink,” he repeated.

Khana, I assumed, was dinner. It smelled delicious, and I was starving. Somehow, Lokhande had opened my door and let Ramu in. He must have given him money to buy food, too, as I doubted Ramu had two paise to rub together.