Ash, an engineer for GE, was in his forties, with longish black hair and a friendly smile. He was single and knew every corner of the city. He’d lived in South Bombay his whole life, in fact, and tooled around town in a large Chevrolet. Where he’d found it, I couldn’t guess. The only cars I’d seen on the road were round-bodied Ambassadors, black-and-yellow taxis, and tiny Fiats. And, of course, the two-wheelers—bikes, scooters, and motorcycles.

Ash seemed like a nice guy. He invited me to a dinner party he was hosting the following week at his place on Marine Drive. Fancy area, also known as the Queen’s Necklace. The buildings along the seawall offered great views of the Arabian Sea. I knew that because I ran there every morning.

“You should go, Danny Boy,” said Smets. “Ash always invites pretty girls.”

“Are you two going?” I asked, referring to him and Sushmita.

“We’ll be out of station next week.”

I shrugged and, embarrassed by the pity everyone was taking on me, said I’d love to go.

Ash waved to someone across the room and, taking my business card, excused himself with a promise to send me details for the dinner party.

“And now Mita and I must attend to our other guests,” said Smets. “We’re off to Poona tomorrow for a couple of days, but don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything when we return. A gas cylinder, a driver, or liquor. Anything.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Jacobs,” said Sushmita, fixing me again with those sparkling eyes. “I enjoyed our conversation. And I was joking, of course. Please don’t eat anything from the chaatwallah in the street.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll remember that.”

Smets led her away. I watched them go. More specifically, I watched her go. And—just my luck—she threw a glance over her shoulder in time to catch me contemplating the swaying backside of her sari.

CHAPTER TWO

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 25, 1975, 2:43 A.M.

I was adrift in a warm cloud, swirling into the gentle eddy of stupor. A seductive snare—a silk scarf or a length of green sari—tightened around me and drew me toward sleep’s embrace. My consciousness dissolved.

What the hell is that pounding?

Nothing more than a pulsing at first. Then it swelled into a warped, surreal thumping, like a mallet beating on a kettle drum. Finally, it surged into focus, and my dream burst.

Where am I?

The rain was streaming down the window. The onset of the monsoon had fallen a week earlier. Now I lay in the dark, sticking to the sheet as the clicking ceiling fan twirled overhead. It barely managed to move the wet air from one fold of the bedding to another, with no appreciable relief that I could detect.