I decided to write a piece on the film industry under the Emergency. That would keep me busy, and I might get to meet some beautiful actresses. Despite my obsession with Sushmita, I had to admit it didn’t seem to have a future. I sketched out a plan of action and showed it to Frank. He liked the idea. That would give me at least another week before he’d threaten to send me home again.

TUESDAY, JULY 8, 1975, 6:43 P.M.

Armed with some film magazines I’d bought at the newsstand outside the office, I headed home early to relax and do some research. Ramu greeted me at the door again, shoeless as was his custom, practically bumping into me with my scotch on a salver. I thanked him, but said I’d like to have a bath and change my clothes before anything else.

I emerged twenty minutes later, refreshed and comfortable in the white pajamas I’d bought when I’d first arrived. I felt like one of the Beatles in my Indian clothes. Or maybe like the Parsee grandfather across the way. I pushed that thought out of my mind as quickly as I could. It only reminded me of the Sushmita disaster.

Settled on the sofa, I opened up the first magazine, Cine Blitz. There, on the cover, was Amitabh Bachchan, the actor Sushmita had gushed about the night at Bombay Gym. He was good-looking, and that made me jealous. I read up on him and his upcoming film, Sholay, due out in August, mostly because I wanted to impress Sushmita if I ever got the chance to speak to her again. That’s when I noticed that Dharmendra, the handsome actor Padma had told me about, was also in the film.

Ramu appeared above me with the whisky and ice. He needed no coaching this time, dispensing the desired number of ice cubes and amount of scotch. I thanked him, and he smiled brightly at me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Amitabh Bachchan, sir,” he said, pointing to the magazine cover and wagging his head.

I raised my glass to him, smiled, and took a sip. He gave a little bow and turned for the kitchen.

“Ramu, eik minnit.” He came back. “What is this whisky?” I asked. “It’s not Chivas.”

“No, sir. Devars.”

I rose from my seat. “Devars? What’s that?” Then I caught on. “Dewar’s? We don’t have any Dewar’s.”

“Prejent, sir.”

“Present? From who? Not Lokhande.”

“No, sir.”

“From a lady?”

“No, sir. Mr. Aarlann.”

“Aarlann? Who’s that?”

He made a hand gesture that I understood to mean “wait.” He ran to the kitchen and returned a moment later with the box the bottle had come in. Taped to the top, a handwritten note said, “No hard feelings, I hope. You said your dad drinks Dewar’s. Enjoy. Russ.”

“Harlan,” I said aloud, the mystery solved.