“Do bottle,” said Ramu, holding up two fingers. “Eik Devars aur eik Chivas.”

“Two bottles?” One Dewar’s and one Chivas. That fixed my Lokhande problem. I would send Ramu back to the police station in the morning with a prejent for the inspector. I’d be square, thanks to Harlan. Did this mean I owed him again?

I flipped through the second magazine, Filmfare. A sublime beauty named Shabana Azmi graced the cover. She was a stunner, with big eyes, bright full lips, and glowing skin.

Waiting for khana, I sank into a reflective mood and listened to the rain hissing through the thick air outside the window. I wondered if the Parsees were playing with their grandson. No reason to check. I didn’t really care. Not unless I could watch Sushmita’s face light up at the spectacle.

“Sir, khana tayar hain,” announced Ramu. Dinner was ready.

Feeling grateful, I decided he deserved a raise, after barely three days on the job. Lokhande had been right. This guy was a useful fellow. No wonder the police had given him such a long leash and generous privileges.

FRIDAY, JULY 11, 1975, 1:11 P.M.

I’d spent the better part of three days building up contacts with a few film stars and producers. At first, their reps seemed skeptical. But in the end, they caught on that international publicity might be a good thing. Especially since I wanted to do a positive piece, not a hatchet job to make Hindi films look backward and silly. Some Western outlets had done exactly that in the past.

I was waiting for confirmation of appointments with Shabana Azmi—she of Filmfare cover fame—and another big actress named simply Rekha, a smolderingly gorgeous woman. Actors Shashi Kapoor and Jeetendra had already accepted my request for interviews, though they weren’t available until the following week. And only for fifteen minutes each.

“You’re kidding me,” said Janice when I told her over afternoon tea what I’d scheduled. “Those are huge stars. How did you manage it?”

I shrugged. “My boyish charm.”

She smirked, and I admitted it was more dogged persistence and a little luck that got me past the gatekeepers.

“I have something for your lovely girlfriend,” she said.

I frowned. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Sorry. For Sushmita. It’s an autographed photo of Amitabh Bachchan.”

I’d been hearing a little too much about that guy, and it was getting on my nerves. He didn’t strike me as all that special. Just another tall, good-looking actor. And I’d seen many men who were more handsome. Dharmendra, for one. But Amitabh Bachchan was the one Sushmita had dreamt of marrying. He was on magazine covers and movie billboards all over town. Even my servant was an admirer.

I must have made a face without realizing it.

“Never mind, Mr. Jacobs,” she said. “If it’s too much trouble, I’ll deliver it myself.”