It’s no exaggeration to describe the two hours of scaling the ghats that night as the most terrifying of my life. And I’d been in Vietnam. The cars and trucks paid no mind to the dangers of the road, the conditions, or the sharpness of the turns. It might have been the Hindu belief in reincarnation that prompted such insouciance in the minds of the drivers who, one after the other, tempted fate and death by passing vehicles in no more space than you’d need to park a car. And I do not exaggerate. Those drivers were indifferently crazy, as if their lives and the lives of those coming in the opposite direction didn’t matter at all.

“Do you want to pull over and wait for the rain to ease?” I asked.

“The turnoffs can be as dangerous as the road,” she said as an oncoming Ambassador ducked out of our path like a matador avoiding the bull. “Drivers misjudge the turns and bash into the cars parked off to the side. I’ve even heard of motorists sleeping in their cars pushed over the edge and down the mountain. Awful.”

“Maybe keep driving,” I said. “You’re doing great.”

I must have worn out the invisible brake, pumping it as I did for the better part of two hours. My leg was cramping from the constant stress, so when we finally breached the crest of the ghats and leveled out, I let out a cheer.

“Wow,” I said, relieved the road had finally straightened. “You are an amazing driver, Sushmita.”

“Very sweet of you, Danny,” she said, staring straight down the road. “But there’s still a long way to go. Probably two hours or more with this rain. I’m going to stop ahead for a rest. It’s safe enough here.”

She pulled over at a petrol station with a nearby dhaba, a roadside eatery. We filled the tank and found a place to park, not too close, but not too isolated from the other vehicles.

As the rain drummed on the roof of the car, we ate the green chutney sandwiches Ramu had packed in Bombay and washed them down with the water from the bottles he’d filled.

“You’re not ready to eat from the dhaba, Danny,” she said. “Trust me.”

“It’s still quite far to Poona, isn’t it?” I asked. “Do you want me to drive?”

She laughed. “Oh, Danny. You’re even less prepared to drive in India than you are for dhaba food. We’ll sit for a while and see if the rain lets up. If not, there’s a place I know in Lonavala where we can stop for the night.”