Finally, after nearly a minute, the cop pulled his dripping head back inside and, mopping his face with his cap, waddled back into the flat. He summoned one of his men, who handed him a cloth. Once he’d rubbed himself dry, he gave the junior officer some instructions. Then he snapped his fingers at the other men. They hustled inside and over to the window just as a sandaled foot, then a white cotton pajama leg, descended into view. The searchlight from below followed and illuminated the room again like a Friday night football game. A slight, waterlogged man shimmied the rest of the way down the external drainpipe and dropped into the veranda, his wet clothes dripping water everywhere.

Jesus Christ, it was Ramu.

Before I could even ask him what he’d been doing out there, the cop in charge approached him and cuffed him hard on the back of the head. Ramu flinched, but didn’t try to protect himself. The cop hit him again, all the while spitting questions and abuse at the poor guy. Ramu answered with a rapid-fire explanation in Hindi. Then the cop did something strange. He wrapped an arm around Ramu’s neck—wetting his shirtsleeve as he did—and shook him, I could have sworn, almost affectionately.

The police officers searched the prisoner. He had nothing on him.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

The cop looked back at me as if he’d only just noticed I was there. Then he motioned to his men to take the prisoner away. Ramu offered me a sheepish smile and a “sorry, sir,” as they hustled him out the door.

The cop stood before me, glaring with the same menacing squint as before. “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing in India?”

I explained that I was a journalist and showed him my press card. He gave it a cursory glance, hardly enough time to read the name printed on it, then shoved it back to me.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jacobs. Daniel Jacobs. I’m with UNI, United News International,” I said, wondering if he was going to cuff me the way he had Ramu. “Why was my servant climbing up the side of the building?”

The man brushed his mustache again, then turned to consider the rest of my flat. There was no wall between the drawing room—the estate agent’s term, not mine—and the dining area, which consisted of a small Formica-top table and four wooden chairs. A few steps away, in front of the veranda, two small faux-leather couches faced a coffee table in the center of the room. A bulky black-and-white television sat against the wall. I’d tried watching the news once or twice, but the reception was spotty, and India’s sole channel, Doordarshan, only broadcast in the evening.