“I believe dear Willy is referring to the irony of my pet name,” said Chhotu. “‘Tiny’ would be a close approximation in English.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m happy to call you whatever you like.”

“Please, dear chap, call me Chhotu. I love my name.”

I agreed then asked what kind of business the two of them did together.

“This and that,” he said. “We trade in all kinds of lovely items. Carpets, sculptures, handicrafts, illustrated versions of the Kama Sutra. Anything your heart desires. Even forbidden things. For example, dear chap, would you like to smoke some stick?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Chhotu, that’s enough,” said Willy. “Danny is not interested in hashish. And you must be careful around here. We don’t want trouble from the police.”

“Or from me.” That was Sushmita, who’d entered the room from behind us.

Chhotu frantically wrestled with the chains holding the chair aloft, and managed to push himself out of the swing.

He namaste’d and gave a little bow to her. “Sushmita-ji, you are looking ravishing, my dear.”

She didn’t respond. Instead she warned everyone in the room that there would be no smoking of stick with young Danny. “He’s not accustomed to the drugs you get in this country.”

“Mita, darling, don’t exaggerate,” said Willy. “Nobody is taking drugs. Just the occasional bit of hash for my private use. Don’t give Danny Boy the wrong idea.”

“I’m serious, Willy. No drugs for Danny.”

I’m not sure who looked more ill at ease, Chhotu, Willy, or me. I didn’t really care. Though I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and I’d smoked hash a couple of times in college, I was flattered that Sush was looking out for me.

SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 3:24 P.M.

The weather was gray, but the rain held off. The forecast called for heavy downpours and strong winds later on, but as Sushmita and I strolled the grounds of the compound that afternoon, we did so without umbrellas. The lawn, cut close to the ground as if with nail scissors, carpeted the entire garden, except under the three great banyan trees near the wall. Durva grass, Sushmita, informed me, then said it was an invasive weed. Still, she admitted, Manjunath, the gardener, did a nice job keeping it green and trimmed.

At all times during our walk, we made sure to stay in plain sight, visible from the windows in the house. Willy and Chhotu had remained inside, discussing details of their business, while Sushmita and I amused ourselves among the flowers, trees, and fresh air.

“You don’t like that Chhotu, do you?” I asked.

“He’s a swine,” she said with more vitriol than I’d expected. “I’ve told Willy a hundred times I don’t want him in my house.”

“Why? Tell me.”

“He’s a chamcha—a sycophant. Also dishonest, immoral, ugly, and ill-mannered. Shall I go on?”