Karak whistled. “You are knowing how to shoot it?” he joked, picking up the gun.

Clive chuckled. “See here?” He pointed to the muzzle, where the initials appeared, finely engraved—C.S.E.

“You fool them, Clive!” Karak said. “How you convince that good girl from a good family to marry you? And convince her father too?”

“More important—how you hide your other women?” Tomoya asked.

“What about all those bastards of yours?” Karak said. “You hiding all those from her too?”

Clive laughed, slapping his knee. The whiskey had colored his cheeks. Amarjeet and the Japanese boy laughed too, mouths open, shoulders bouncing.

Tomoya asked his son a question in Japanese. “Charm,” the boy responded in English. “The word is ‘charm.’”

“Ah!” Tomoya said. “Mr. Clive have charm we don’t know. You see!”

“Drink to that!” Karak said. “All Clive’s charms that we don’t know.”

Kishen emerged from the house, her chunni draped around her face, holding a bowl of popped corn and another filled with biscuits. Clive rose, tipping his hat. Years in the future, when he was gone, Ram would remember his earnestness, this respect paid to Jivan’s wife when he could have ignored her.

“Ma’am,” Clive said, but his knee hit the table and it toppled, spilling the bottle and his half-full glass. Whiskey splashed on his pants, Ram’s arm, Karak’s foot. A liquor-fueled cry went up from the group and Kishen jumped. Ram stood quickly and righted the table.

“Oh, such charms, Clive!”

“So good with ladies!”

“Yah, yah,” said Tomoya. “Mrs. Singh, you come just right time!”

Kishen’s face was half-hidden inside her chunni, but Ram could see her smiling as she retreated to the house.

They sat again and ate the biscuits and popped corn.

“Sorry about your whiskey, Karak,” Clive said.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Karak said. “More is there.” He spoke gently, but Ram could see he enjoyed Clive’s bumbling.

Tomoya stood, called to his son in Japanese—it was time to go home. Clive rose too. He mounted his mare first, and the Japanese and Hindustanees watched him set off at a trot, raising their hands silently.

“He will get marry,” Tomoya said after a while. He exchanged a knowing glance with Jivan. Ram had not realized the extent of their friendship.

Tomoya nodded, once, and Jivan returned the gesture. He put his palms together—then the men clasped hands.

Father and son mounted their horses. Ram felt peace descend. All was simpler with just his countrymen present. They sat at the table that Kishen set on the porch, eating rotis while the night surrounded them.

Moments later, they heard hurried hoofbeats on the dirt path and Clive reappeared. He slipped off the saddle. “I left my satchel,” he said, his face flushed. “And my ledger. I forgot to put in the totals.” Amarjeet gave him the book. Clive made hurried notations and slapped it shut. His horse started, ears up.