In spite of my sisters’ objections, I wore the same shirt. Horrors. But I reminded them that I was a writer, not a model. Farrokh suggested all three of us sisters get bouffants but it was not doable at such short notice. Too bad.

Coming back to Bombay was like coming home but not recognizing it. Some things have changed: there is more traffic – much more because there are more people. There are more dogs, more dirt, more buildings, more shops, more money, more shit in the air, more noise, more smells, mostly unpleasant, and a lot less energy. It is more frantic and frenetic, but seemingly without purpose. I was warned but am still saddened by the decline of this once lovely city. Or maybe, as all memories, mine was flawed, or maybe I romanticized it over the last decade.

Farrokh was at the airport. This was in spite of our flight being very late. We had sat a long time on the tarmac in Delhi and then drove (?) for so long to get to the runway we thought maybe the pilot had decided to drive all the way to Bombay.

After delightful reunions and introductions with Farrokh we settled into life as his harem of three, and followed him about at a respectful distance, much to his alarm, and eventually amusement.

The launch event started with Prahlad’s speech about me at seventeen. I reminded him at some point that he would have to start talking about my book and not my breasts. He acquiesced somewhat reluctantly to my request, and talked a little about the book. Imam was there again, and wonderful again, and fielded questions from the large group of guests. It seemed large to me anyway. When it came to people asking about world peace we decided that the evening was over.

I signed a lot of copies. A person came up to me and asked me to sign his copy and I had the urge to snatch it away from him and say, “It’s not for you, you can’t have it” – and then realized, too late, that it wasn’t my book anymore – it was his, and anyone else’s who chose to read it. And that’s that and that’s all with A Pack of Lies.