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‘Believe me, it’s going to be brutal.’
    ‘And you don’t care because?’
    ‘Because I am a karma yogi,’ he said, mispronouncing and mangling the words. ‘I learnt it in your country, atop the Himalayas. All I have control over is my actions, my karma; the results are beyond my control. Que sera sera.’
    I stared at him in incomprehension, but I was too breathless to ask anything more. I looked around to check on Sam. Finding him all right, although still lagging behind the others, I began to run faster.

    We spotted the embassy at the end of a deserted Parisian street with empty colonial bungalows and abandoned cafés on either side. My heart leaptwhen I saw the American flag still flying high atop the building, and I felt even better when I saw no sign of the Khmer soldiers anywhere on the street.
    We raced up to the spiral embassy gates at the end of the street, panting, and joined a large group of Cambodians, all dressed in plain clothes, standing outside the closed gates and shouting in their dialect. We pressed ourselves against the gates, begging to be let in.
    ‘American citizens only,’ said the two crew-cut marines guarding the gate.
    A howl of protest broke out from the Americans who were safely on the other side of the gate. Apparently, they were trying to get their Cambodian friends evacuated too.
    ‘He is my cameraman,’ said an agitated, red-faced giant on the other side of the gate, pointing to a thin young Cambodian who was clutching the bars of the gate tightly. ‘The New York Times cameraman, goddamn it.’
    The marines remained impassive to this and similar shouts:
    ‘He is a Red Cross worker who saved American lives.’
    ‘A hospital nurse.’
    ‘She is the Ambassador’s nanny.’
    ‘Citizens only,’ the marines repeated.
    ‘We are Americans,’ shouted someone from our group excitedly.
    The Cambodians holding onto the gates moved aside to give our group space. They looked at us longingly. I felt bad for them for a moment, but shrugged away the thought. My own life was at stake here; the drowning couldn’t save the drowning.
    ‘Take out your passports,’ said the marine.
    We began to fumble through pockets and backpacks to get our passports out amidst the growing din.
    I glanced quickly at Ishmael as the rest of our group began to queue up in front of the gates.
    ‘Why don’t you run to the French embassy or some other European embassy?’ I said desperately. ‘Maybe there is a chance there.’
    ‘If the Americans don’t let me in, it’s unlikely anyone else will,’ he said.
    ‘What will you do?’ I asked.
    Before he could respond, there were shouts from the crowd. A large tank had arrived at the far end of the street, about half a mile from where we stood. The crowd began to scatter, afraid perhaps of being seen at the gates of the enemy. Our group moved forward and began to push their way inside. I rushed over to Sam, who was at the end of the queue, and stood behind him.
    ‘Get your student ID out,’ I said.
    He fumbled in the back pocket of his cargo pants, still looking a bit dazed.
    ‘You need to focus, Sam,’ I said. ‘We are almost out of this, okay?’
    His hands were shaking as he produced his MIT student identity card.
    ‘Don’t show them your Indian passport,’ I said. ‘Show this. Do you understand?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Take this map,’ I told Ishmael, who was standing behind me, staring vacantly at the tank. ‘And this.’ I emptied my pockets of money.
    He accepted the map and the money without question. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
    He sauntered casually to the sidewalk and began studying the map while he sized up the street.
    The rest of us shouldered our way in through the gates - to freedom. It had worked, I exulted; we had pulled it off.

    ‘You can’t enter with this,’ said the marine at the gate when Sam showed him his student identity card. ‘Show me your passport.’
    My fear had abated; now it returned with a numbing force.
    ‘Are