Relief came from unexpected quarters. Mr Burly's nastiness had caused enough commotion to merit the attention of his boss standing yonder. Boss was larger than Burly, and wore an expression that would have daunted even an angered Goliath. With three gigantic steps he strode up to the counter where the face-offbetween his lackey and a tired and nervous young journalist was developing into a miserably one-sided contest. "What's the problem?" he boomed. But Boss defied the stereotype. He scrutinised my credentials again, nodded his approval, patted me on the back, and even apologised for his underling's unseemly behav-iour. "Aap to hamare mehman hain," he said while endorsing the passport with an entry permit. We shook hands on this, and Boss then asked if I was carrying paan or sarees. "Only some news-magazines," I replied and pulled out a film glossy. "You cannot take this in," he said. "We don't want Indian propaganda to influence us. I have to read it to see if there is anything objectionable. In any case, Amitabh is my favourite hero," Boss declared smilingly, pointing at the cover, and moved on.