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being an academic utopia. In actual fact, it was a den of corruption and degradation. All kinds of pornographic materials and alcoholic drinks circulated freely on campus. There were even dark whispers of drug abuse and prostitute visits.
    I was too engrossed in my studies to notice boys. Neha treated them with utter contempt. She had concluded quite early on that Nainital was not the place where she wanted to spend the rest of her life, and avoided the locals like the plague. That left our youngest sister Alka. She was an adolescent schoolgirl, trying to deal with the changes in her body. Even though she was growing up physically, emotionally she was just a kid who still believed in the tooth fairy. For me, boys were an avoidable distraction; for Neha, they were a passing amusement; but for Alka they were a seductive puzzle viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of the Mills & Boon romances she was addicted to. Papa’s stern admonitions did little to wean her away from her fascination with the bubblegum fantasy world of dashing heroes and damsels in distress. Given her innocent, carefree manner and utter disdain for authority, it was only a question of time before some predatory Romeo swept her off her feet.
    It happened sooner than I expected. I had my first inkling that something was cooking on the occasion of Alka’s fifteenth birthday.
    Papa didn’t believe in birthday celebrations, considering them to be on a par with Valentine’s Day, a Western import to promote crass commercialism. The one allowance he made to our generation was permitting Neha and me to distribute candies to the class on our birthdays. Only Alka, being the pampered one, was allowed to host her own birthday parties. They were also modest affairs consisting of cake, a few of her school friends and an inexpensive gift, usually a book.
    Alka’s fifteenth birthday had the obligatory cake and cookies, the usual fun and games. But, besides her typical exuberance, this time she exuded an earthy sexuality heretofore hidden. That night, while inspecting her presents, I found a bottle of Poison perfume by Christian Dior tossed casually among her clothes.
    â€˜Wow! Lucky girl!’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Now who in Nainital can afford a gift like this?’
    With a disarming smile and a shrug, Alka tried to make light of it. ‘ Kamaal ho gaya, didi! Rakhi the miser suddenly became generous.’
    I knew she was lying. Rakhi Rawat was her classmate in St Theresa’s. Last year she had given Alka a plastic treasure chest costing fifty rupees on her birthday. There was no way she would gift her an imported perfume costing three thousand.
    There were other signals, too. Throughout the two-week Christmas holiday, when the Academy was closed, I caught Alka writing furtive letters, which she would drop stealthily into the red postbox that stood just outside the school’s main gate. When I confronted her, she said they were for a pen friend in Brazil. Even more worryingly, her grades dropped a little. She began suffering from insomnia, lost her appetite.
    I got conclusive proof the day the Academy reopened. Returning from the library in the evening, I heard muffled sounds coming from behind the deserted school gym. As I edged closer, I saw a girl and a boy locked in a passionate embrace under an oak tree. The girl had her hands on the boy’s shoulders and he was kissing her on the lips. They broke up the moment they detected my presence. The boy turned and sprinted down the hill, disappearing into a thicket of pine trees. I couldn’t catch his face, but his green blazer and grey trousers were a dead giveaway: it was the school uniform. The girl tried to avert her face and scramble past me, but I caught her hand. It was Alka.
    We went for a long walk that night. She refused to tell me the boy’s name or any other detail about him, other than that he was the coolest guy on the planet and the son of a very rich Delhi-based