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the extent of Dwita’s predicament, she imagined the worst.
    Dwita’s academic performance was consistent – the new headmistress Irene Bose and her class teacher Stella Smith sent encouraging reports to boost Parna’s morale. Though she was delighted with her daughter’s progress, she could not resist driving her hard. Dwita was allowed to participate in all extra-curricular activities, but she was not permitted to man stalls at school fêtes or visit the homes of friends with older brothers, as the apprehension of male misbehaviour permeated Parna’s waking hours.
    When Dwita finished school at sixteen with distinguished results, she turned down all offers of places from high-prestigious institutions as they were mostly coeducational, instead she chose carefully the only Roman Catholic establishment, run by caring Catholic nuns of all ages and sizes, interests and shades of Catholic drive and conviction.
    In fact Parna had misconstrued slightly as St Cecilia’s College was not exactly a retreat for girls. The nuns, though recluses themselves in principle encouraged all possible contact with the outside world, both academic and cultural. Jesuit priests and their male students freely moved around the campus pursuing nuns and female students for a variety of reasons, some of which were no doubt purely academic. But it was also true that no languid, socially improper inter-sex exchanges were permitted on the campus or within easy visibility of the clerics or parents.
    Parna thought it was a suitable prison for her daughter during her dangerous years and Bhajan Singh heaved a sigh of relief as his multiple missions of accompanying Dwita everywhere were considerably reduced. He was an old man and his advancing years were telling upon him. Maheshwari was happy for Dwita, she so obviously enjoyed her university life and Parna had less time these days for interrogation.
    Parna had miscalculated the guile of youth and the vagaries of fate, both adept at playing their own games of fortune. “Who is she to manage and manipulate other’s lives when she has failed so utterly with her own?” Maheshwari was often heard to mutter to herself, whilst shaking her head and sighing deeply.

CHAPTER V
    Dwita was eighteen. A voice had suddenly cut across her literary communion with Browning’s
Grammarian
, “By Jove, you are stunning! They had said so and what is more, they were right.” Standing on the green lawns of Calcutta’s National Library, waiting for Mother Marie-Michael and others to emerge, she had been addressed by a young man. “I am Barun Mitra, in case you wonder, a humble student of Economics in my final year at St Augustus,” he added with mock humility. “And I know who you are – Adwitiya Roy Chowdhury, Dwita for short, brilliant, beautiful, incomparable and champion of all you attempt to do! You probably do not know me, but I have known you for a long time – from a distance of course. Well, I fear distant it will remain, for the time being in any case, as I see the Holy Mother with her divine charges approaching us.” He vanished as quickly and efficiently as he had appeared, leaving Dwita in a certain state of euphoric confusion. Who was Barun Mitra? What right had he to leave her in an aura of mystery and excitement? She went over his words – stunning, brilliant, incomparable – was she? She had never seen herself in any one of these possible roles, nor been led to believe this of herself by any of her friends and family. Only Mahama sometimes said when she was exasperated with Dwita that she would be more presentable if she spent more time looking after herself, instead of reading for ever in the bath. This was usually thrown at her when Mahama grabbed hold of her on Sundays to rub cream of milk and turmeric paste on her.
    Mother Marie-Michael’s voice cut through her reverie. “Dwita, my dear, here you are! I have been looking