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spicy food, Miss Hart had explained, that made Indianboys and girls grow up so quickly, for it heated the blood and caused premature lust. She had also insisted on a lot of exercise and had taught Asha to play netball and hockey. Although there was no one to play except herself and Asha, Miss Hart had played in earnest and cheered the two of them on as if they were a full team. “Oh, butterfingers!” she had shouted; or “Well played, Alice!” She had always called her Alice; she said she couldn’t pronounce Asha.
    â€œWhat’s so difficult about Asha?” Raymond asked.
    â€œI know. It was only an excuse. She hated Indian names, like she hated everything Indian.”
    â€œShe sounds rather a horrible person.”
    â€œShe wasn’t so bad. Sometimes she was quite fun. I think she was just terribly homesick—especially at Christmas time. She hated spending her Christmas in India. But when there were English guests come to stay—like Mr. Timrose, the political agent, or there was a Colonel Freshwater with his wife, Mrs. Freshwater, and a daughter, I’ve forgotten her name, was it Rose? Or perhaps Violet. They always came for shooting. When there were people like that, Miss Hart was very happy. She came down for dinner in an evening gown that was held up with two straps and after dinner she played the piano for them, all English tunes like Gilbert and Sullivan and ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods.’ She spent a lot of time with them in the guest house, complaining about us. But when she left us and went back to England, she cried and cried and gave me her own penholder, which had a view of Brighton in it. . . . Hello, Gopi, I think that costume is too tight for you.”
    Gopi shook himself so that the water came dripping down on Raymond, who pretended to protest. Gopi did it again and said, “Why don’t you come? It’s so nice and cool.”
    â€œI prefer watching you.”
    â€œOh, what’s this?” He took the glass Raymond had ordered for himself and at once began to drink. He finished it all and then ran off, ostentatiously graceful, water trickling down hischest and back and making the hair look silky and matted. Both Asha and Raymond looked after him for some time in silence.
    â€œHave you known him for a long time?” Asha at last asked and went on straightaway: “Do you like him?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Raymond said coolly. “We’re great friends.”
    Asha gave him a sideways look. She ran the tip of her tongue over her wide mouth, which always had too much lipstick on it. She drank her drink while listening to the band playing and watched Lee and Gopi throwing a plastic ball at each other in the pool. Raymond also watched. His hand tapped the side of the deck chair in enjoyment while the band played a very old Beatles song to rather a strange beat.
    â€œMy brother also had an English tutor,” Asha said.
    â€œAnd did he hate India?”
    â€œOh, no. He was quite different. Quite, quite different. You know, Raymond, shall I tell you—” She squeezed his hand. How strange it was to hold a man’s hand this way and find it lifeless, unresponsive like a woman’s or a friend’s. She smiled to herself and squeezed it once more before giving it back to him. “Yes, it’s true, he was a bit like you. He loved India—he loved being with us, and our food and all the festivals, and he was terribly happy when he was allowed to dress up in Indian clothes. He sat on the floor and listened to our music and ate betel and did everything that everyone else did. All the Indians were very fond of him. But the English people didn’t like it at all, that he should behave like that. Mr. Timrose wanted my father to dismiss him, he didn’t think he was suitable as a tutor. My father didn’t like to disoblige Mr. Timrose but when he told Peter—that was his name, Peter Kingsley—and