“Well, then, girls,” Vairum says, clapping his hands softly. “Wash up and we’ll have a bite to eat. I hope you’re ready to have some fun here!”

Janaki and Kamalam murmur happy agreement.

The next morning, Janaki parks herself in front of Vani to listen to her morning recital. She feels shy, but not shy enough to keep away. Vairum, leaving for his office, bids her sit on the divan-“That’s what it’s for! Go, sit, relax!”-and stands at the door until she obeys, tipping awkwardly on its edge. Kamalam, who had sat behind her on the floor, follows. “If you don’t learn anything else while you’re here, please at least figure out how to look at ease without plopping yourself on the floor.”

He leaves, and the girls remain rigid on the divan. Janaki doesn’t really mind sitting on it, especially after Vairum is gone and there is no one left to see them, but wishes she were closer to Vani, the better to observe her fret work. At one point, Kamalam rests a hand on one of the bolsters, which are covered in woven Hyderabadi cloth, black and white to match the floor tiles, with cross-hatched embroidery in primary colours.

Vairum returns to take his mid-morning meal at home. Beforehand, he beckons the girls to sit with him in the salon a moment and shows them a small picture book.

“I had a meeting a few doors down from Higginbotham’s this morning.” He looks at their faces. “The big bookstore. You know of it.” They are not sure they do. “I got this for you both. I imagine your English is as bad as mine was when I was at school, before I started going to Minister Mama’s salons, yes? Let’s give this a try.”

Janaki sounds out the title and author: Madras, the City by the Sea. C. A. Parkhurst.

“Not bad,” Vairum says. Turning the page, he holds the book in front of Kamalam, who stares at it, her hands at her sides. Janaki recalls having seen Kamalam through the window of her primary-grades class, when the teacher, Miss Mathanghi, was giving them Sanskrit lessons. When she pointed at Kamalam, the little girl simply didn’t respond. The teacher berated her, but Kamalam kept her silence, looking straight ahead, her lower lip trembling.

Vairum sighs and moves the book back to Janaki. She takes it and haltingly reads a few lines of the text below the pictures of white children and catamarans. “Well, children, let us go on a visit to Madras. It is a city by the sea. I wonder how many of you have seen the sea.”

“Right,” Vairum says, standing. “That was painful, but I know you like a project, Janaki. Work on it, and work on your sister. I’ll expect both of you to read it to me in turns, in a way that doesn’t grate like a file on cement, next week sometime. Done?”

Janaki would love to learn English. She’s sure she can help Kamalam, who still has not moved or spoken.

Vairum had told them that they should be freshened up and dressed for 3 p.m.: they are invited out for tiffin today. They are seated on the divan, their hair identically oiled and coiled, their faces powdered with Pond’s Rose Talc, Janaki in the nine-yard sari of a married woman, Kamalam in the maiden’s half-sari, when they hear the car roll up downstairs. They stand and wait, some ten minutes, before they hear the soft clatter of Vairum’s feet on the stairs. “Vani!” he calls, and she comes out, putting on a ring.

He stops in the doorway to watch her, and she smiles knowingly. She wears a silvery blue silk with a wide black border, very simple, utterly elegant. Janaki, who had felt so sophisticated powdering her own face and her sister’s, shrinks again, frowsy, hopeless. She watches the look on Vairum’s face. He adores her.

Vani walks past him. He notices the girls and beckons them impatiently to the door.

They go to the Theosophical Society headquarters in Adyar, where a woman Vairum introduces as Rukmini Arundale tours them aggressively around the grounds. Janaki read an article about her in a women’s magazine: a Brahmin, married to a British man, she has learned and is marketing the devadasis’ dance-drama in a new, respectable form. It was called sadir, but she has renamed it. Now it is “Bharata Natyam,” the dance of India, and it carries, she says, a message of national liberation and uplift.

She is trying to get Vairum to sponsor a performance, in which she will star. “I know your politics are progressive, Anna,” she presses flirtatiously, though Vani is standing close by his side, no expression but an air of hauteur. “And, being as you’re married to such an illustrious artist, you know better than anyone the importance of preserving and promoting our classical arts.”

Vairum looks amused. They have paused beneath the Society’s famous banyan tree, beside the main trunk, surrounded and shaded by a grove of aerial roots. The sun through the large leaves dapples Vairum’s already blotchy face as he smooths his moustache.

“I’m just not entirely convinced that what you’re doing is progressive, my good lady,” he says, sounding mildly jocular. “Stealing those poor devadasis’ livelihood!”

“No one says they can’t dance any more,” Arundale responds tetchily. “Though certainly our performances demonstrate much greater scholarship and grace. But don’t you agree they should find”-her voice drops-“that is, be encouraged into, more respectable means of supporting themselves? Think of their virtue,” she insists, leaning into him and speaking as though not to offend the ears of the ladies.

Janaki, who had had doubts about this enterprise-a Brahmin woman, a married woman, dancing in front of an audience? How could it possibly be modest?-finds herself won over, despite being put off by Arundale’s coquettishness. She’s not sure whether the devadasis’ self-respect is besmirched by all the arts and wiles they use to attract men to support them, but think of all the corollary damage they cause! Mrs. Arundale is right: it’s a question of public morality.

Vairum remains non-committal and Arundale somewhat grudgingly escorts them to the guest suite, where an elegant tiffin awaits them in the company of her husband, George. While Janaki eats with appetite, drinking in the room’s European-looking appointments, she notices Kamalam just picks at her food.

After tiffin, Vairum tells the driver to take them to Adyar Beach. Janaki and Kamalam have never seen the ocean and they wriggle in excitement, exclaiming when it comes into view. Vani shows some hesitation about disembarking, but Vairum persuades her to join them for a stroll. Janaki and Kamalam have to hold themselves back a little to stay within a decorous distance of their aunt and uncle. Janaki sniffs the salt air, feeling the breeze stick and sting on her cheeks.

A few family groups are out for a promenade. A father and son kick a striped ball back and forth. The boy must be about four, fair-skinned with curly hair in a high quiff that tosses as he runs and laughs. Vani slows to a stop, watching the pair, as Janaki and Kamalam go on a little ahead, looking for shells. At a certain point, the little boy misses the ball and it rolls up into a patch of beach grass. Vani scurries after it, with Vairum looking a little alarmed and starting as if to get it himself. She plunges through the high grass and emerges with the ball, squatting and holding it so that the little boy comes to her. She speaks to him momentarily and Vairum moves toward them as she suddenly hugs the child, who looks uncomfortable, and then starts squirming and pushing against her. Vani doesn’t let go, however, until Vairum arrives and releases her arms.

The little boy runs to his father, looking panicked and close to tears. The father had looked as though he weren’t sure what to do: Vairum and Vani are obviously prosperous and respectable. He might have thought, until Vairum freed his child, that Vani was just enthusiastic and affectionate, but now, as he pats the boy and they walk away together down the beach, he looks back and shakes his head.