“St. Mary’s is all girls. Although Bishop’s School for boys was on the other side of the wall. My father called the combination Bishop’s School for Backward Boys and St. Mary’s School for Forward Girls.”

God, she was gorgeous when she was happy. And she was glorious as she laughed at the memory.

After the golf course, we veered left and a short while later passed the Royal Western Turf Club, a storied racetrack dating back to 1800. I asked if we might find time to go play the ponies one day.

“Sure,” she said. “If you can wait till November. The horses don’t run in the rainy season.”

We turned right, and she squealed. Positively squealed. “Look up ahead,” she said. “There it is. St. Mary’s School.”

We pulled to a stop beside the tall green wall and climbed out.

“Is this a Catholic school?” I asked.

“Mad or what? Anglican.”

The sounds of girls’ voices reached us from the other side of the fence. Excited, breathless shouts indicated games were going on inside the enclosure. The front gate was open. We went in. To our right, scores of girls between the ages of seven and fifteen or sixteen were playing on the grounds. Outfitted in blue tunic dresses, white blouses, and neckties of different colors—depending on their houses—they were engaged in spirited games of basketball, hockey, or tag.

A colonial-era building made of stone stood before us. Above the arched entrance a hand-painted sign read, “St. Mary’s School” in blue letters against a white background. Below the school’s name, the devise was written in smaller script: “I Serve.”

“The classrooms and library are in that building,” she said. “And the senior dormitory is at the end of the drive.”

She called my attention to another building near the field hockey pitch.

“And that was my junior dormitory. I was here from fourth through tenth. Then I went to Wadia College for eleventh and twelfth. Such wonderful times we had here, talking past lights out, sharing stories, and trading tuck.”

“Tuck? What’s that?”

“You didn’t have tuck at school? It was … snacks. Treats. Food sent from home. I always had the best tuck, thanks to Daddy. He traveled a lot abroad and sent me treats no one else could hope to compete with.”

“That must have made you popular.”

She shrugged. “Girls can be jealous, you know. And matrons, too.”

“Were the matrons mean to you?”

Sushmita’s expression went grim. I asked what was wrong. She stared at the dormitory and, I swear, her eyes sparkled from some distant sadness.

“Some were nice,” she said. “But I hated Miss Bhagawat.”

“What did she do to you? Steal your pillow?”