Late that evening, back at their hotel suite, Paulina came into Amala’s room to say good night. It was a typical way for their day to end. They were both in their nightgowns and often sat on the bed like a couple of little girls—much as Amala had done with Kat—to recount the day’s events and talk about anything that might come to mind. Tonight Paulina began the conversation by saying, “I have a thought I want to share, and since it will be many months yet before we return to England, you have a great deal of time to think about it, but I believe it’s worth considering.”

“I’m listening,” Amala said, feeling a measure of excitement. Paulina’s insight most often led to very good ideas.

“You’ve always been made to feel completely accepted and loved in your home, and I highly respect my brother and his wife for all they’ve done for you. You’re a precious girl and we all love you dearly. However, it occurs to me—and perhaps all of my time spent in India contributes to this way of thinking—that everything in your home is still so English. You have become so English.”

“What do you mean?” Amala asked, wondering now if she felt intrigued or unsettled by whatever Paulina might be thinking.

“I understand that when going out into society, certain measures must be taken to not ruffle feathers—at least not too much—although I believe a little feather-ruffling offers some balance in all the stuff and nonsense of people’s ideas. But at home, my dear, should you not be allowed to live in an environment that offers you a life that is more of a balance between your two worlds? Have you ever worn Indian clothing since you came to England? Eaten Indian food?”

“No, I have not,” Amala said.

“And there is my point. You are an Indian woman, and your life is completely English. Within the confines of your own home, you should be able to experience more of your heritage—beyond the presence of your father’s precious mementos. I’m only thinking that it might help you feel more at peace with yourself, perhaps happier.”

Amala thought about it a long moment. “I confess I’m . . . fascinated by the idea. You may well be right.”

“And of course we have time to think about it.”

“But . . . how would we acquire such things? How would we make adjustments to the menu when the kitchen staff is all English? It seems a huge undertaking in some ways.”

“Not so overwhelming if gone about the right way,” Paulina said. “We have time to work on that as well. Why don’t we get some sleep and let the idea settle in.” She kissed Amala’s forehead. “I love you, my chocolate sweetie.”

“I love you too, Auntie,” Amala replied and hugged Paulina tightly. “You are very good to me.”