I lead the way up the stone path. Raja follows eagerly, past the thatch shack and the water pump, up to the brick wall and wooden gate. Midway, Raja lifts his hind leg to scratch himself, but after a few feverish cycles, he gives up and forges ahead. After the last bout of rain the beach plums have grown, gushing out of their beds like a rash, so I must bend back their large, rubbery leaves in order to push open the gate. We step out onto the burning sand, which is stippled with bits of Styrofoam and flotsam – dried husk of coconut, a carpet of purple-flowered weed.

I set up the beach umbrella for Teacher and roll my trousers over my knees before walking over to the girls.

We stand in the waves, the three of us – Lucia and Priya shriek every time a big wave slaps at their feet. An hour later, they become braver, dig holes in the shore and give Teacher their coolers and sunhats for safekeeping. They sit in these bunkers, burrowing their bums deep in the sand, and every time a wave knocks them over they flail their arms about and say, ‘Save us, save us.’

Raja runs worriedly up and down the coast, refusing to get his paws wet. A beach dog that is terrified of water.

We take a break from the waves for a picnic lunch. Biryani and Coca-Cola, but as soon as they’ve shovelled a plateful of food down their gullets they’re back in their bunkers, screeching.

At four, Teacher begins to complain, saying the girls are getting too black.

‘You better get going,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you driving on that road in the dark.’

‘No no,’ they shout. ‘We don’t want to go.’

Teacher gets up and starts waggling her finger at them. ‘You want to come again, don’t you? We can come next week, but you can’t behave like this. What will Grace-akka think?’

When the girls finally stand up, their swimsuits are full of sand. They’re wobbly from all the extra weight, and they’re giggling because every time they take a step forward, mud slides down their thighs.

‘Look! Like kaka in the pants!’

They point at each other and laugh till they’re choking.

‘Come on. We’ll hose you down inside. And you too,’ I say to Raja. ‘Let’s get you some food.’

Lucia is intrigued by Raja. He has decided that she must love him, so he’s exerting all his charm, following her, letting her pat his head, gazing up at her with his wet brown eyes.

‘What a scam! He’s putting on a show for you, Lucy. See this big flea circling his head? That’s where his heart really lies. That’s his beloved wife, Rani. They’re always together. Raja and Rani.’

When they pile into the taxi, Raja follows them all the way up the long driveway to the front gate. He squeezes under the gate and chases after them through the village, past the traditional thatch and newer concrete houses, past wells and bicycles, roosters, cows, children – his legs hurtling over ditches and heaps of stone rubble. And only when the car bumps over the little bridge, crossing the lagoon and fixing on to the main road, does he turn around and make his way home to me.