And this was how a south Indian Brahmin boy entered the Madrasa-Aliya, a school meant mainly for Muslim noblemen, the only Hindu in my class. But when summer rose, and the heat began blinking on the black boulders of Hyderabad, the family took the long trip back from the city of Lakshmi (for the real name of Hyderabad is Bhagyanagar, City of Riches) to the town of the Lady Beautiful. And from there we went further still by bullock cart to the Malnad Hills, where amidst rice fields and coffee plantations, we lived under the protection of Goddess Kenchamma, on the bank of the virgin Hemavathy. And when summer ended, we came by bullock cart to Hassana, and by horse cab to Arasikere, where we took the metre-gauge express to Bangalore, and again after a night here, the train took us down the ghats, and then on to the parched and cotton lands of Andhra, while the broad-gauge trains, going so fast and looking so big, took us to Wadi, and here we changed trains again in the middle of the night, and by morning we saw the dust and the minarets of Hyderabad. And I would now go back to my Madrasa-AIiya, whose headmaster was a burly Englishman called Durand, but above him was the great principal, Kenneth Burnet, so mysterious, and, for an Englishman, riding a bicycle! I was to learn later that he had to divorce his wife, and with two or three sons at school, he could not afford more than this green B.S.A. When my father, who was teaching English under him, bought me a bicycle, Burnet was surprised. ‘Oh, and I cannot even buy one for my sons,’ said Burnet. But I was mighty proud of my shining slick machine of locomotion.