Afterward, they all go to the Dasaprakash Hotel, where the Punjabis are staying. There, the girls have their first taste of ice cream. For the first time since leaving Cholapatti, Janaki sees a look of real pleasure on her sister’s face. They are wearing their new saris and blouses-eyelet with puff sleeves-and look sweet, if not chic. The Punjabi woman, only a couple of years older than Janaki, seems to feel more comfortable with them than with the rest of the group, and they speak to one another and laugh at their halting English. Janaki is fascinated with the henna work on her hands: leaves and flowers, an intricate design such as she has never seen before, and asks how it is done. Vairum nods approvingly at their having made friends.

The next morning, Vairum tells them he’d like to take them to a couple of attractions. “You can’t leave Madras without visiting the San Thome Cathedral and the Kapaleeswarar Temple. I’ve told Vani we’re having our morning meal out, at the home of one of the associates you met last night. Then we’ll go see the sights.”

Janaki can’t think who he means: surely not one of the Muslims? But yes: the taller of the two men who came to hear Vani play last night. Mr. Sirajudeen greets them at the door of his home, slim and elegant in a pressed white jibbah, a skullcap on his silver hair. Unfamiliar smells wash over the girls as they enter the house and seat themselves on divans in the salon. The house is large and light, but doesn’t otherwise look too strange: Janaki wasn’t sure what to expect, but thought it would be more shocking and unhygienic.

Sirajudeen speaks more Tamil than he did last night, now that the company is less mixed, but still peppers his speech with English phrases.

“Mr. Sirajudeen is a close associate of Rajagopalachari,” Vairum tells his nieces, and then tells his friend, “They met him at the Music Academy the other night.”

“Ah, yes. He’s a rare Congressmen, one who takes Muslim concerns seriously.” Sirajudeen smiles evanescently and rubs the corners of his eyes. “We talk often.”

A bell sounds elsewhere in the house.

“Come,” he says, standing. “We’ll take brunch? We can eat at the table, or, if your nieces find it more homely,” he says the last in English, “we can sit on the floor as we usually do.”

Vairum turns to them. “What do you prefer?”

They look back at him: what should they say?

“I think they can manage a table,” Vairum says.

“Good, then.”

There are four silver plates laid on the table, and a servant starts bringing rice and vegetables as they seat themselves.

“Pure vegetarian, of course,” Sirajudeen assures them, but Janaki and Kamalam are still struck nearly motionless in their chairs. They recall having eaten out, years earlier, at a non-Brahmin place while staying with their parents. But they were children, and there was no food in the house, and their father told them to. But why eat in the home, at the table, of a Muslim, by choice? They’re not even eating from banana leaves, but from plates other Muslims have probably used. One layer of contamination on another.

Kamalam is looking at Janaki to see what she should do. Sirajudeen bids them, “Eat, children,” and he and Vairum resume chatting intensely about construction materials or some such thing. Janaki looks at her plate and sees there are two curries, one wet, one dry, two pacchadis, of cucumber and green mango, and the rice with a kootu-like sauce on it. The worst thing to do would be to take the rice. Perhaps she can simply avoid it. But there’s not much harm in eating raw vegetables and fruits. She nibbles on the pacchadis. Kamalam does the same.

Mr. Sirajudeen finally looks over at a pause in their conversation, and asks, “What’s wrong? You’re not hungry? Not feeling well.”

“No, no,” Janaki says politely. “We’re eating, we’re eating. Thank you.”

He looks at them, narrows his eyes a little and inclines his head to his own plate, nodding slightly. He has guessed what is wrong, and he is offended.

Vairum glares at them, his nostrils flaring above his wide moustache. “Go on, eat!”

Janaki smiles at him and eats a pinch of green mango with salt and lemon. Vairum points at her rice; she shakes her head.

There is a silence between the men for a time, then Vairum breaks it. “Delicious. Please tell your wife.”

“Certainly,” Mr. Sirajudeen says without looking at any of them, and then changes the subject.

“That was a mistake,” Vairum expostulates as he slams his car door. “I thought you might not humiliate me in front of my good friend, but, no-you’re worse than your grandmother! You’re part of a new generation. Freedoms, to know people, to travel-does this mean nothing to you?”

Again, Janaki can’t think of any response and doesn’t think Vairum wants one. Would he really have her turn her back on all the values of her childhood?

“Answer me,” he bellows, and she jumps.

“I… I owe Amma my life,” she says. She has never said it aloud, but she knows it to be true.

“Many people have given you many things,” he says pointedly, and she blushes, thinking of her wedding, “but your life is your own now”.

Janaki thinks this is a very strange notion: she belonged to her family, who kept her in trust to give to her husband. Since when does anyone invent their own values? She is getting a very strange feeling from her uncle.

“We don’t have to live as Brahmins have for eight thousand years.” He sighs hard and looks out the window. “Don’t you like the excitement of the city, the sense of possibility?”

“Yes, Vairum Mama,” she quickly replies, but he doesn’t look at her and she is left to her thoughts. Eight thousand years. She can’t fathom it. She thinks of the day each year when a family honours its dead and tries to imagine eight thousand years of grandparents, but the only foremother she has really known is her amma, and she is not sorry she honoured her by refusing food in the Muslim’s house, though she will never tell Sivakami about the incident. She was sorry to hurt Mr. Sirajudeen’s feelings-he seemed like a nice man. But what did he expect, really? She feels a pang of homesickness and then starts to worry: Vairum invited her for this holiday so that she’ll fit into her husband’s family better. Will this kind of thing be expected of her in her new home?

Vairum no longer feels like touring sites with them. He has the driver drop him at his office and take the girls to the church and temple by themselves. The church is wondrous and unfamiliar, and the temple magnificent and comforting. They return home in good spirits. Vairum is out, and won’t return until late, so they have tiffin alone with Vani.

Janaki had not been sure whether Vani would keep up her storytelling habit throughout her time in Madras -what does she do when Vairum is not at home for a meal, tell the tales to the cook? During their visit, though, Vani spins her old magic, telling a story of a young woman, a relative of hers, whose husband passed away while she was pregnant. The child, however, grew, as did his elder brothers, to look uncannily like the dead husband: his features, his voice, his manner. Soon they took over the running of the household just as her husband had done, while she, grown dim in age, forgot her tragedy and thought her husband returned to her, multiply. Although the men married, she never recognized their wives.

Today, the story changes, and the child dies at birth. The husband, traumatized, regresses, becoming more and more childlike with the years, and the wife plays along, becoming, in increasing degrees, like a mother to him. Their elder sons, though, come with time to look and sound just like the man their father once was, and she finds them wives who agree to dress the same as her, as well as adjusting their hair and manner to imitate her own. The story ends with both wives pregnant.