Nandini was sitting on a stool under the mango tree, splitting open plump, flesh coloured pods from the tamarind tree in the corner of the garden. She ran her finger along inside each one, scraped out the deep red flesh and dropped the fibrous twists into the bowl. Squarish beans, shiny and dark, clinked into the bowl. It was late in the day, and I was nearby, savouring the rich perfumed oil that seeped out as I squeezed a gardenia bud against the roof of my mouth with the tip of my tongue. Nandini threw a little of the tamarind flesh in my direction.

'See if you like . . . ' but she stopped and looked up. There, coming around the corner of the house was a man. A pale cotton suit hung loosely on his small frame, and unruly dark hair fell about his collar.

He came forward to greet Nandini warmly and she looked pleased to see him.

'Nomoshkar. How are you?' she said.

'Good, good,' he replied, settling happily into the Bengali after his months away.