This story was written and authored by Santha Rama Rau.

That first day at school is still, when Santha think of it, a remarkable one. At that age, if one's name is changed, one develops a curious form of dual personality. Santha remember having a certain detached and disbelieving concern in the actions of "Cynthia," but certainly no responsibility. Accordingly, Santha followed the thin, erect back of the headmistress down the veranda to her classroom, feeling, at most, a passing interest in what was going to happen to her in this strange, new atmosphere of School. The building was Indian in design, with wide verandas opening onto a central courtyard, but Indian verandas are usually whitewashed, with stone floors. These, in the tradition of British schools, were painted dark brown and had matting on the floors. It gave a feeling of extra intensity to the heat. Santha suppose there were about a dozen Indian children in the school-which contained perhaps forty children in all—and four of them were in my class. They were all sitting at the back of the room, and she went to join them. Santha sat next to a small, solemn girl, who didn’t smile at her. She had long, glossy black braids and wore a cotton dress, but she still kept on her Indian jewelry-a gold chain around her neck, thin gold bracelets, and tiny ruby studs in her ears. Like most Indian children, she had a rim of black kohl around her eyes. The cotton dress should have looked strange, but all Santha could think of was that she should ask my mother if she couldn't wear a dress to school, too, instead of her Indian clothes.

She can't remember too much about the proceedings in class that day, except for the beginning. The teacher pointed to her and asked her to stand up. "Now, dear, tell the class your name."

Santha said nothing "Come along" she said, frowning slightly. "What's your name, dear?"

"I don't know," She said, finally.

The English children in the front of the class—there were about eight or ten of them—giggled and twisted around in their chairs to look at her. Santha sat down quickly and opened her eyes very wide, hoping in that way to dry them off. The little girl with the braids put out her hand and very lightly touched her arm. She still didn't smile.

Most of that morning, Santha was rather bored. Santha looked briefly at the children's drawings pinned to the wall, and then concentrated on a lizard clinging to the ledge of the high, barred window behind the teacher's head. Occasionally it would shoot out its long yellow tongue for a fly, and then it would rest, with its eyes closed and its belly palpitating, as though it were swallowing several times quickly. The lessons were mostly concerned with reading and writing and simple numbers-things that my mother had already taught her—and she paid very little attention. The teacher wrote on the easel blackboard words like "bat" and "cat," which seemed babyish to her; only "apple" was new and incomprehensible.

When it was time for the lunch recess, she followed the girl with braids out onto the veranda. There the children from the other classes were assembled. Santha saw Premila at once and ran over to her, as she had charge of our lunchbox. The children were all opening packages and sitting down to eat sandwiches. Premila and her were the only ones who had Indian food—thin wheat chapatis, some vegetable curry, and a bottle of buttermilk. Premila thrust half of it into my hand and whispered fiercely that she should go and sit with my class, because that was what the others seemed to be doing. The enormous black eyes of the little Indian girl from my class looked at my food longingly, so she offered her some. But she only shook her head and plowed her way solemnly through her sandwiches.