Priya captures Somnath’s bishop with her knight and waves it about in delight. “You did not see that coming, Kaku, did you?” He bends over the board muttering, secretly pleased. He taught her to play ten years ago when she was eight; her victories are his, too.

Somnath in his cotton kurta-pajama, a glint of gold buttons at his neck. One would not guess that he owns most of the fields in Ranipur and a shipping business and fancy mansion in Calcutta. His village home remains his favorite residence. Priya claims it is because he does not have a worthy chess opponent in the big city.

Priya in the loom-woven sari most village girls wear, her laughing face framed by curly hair escaped from her braid. One would not guess she holds close to her heart a forbidden dream.

The servants arrange the food on marble tables. Lime sharbat in silver glasses, three kinds of milk-sweets, steaming pumpkin-flower pakoras, pistachios, fruitcakes sent up from Calcutta. Guilt twinges in Priya. At home, her mother and two sisters would be eating puffed rice and jaggery, peasant fare. Money is always short in the Ganguly household. Nabakumar, a fine doctor with practices in Ranipur and Calcutta, is hobbled by a bad habit: he cannot turn away patients who are unable to pay. People take advantage of you, Priya’s mother, Bina, complains. What would they have done if Bina had not been a talented quiltmaker, much in demand for her wedding kanthas? Bina is correct; still, Nabakumar is Priya’s hero.

Up the stairs comes Manorama, Somnath’s sister, manager of his household ever since his wife died giving birth to their only son, Amit. Manorama wears the white sari prescribed for widows, but hers is of the finest cotton. Jewelry is forbidden, but at her waist hangs a massive silver key ring proudly holding every key except the one to Somnath’s safe. All in this household must petition Manorama for their needs.