It is a fragmented memory from 55 years ago; it has taken on a magical aura, almost as if I have entered a 3D picture on the cover of a fairytale book. My parents had taken me to a church conference on the outskirts of Calcutta. While the adults were inside the hall, I was allowed to free to wander outside. I may have been the only child at that conference. Those were innocent and gentle days and it was a safe compound by the standards of that period.

Outside, in the meticulously kept garden, I noticed a little girl about my age, playing on a swing. I recognised her—she was my classmate from La Martiniere Girls School, an Anglo-Indian girl whose hair was often styled in ringlets. I thought she was very pretty child, so it was a lovely surprise to see her there. We began to play together.

In that compound stood a silk-cotton tree. Amid the fluffy cotton clumps on the ground were the pods, which had smooth and velvety inner linings. We collected these pods with delight. How pleasant it was to run our fingers across the velvety interior. The joys of that garden also included flowers, dragon flies, and butterflies.

Another thing I remember from that day is how we recited the alphabet together. She corrected my pronunciation. My parents, being Tamil speakers, had taught me the alphabet with a strong Tamil accent—“A-B-C-D…” with a “yae” sound instead of “A.”

She insisted on correcting me. I remember how unfamiliar and even wrong the sound “A” felt at first compared to the strong “yae” I had known. But she continued, and I continued, until by the end of that morning I could say it correctly.

Now, as a sixty-year-old woman, I look back and realise I have that little girl—who would also be around my age today—to thank for teaching me something so basic. Thank you, ringlets girl. I think her name started with an ‘A’ too, but I am not sure about that.