Waiting to pull out the driveway, I see a young Indian girl walking slowly along the street, approaching my front garden. She is remarkably willowy and has an intelligent face with delicate features. She wears a sari of tangerine and chocolate as though she just stepped out of a 1970s cookery book. She is walking slowly, reticently, aware of each step. Her arms cross her stomach and her hands rest on her hips. She is lost in troubled thoughts. I have the urge to open the passenger door and invite her in. “I’ll tell you mine”, I’ll say, “And you can tell me yours”.