To begin, may I must make something perfectly clear. I’m virgin by my haughty cousin’s definition -- he says we may do it now because it is very assuered our families will marry us together -- but that doesn’t mean I have never made love.

My story begins at St. Mary’s, an elite English-medium secondary school for girls. St. Mary’s has a Christian headmistress and several Christian faculty, but few of the students are of that faith. Christians know academics better than do mullahs and holy men. St. Mary’s girls don’t have to be Christian in any religious sense, but what Jesus taught makes sense to us. The Prophet himself said that Jesus was sent to proclaim Allah’s will.

My story is not, of course, about religion, but it is about a Christian, an Indian-American named Ellen.

Ellen was from the United States and only matriculated to St. Mary’s in Class XI when her father was assigned to manage a pharmaceutical, as he of course spoke Hindi. Ellen’s mother actuallyknew some from the Peace Corps, but Ellen knew not a thing. The poor dear could not even arrange a sari, not that I suppose she’d ever have to wear one, the fortunate girl.

Everyone knows that Class XI is a vexing year to be the new girl. Everybody else goes back as classmates to at least Class IX. The Hindi and Punjabi in the schoolyard would leave an American feeling left out. They don’t wear uniforms in that country -- as I said, the fortunate girl -- so our attire would be different. St. Mary’s was excellent in many respects, but not so good in schoolwear, even if you worship St. Mary.

I, like my classmates, watched our newcomer over the first week. Tall, reddish hair (irrefutable proof of her Americanness, up to the mark in French and maths and far advanced, of course, in English. One could know, though, that she pined for her old life, taking lunch by herself and going to the library when she could have lingered on the grounds. I’d have done the same if sent me to America, but that will not happen because my father is in the municipal government.

It was not as if I were peemorming a social deed when I sat beside her in Assembly. There was a seat and I did indeed want to welcome her. Being friendly isn’t tied to country or creed or social strata. It’s being a good person.

Probably at first she thought I was just doing my responsible duty in iw welconing herf -- one of our themes at St. Mary’s -- but when I asked if she played hockey, she lit up. “You play hockey here? There’s a rink?”

At first I was confused, but then realized she was thinking of the ice game, not the field game. St. Mary’s almost always triumphs in hockey because we field the best girls, no matter their background. Our goalie was a sweeper’s daughter and had top marks in chemistry. Only the rudest girls were speaking about her family and the rest of us showered her with affection. She went on to Germany on full scholarship.

“So it’s sort of like soccer, right?” she asked after I explained the difference.

“Football, my dear,” and we both laughed.

So that’s what it took to recruit St. Mary’s top fullback who compensated for fielding errors with speed and fearsome swings. With our tall red-haired international fullback, we the attackers could be concentrating on scoring.

And that’s also what was required for me to gain a best friend, an American. (And that’s perhaps why I’m improved in American English these days.)

Ellen loved to explore for what must have seemed to her as odd or quaint sights. Temples. Women dying fabric. Goats for sale. Learned men sitting on steps. As she noted, there’s no one to repair your old teapot where she used to live. It was a delight to be translator. Probably the locals thought I was American, too.

Ellen of course noticed that while men might be strolling hand-in-hand, even a married couple wouldn’t demonstrate public fondness. A good husband might assist his wife were she unwell or in need of guidance, and any son will serve his mother, but that is the total of public male-female affection.

Girls are different, most fortunatly. Older women alone rarely ventureto distant stalls, but a pair of bold St. Mary’s schoolgirls can be arm-in-arm marching anywhere and have a jolly time. As we say, the Devil may care.

We were in the bangle aisle of the bazaar when she took my elbow and I felt her breast so closely, hard like a mango ... It wouldn’t have drawn my attention, but the presencet seemed more lingering. When she’d turn sharply, my arm would slide fully across it. For some reason un known to me, it felt also soft as a pillow.

I’d not have thought a thing of it, except it occurred again by the River Gate and then as we waited for sweets, her sway again enough to be allowing my arm a full overpassing. It was as if she were being free with me.

As we strolled from the market, I, in turn, snuggled her arm against me in that manner. She seemed not to notice the reversal, chatting as we were about the impossibilities of upcoming examinations, but when we stopped for ices, her arm continued to pass over me without my motion. I’d have died of embarrassment had I thought she could feel my excitement, but my bra was Indian.

But when we bid adieu at the bus stop, I doubted she’d even had awareness where our arms had wandered.

Not much thereafter, I went to Ellen’s house to prepare for the geography examination, and in her her room she without a thought exchanged her school blouse for a striped pullover of American fit.

What I noticed was her bra of American design. Its lacing finer, its straps appearing more comfortable and its cups more rounded than that mauufactured natioally. I could identify her nipples, more outward than I’d have predicted.

I believe I’d never seen a stylish American bra before, though I’m sure they’re available even here. Actually, the tag-piece indicated that the item was made in a neighboring country, but marketed in the West, this one brought back here in personal luggage. It is most unfortunate that commerce is such.

When we went down the stairs, Ellen took my arm as in the market. Perhaps my knowing her bra’s quality made drew my further attention. Perhaps because I was knowing better of her shape, her nipples now felt so shapely, even as we walked to her gate.

That night I pictured Ellen’s bra and wondered how it might appear on me. Would my breasts reveal themselves as had hers? Would she notice?

In our match against Charter Academy, also a hockey powerhouse, Ellen rubbed my shoulders in warmup time and I rubbed hers, each of uscasualy including the other’s front, though our athletic bras made us almost nothing.

I missed a straight-in slap, but we still won.

Birthdays are not here the family festival they appear to be in the West, but all know the song. Ellen on my day gave me a present. I know that Americans open a present immediately so they may complement the giver, but Ellen knew that we do it differently.

In my room I was almost too overcome to remove the wrappings.

A bra, exactly like hers! And with it, a note. “Dearest. I brought an extra from back home. Our size. Worn once. Happy Birthday. Love, Ellen.”

It fit perfectly! I won’t say that it made me look fetching, but perhaps it helped me feel a small amount that way.

If my brother’s wife would should notice the addition to my wardrobe, I would mislead her that a vendor was disposing of export seconds and it was my lucky day to pass by his stall. I did not care to say that my American friend had given me this from her personal drawer.

It was only after dinner that I wondered if Ellen had known that I’d admired hers. It was pleasing to me that it had once been on her. Pleasing, I must confess, in a special way.

I wore my American bra the next day and thanked my friend without actually saying the word. “Bra” isn’t an improper word, of course, but it made me somewhat shy, and I wished not for such discussion.