As it happened, I didn’t have to wait till the end of the month to see Arthur again. I was enjoying my morning coffee when Fritzi started barking furiously. Arthur was standing at the garden gate. There is no bell there – the gate is always kept unlocked and my clients walk through to the porch where there is a bell.

“Can you tie up your dog please?” he called out when I opened the front door.

Now get this. I don’t tie up Fritzi even if the King of England decides to visit. He is, quite simply, my other half. “He doesn’t bite,” I said, “come on in.”

“You know my ancestor was bitten by a mad dog? He died of course.”

I couldn’t have cared less if his ancestor was bitten to death by a crocodile. I was annoyed with him already. Then I noticed his companion and all my anger just sort of melted. I hate to admit to commodifying or quantifying anyone, but in fact that is what we personal trainers do (in the silence of our minds), though we would die rather than admit it. The way an undertaker might mentally classify you for coffin size – to your surprise because you didn’t think you were that dead yet. Biceps, triceps, deltoids, quadriceps and the all-important abs – nothing in excess, nothing out of place, this girl was quite simply the perfect ten. In my business, it is very rare that you get to see one of these. When you do, you are struck dumb.

“Good morning, Uncle,” she said.

“You don’t have to call me uncle,” I replied rather testily. All the while, those wandering eyes of Arthur’s were trailing all over my humble abode, up to the asbestos ceiling, across the rackety fan, down the iron grills on the windows, ending up at the leaky fridge with yesterday’s newspaper under it. There was a sickly smile on his face as if to say, “I know, you don’t have to say anything, your secret is safe with me.” I wish I could have given him a shot to wipe that smirk off his face.

“Chanchala needs to be in tip-top shape for my show at the end of the month,” he said.

“She already is in tip-top form,” I nearly replied, but that would have been stupid now, wouldn’t it? Money is money, and I could see the red-letter bill from the Ceylon Electricity Board sitting smugly on the dining table. In different circumstances, I would have happily paid her for the pleasure of giving her a few lessons.

“It’s two thousand rupees a session,” I said apologetically. “Each session lasts one hour and fifteen minutes.”

“Can I pay in advance? I’ll bring her Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, 9 am sharp.”

Did this old geezer own her? Was this some sort of brown slavery? He had booked my peak times assuming I would be free. As it happened I was, but that is not the point: that easy assumption that I would drop everything to do his bidding almost killed me. But business was thin even if the good people of Kalabola were not. Here they tend to take their weight very seriously. Flesh on the hips signifies money in the bank; a thick pair of thighs gives you the solidity and grounding of a gyroscope, a stabilising sense of your place in the world. Thin is sin.

“I will be accompanying her for her lessons,” he said. I normally charge for my time only, so even if ten people come to the lesson it is the same price as for one. But something about the dirty-old-man leer on his face brought out the devil in me. “No, you can’t,” I said firmly. “It’s a one-on-one session.”

“I have to accompany her. She’s barely 23. I’ve promised her mother.”

Did her mother know what she was doing? What sort of mothers did these Kalabola people have? But a personal trainer is not the guardian of his clients’ morals. I have had in the past the occasional fat man bring his mistress to me for classes, a way of firming up his investment, improving the asset quality. This was no different I suppose. We trainers are trained not to comment, whatever we may privately think. We have to remain professional, detached. It’s the body, stupid! is our motto.

Meanwhile, Fritzi was barking incessantly. It was difficult to conduct any business over the din. He and I have very similar opinions. He was creeping around Arthur, growling. Every once in a while, he would dash forward, taking a nip at the raincoat.

A word about his name. I got him from the German rescue place at the other end of the village. (Oh, yes, we’re very cosmopolitan here in Kalabola.) That said, he is a disappointingly un-German sort of dog. He hates potatoes, he’s never on time for his meals. He does love a good sausage though. Can you racially profile a dog? Is this what I’m doing here? I do apologise.

“We’ll see you Monday morning?” Arthur said as they left.

“Thank you, Uncle,” she added sweetly.

Uncle? If I was her Uncle, what did that make Arthur? Her Grand-daddy?

Kamala was scrubbing the pots again; for the third time that day. Round and round her hands went, circular and soothing. Every once in a while she held up her forearms to the light to admire their substance, succulently firm and meaty. If she was brutally honest they were bigger than her employer’s calves, which were rickety as bits of bamboo scaffolding. One firm chop and she could send him flying. This she frequently longed to do; in between bouts of adoring him as feverishly as that scorching week before the April monsoon.

Had she but known, she was in that delirious subatomic state where you can exist simultaneously in opposing states: on and off at the same time. She could never decide whether she loved or loathed her employer. It seemed to her supremely logical that she could do both. On the one hand she adored his expansive easy-going ways, his kindness, and particularly his directness, something we Sri Lankans are not often known for. On the other hand, there were those eyes – slippery and back-sliding, unctuous as two peeled grapes in warm olive oil.

Of course she was aware (who wouldn’t be?) of that easy assurance he wore like an everyday shirt – the prerogative of those descended from that 19th-century rentier class, the class that had virtually ruled Sri Lanka in the hundred-odd years before Independence. But then, she felt comforted by the fact that she herself was descended from Kandyan nobility, feudal and much more ancient. Three hundred years ago, he would not have been allowed through her front door, having instead to wait in supplication on the steps of the back kitchen verandah.

In the early 19th century, by a series of clever laws, the British had broken the stranglehold of the Kandyan aristocracy, enriching and ennobling this new class, which was Christian for the most part and of another caste entirely. Apart from a few nobles who had jumped ship like rats to help the conquerors, the Kandyans had since then declined easily into a life of penury.

There were other, deeper, reasons for her hate. She had never forgiven or forgotten the slight inflicted upon her by his family some thirty years ago. The worst, most galling part was that he was totally unaware of it, clueless. She had never reminded him, possessing this sliver of information like an ancient scrap of Damascus steel, which she would use, one fine day, to stab him with. As always, on a sunny afternoon like this, her thoughts turned pleasurably to murder.

Her mind went back to that inciting incident all those years ago …

Excerpted with permission from Hot Butter Cuttlefish, Ashok Ferrey, Penguin Random House India.