The Sid in the letters is very different from the Sid I am married to.

They write about kissing a lot. Sid’s only ever kissed me when we’ve had sex. She writes about grinding for hours—apparently Sid loved it—but I don’t grind, I can’t really because I get a stitch in my side …

They’ve written about torturing each other with prolonged foreplay—even thinking about the sex Sid and I have is mortifying. It’s a chore compared to the sex they seem to have had. Is it because I don’t grind or because I don’t have big breasts?

While I am standing and staring at my reflection in the mirror Dragon calls out for me. I don’t want to talk to her right now. I just want to be left alone.

My mind keeps going back to those letters, pictures—their love—and I don’t understand why Sid ever married me. I am nothing like Lalita.

Dragon yells again—I quickly put everything in the box and shove it under the bed—I don’t want her to know I’ve opened it. I wear a tee shirt over the bra and cast a quick look around the room to see if everything is in order. There have been times when Dragon has barged into my room without knocking. She doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Before Dragon can do it again, I walk out into the dining room.

‘You were calling for me, Momji?’ I ask.

‘Ah finally, I’ve called you at least a hundred times—you’ve been locked in for so long—were you sleeping?’ she asks.

‘No Momji, I wasn’t,’ I say, trying to keep the conversation to a minimum.

‘Oh all right, though the Lord knows you can do with a little extra sleep—a woman needs to look after herself more when she is your age. You are no spring chicken after all. Now if you were to have a baby, it could do wonders to your body, like your breasts for instance, they would—’

‘Did you want something, Momji? Tea or some cake perhaps? I bought some nice sponge from Open Oven,’ I say.

I walk into the kitchen to get the cake and avoid looking at Dragon. I can’t handle comments about my breasts right now. I hope a full mouth will prevent Dragon from talking too much.

‘Cake would be nice,’ she says, ‘But why do you buy them? I’ve always baked my cakes at home. All these bakeries use dalda you know—’

‘Not anymore Momji, most bakeries use good ingredients. As for baking at home, Sid is not much of a cake-eater and baking for one person is just too much work—it’s easier buying the occasional cake,’ I say.