“No, the point, Neil,” Anita said, positively clenching her fists in a way that suggested she did not believe I’d gotten it, “the point is that in India and America, something powerful happens at the start of marriage, something we can take for my mother. The start of the marriage, when two people are optimistic about each other—the American rom-com, love-shuv version.

“But we also want the old conservative Indian thing. And in some versions of India, the wedding is when the whole community is behind you, aunts and grandmothers and everyone who’s been trying to get you married. For some families, and the Joshis were like this, marrying off a daughter makes her theoretically safe. Plus, historically some desi brides got that gold as a backup in case the marriage went wrong, for their own financial security—”

I couldn’t help but think of even my thoroughly modern sister, how something in her had stabilized as soon as Avi slid the conflict-free diamond onto her ring finger. How in a rare moment of reflection, she’d told me once that the bulimia had finally ended with Avi, how the ground beneath your feet stopped shaking when you knew you had a partner in all things.

“Tell me your ‘plan.’ ” I used air quotes.

Anita was panting from the exertion of explaining the Indian wedding industrial complex. But she nodded invitingly, in the same fashion Chidi did when he was asked a probing question about his start-up, as if to imply there was nothing he’d rather be doing than assuaging the asker’s doubts.

“We’ve got to deal with security. Metal detectors, guards, cameras. Then, discretion. How to do it without alerting the jewelers. Plus, getaway.”

“That wasn’t a plan. That was a list of problems. And who’s ‘we’?”

“For now, just me.”

“A crack team, huh.”

“You’re the only person I’d imagine trusting with this.”

“You don’t even know me anymore.”

She was unscathed. “Maybe I don’t.”

My voice fell to a near whisper. “You really think it wouldn’t hurt anyone?”

I looked around the room, on instinct. Shruti didn’t step from the shadows to remind me about the unspeakable costs of fulfilling unnameable lusts. It was just me, Anita, and the bartender, who’d turned the TV to a black-and-white Japanese film.

“Yes, Neil,” she said. “I really think it wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“And would the gold contain… actual happiness, you think?”

“Something close to it,” Anita said. And there her hand was, on my knee again. I was dizzy, as I hadn’t been in years. “But, honestly, I’m not sure my mother’s familiar enough with the real thing to discern.”