When Pappa had gone to their house to meet his future bride, instead of one, there were two girls waiting for him. “Pick either one of them,” Kirti Auntie’s father had said. Well, Pappa picked Mummy, and ever since then Kirti Auntie has been furious with her. Like Mummy used to say, “Kirti tikhu murchu che, khand ma boralu; Kirti is a hot pepper dipped in sugar.” Usually, Kirti Auntie hid her jealousy and anger well, but on certain occasions the sweetness melted away and the hotness stung.

“Don’t throw away important matters in your laughter,” Mummy said to Pappa. “Ever since Nimita got engaged I’ve been talking, listening, asking, and cajoling everyone about a good match for Mohini. Finally I find a good boy, and what happens? The crow takes the swan’s sweet and you’re as calm as frozen water.”

“There’s nothing to be done, Purnima. We haven’t even seen the chap and now we won’t have to take the trouble. I say it’s a good thing Kirti went ahead.”

Mommy threw her hands in the air. “I don’t think you worry about getting your daughters married. That is all.”

“I do. The future husband of Mohini is out there,” he said, looking out the window. I looked out, too, but all I could see were four pigeons. “Eventually we will find him. No new one is going to be born for her.”

“Old or new, it won’t be this one, though, and what if Kirti goes after the magistrate’s son, too?”

“Is she so greedy that she wants two husbands for Jayshree?”

“No, not for Jayshree. But maybe she wants him for her brother’s daughter. She’s only a year younger than Jayshree, you know. Oh, I wish a cobra would cross her path.”

I smiled to myself, thinking it was very unlikely that a cobra would cross Kirti Auntie’s path. There were no cobras in Mumbai except for the ones that the snake charmers carried in their baskets.

Pappa was tired after a long day of work, so I brought him tea. He took a sip and said, “Jeeta, I hope you find your own fellow to marry.”

For this, Mummy was not ready. “Have your senses sunk? If she finds her own match, what would people say? What would we do?”

“She’d have a groom ready and we wouldn’t have to do anything.”

“What groom? What does she know about marriage and commitment? What about his caste? I don’t want her marrying any useless fellow, a hali-mavali off the street.” Then she turned to me. “Don’t listen to your pappa. If you as much as go near a boy, I’ll strip your skin off. We womenfolk have our reputations to protect. We’re not brass pots that if dropped can be picked up and shined. We are earthen pots—once broken never mended.”