“It’s all right. We’ll go some other time,” Mohini said. For the rest of the ride, Mohini held Nimita’s hand and I stroked her back.

Nimita got out of the taxi at her apartment building and disappeared inside.

When we got home, Mohini said she had a headache. She slept for an hour, but her headache only got worse.

“Come, I’ll rub your hair with oil,” I said. From the shelf above the washbasin I took out a glass bottle filled with green oil. It was coconut oil infused with roses, brahmi leaves, amla fruits, and other plants. I sat on a wooden chair and Mohini sat on the floor. Slowly, I unbraided her hair, parted it, poured the oil directly on her head, and gently began to pat it. The fragrance was strong but soothing. Mohini’s hair was as smooth as a marble pillar. I liked touching it. I massaged her scalp with my fingers, the way Mummy did when I had my headaches. It melted pain away.

“Mohini, I worry about Nimita,” I said.

“Why?”

“Didn’t you see her face? Girishji ruined our plans and she couldn’t say a word to him. If I were her I’d be yelling like my braid was on fire.”

“Nimita is not you. Besides, Girishji is not wicked or bad. Three times a week he brings her fresh jasmine gajra to put in her hair. He takes her out to eat, and remember on their first month’s wedding anniversary he brought her that French perfume? He just likes things his way, and when they don’t go as he plans he gets frustrated.”

“And he takes it out on other people.”

“Nimita is not other people. She’s his wife.”

“So that makes it right? Makes it fair? What about us? Along with Nimita, our plans were ruined too.”

“That’s how he is. Maybe, slowly, Nimita can change him.”

“How can she? Haven’t you noticed how she puts her sandals on and stands by the door at five to eight, if he says he wants to leave at eight?” I knew that Girishji had left Nimita at home more than once because she wasn’t ready fast enough, so now she got ready early.

“Like Mummy says, ‘She’s burned by hot milk, so she blows on her buttermilk,’” Mohini said.

“I wish she’d, she’d—”

“Shout and fight with him? I think patience and love are better cures, and Nimita has plenty of both. They’ll be fine.”

I picked up the comb, brushed out the tangles from Mohini’s hair, and braided it.

“Are you better?” I asked, screwing the cap back on the oil bottle.

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head back toward me. “Sisters’ hearts are strung together by gold thread. They never tarnish. I’m glad mine is strung on the same thread as Nimita’s and yours.”

I leaned over and kissed her forehead.