A servant brought the food out. Sarina’s mummy, whom I called Mrs. Judge in my mind, ate with us and asked me about my family. There was something in her way of talking and listening that made me feel comfortable. She did not ask to be nosy or to put me down. I felt that she was interested in knowing me, her daughter’s friend.

When I mentioned that Nimita was married, Mrs. Judge seemed surprised. I also told her about Nimita’s eyes. Instead of saying how tragic it was to have a sister with such a problem, or congratulating my family for finding a match for her and getting her married, she wanted to know more.

“Nimita’s vision is bad and it could get worse. She has a hereditary disease and there’s no cure for it. My youngest brother, Vivek, has the same condition. My parents have tried everything, from seeing specialists to going to temples, but nothing has worked,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Mummy is an ophthalmologist. Have they been to one?” Sarina asked.

“She’s a real ophthalmologist?” I blurted without thinking. Mummy said I was too quick, and someday it would land me in icy water or a bucket of coal.

I turned to ice.

“Do you know any fake ophthalmologists?” Sarina asked, jabbing me with her elbow.

“Sarina!” Mrs. Judge said, and asked me, “Who’s the specialist your sister and brother have seen?”

“I don’t remember the name. I’ll ask Mummy.”

“Find out and let me know.”

“I will.”

I cursed myself for being stupid and rude. What could I say now? How? Where were my long tongue and sharp mind when I needed them the most?

“Jeeta, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mrs. Judge said, patting my hand.

“Oh no, you didn’t upset me at all. I’m feeling . . . I don’t know . . . I’m . . . Thank you for caring so much.”

“Sarina tells me your mummy makes the best mango pickles she’s ever had.”

“I think she does.”

I was glad Mrs. Judge had changed the subject.

After lunch we went to Sarina’s room. It was a beautiful room, painted in the lightest shade of blue, which reminded me of Neel. Besides her bed, there was a large ebony cupboard, a desk, and a wicker chair. Attached to Sarina’s room was her own bathroom and a balcony.

I tried to picture a room that would have only my things: my bed, my books, my clothes, and my secrets. Mine alone. Our home was a one-bedroom apartment. All my life I’d shared a bedroom with Nimita, Mohini, Chiraj, Vivek, and Mummy. Pappa slept in the living room, and many times in the middle of the night, Mummy went there too, when she thought we were asleep.