“Jeeta, you have such bright eyes and long lashes that even with your dark skin we’ll find a good match for you,” Foi added.

“Yes,” I mumbled, biting my lower lip and turning away.

I liked Foi. Most of the time she was kind and sensible, but like other people I knew, she thought that light skin was the most important attribute for a girl, especially a girl of marrying age.

“Jeeta, is your mouth full of mung beans? Does it pain you to show a little more respect to your elders?” Mummy snapped.

“I’m sorry, Foi.”

Gratitude or respect, I didn’t feel an ounce of either. All I felt was fire—a rage in my heart that flamed through my eyes. I wanted to smash those cups against the window. I was tired of receiving such compliments. It was as if she had plucked a thousand feathers of happiness, and handed me only one.

I was convinced that Pappa had married Mummy because she had light, fawn-colored skin. But for me, it was as if God had used the special dark shade of the koyal bird. Lord Krishna’s skin was rain-cloud dark and praised for its beauty in Sanskrit prayers, devotional songs, and popular movie tunes, but no one praised my skin—least of all, Mummy.

Two gray-blue pigeons landed outside on the windowsill. I’m not a pigeon, I told myself. I’m a dark, mysterious koyal bird, whose sweet songs inspire poets and writers. I had never seen a koyal in Mumbai, but I knew they were somewhere in the city, sitting on mango trees, singing in the morning.

When I came back to the kitchen after changing out of my school uniform, I heard Mummy say, “Pray for Nimita. If finding a husband for a daughter is as tough as swallowing metal pills, finding a husband for a daughter with a handicap is like chewing metal.”

For the last several days, Mummy had been repeating that sentence over and over. The softness in her sigh had disappeared as quickly as the last prospective groom.

“Have faith and all will work out. It always does,” Foi said.

“I worry about all my children; but for Nimita and Vivek . . .”

My youngest brother, Vivek, had the same eye condition as Nimita.

“Sure, Vivek has an eye problem,” Foi said, “but it isn’t as bad for him as it is for poor Nimita. In life, we womenfolk have more to lose and more to suffer than men.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Mummy replied, with a catch in her throat.

“Let me tell you about this new boy for Nimita,” Foi said.

“Yes, yes, tell me all about him. What’s his name? Who are his parents?” Mummy said, wiping the round, stainless steel thali with the edge of her yellow cotton sari and piling one side of it with wheat.

“His name is Girish Mehta, and he’s an orphan.”