“Really?” someone whispered from the back. “I thought she rented her eyes.”

Sarina heard the comment, but with a straight face said, “I was telling Jeeta about something she likes.” Two girls sitting behind us began giggling. It was easy for them to figure out that we must have been talking about a boy.

“Share with us what Jeeta likes,” Mrs. Kailas insisted. Most of the time, I hated the idea of an all-girls school, and yet, at times like this, I was happy that there were no boys in the classroom.

Sarina looked at me and took a deep breath. I lowered my eyes. Maybe it had something to do with her father being a judge, because Sarina never lied.

“What she likes comes from my father’s side of the family and is quite unique. I’d seen Jeeta with such an admirable longing for it when she came to my house that I thought maybe she would . . . not that I have permission or a right to give her what she desires without the consent of others. I was asking her—”

“All right, all right, that’s enough,” Mrs. Kailas said, with a sweeping motion of her hand. “You may sit down.”

At recess Yamini said, “Promise you’ll bring Neel’s picture tomorrow.”

“I don’t have his picture,” I said.

“I’m asking Sarina.”

“Take a picture of Jeeta and Neel together. Make them hold hands,” Janki said.

“Hold hands? Are you in the middle of the fifth century? Can’t you think of a more romantic pose than that?” Yamini said. Then she whispered something in Janki’s ear. Janki covered her mouth with her hands as if she didn’t want those words to spill out of her mouth.

That afternoon half of the class asked Sarina what it was that I liked so much. She merely smiled mysteriously.

eleven

WE DIDN’T have to give as much to Anoop as we had to Girishji. Even when Mohini bought clothes, jewelry, and other personal things, Anoop said, “Don’t buy too much, Mohini. Indian things and Indian ways are of no use there. Once we get to America we’ll shop for your clothes.”

One day Mummy, Mohini, and I went out to Shyama to buy saris for Mohini—a fancy place on Marine Drive that had the latest fashions in saris and dress materials. That morning the shop was relatively empty, and we sat on padded stools in front of a glass counter. A gentleman with more gray than black hair clinging to his scalp stood behind the counter and asked us what we wanted. When we told him we were looking for saris for the bride, he was pleased. Those were the most expensive saris.

He looked at Mummy and asked, “For which one of them?”

“For her,” I replied, pointing to Mohini.

“Saras, saras, good, good.”