The more time I spent with him, the more I wondered if he thought of me as a sister. All the things he did with Sarina he did with me: sat by me, touched me, looked at me and laughed with me, and teased me. After the walk on the beach, Sarina never asked me if I liked Neel, but just talked to me about him as if we’d both known him forever. Was she trying to tell me that Neel and I were just friends? I was afraid to ask.

One day while Sarina and I were studying Gujarati, we came across a figure of speech that we didn’t understand. “Neel, do you know what this means?” Sarina asked.

Neel read it, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and explained, “It says, ‘Your hair is like a rain cloud but a rain cloud has not your hair’s softness.’”

“So, is the hair like a rain cloud or isn’t it?” I asked.

“Not only is the hair as dark as a rain cloud, but it’s more beautiful because it’s softer.”

“Is it a simile?” Sarina asked.

“Not a simple one. Because the hair is softer than a rain cloud, it’s better than a rain cloud.”

“There’s a comparison and then there isn’t. I’m confused,” I said.

“I am too,” Sarina said.

“Suppose I say that Jeeta’s eyes are as bright as marigold blossoms. What is that?”

“A simile,” we both said.

“But if I say, ‘Jeeta’s eyes are as bright as marigold blossoms, but marigold blossoms can’t speak like Jeeta’s eyes can,’ then I’m saying that not only are Jeeta’s eyes as bright as marigold blossoms, but they’re even more beautiful because they have the power to communicate.”

By the time he’d finished speaking my ears were ablaze and my heart was his. Without looking at him I said, “I understand what you’re saying, but how can anyone know what a rain cloud feels like?”

“Obviously the poet knows,” Sarina said.

“He’s saying that just to make someone feel special,” I said doubtfully.

“What’s wrong with that?” Sarina asked.

“It’s wrong because he doesn’t actually know if the rain cloud is softer than her hair,” I babbled. “Not only has he never touched a rain cloud, but he probably has never touched her hair.”

Neel and Sarina exchanged a glance.

“Sometimes one doesn’t need to touch to feel,” Neel said.

“If you can’t touch hair, how can you tell if it’s soft or coarse?”

“You can feel it with your heart.”

“Feel hair with your heart!” Sarina said. “Neel, now you’re a poet riding on a fine horse of imagination.”

“If I had someone with hair softer than a rain cloud, I could fly on a horse of imagination.”