“So you decided to buy up all of his henna?” Priti’s voice rises by an octave. She rubs the bridge of her nose, the same way that Abbu does when he’s annoyed but doesn’t want to show it by shouting at us. “You know that’s not going to work, right? He’s just going to place another order for more henna. It’s really not that difficult.”

“I know. I’m not that thick. But it is going to slow things down for her, and by the time she’s figured out that it’s going to take her at least a few days—if not weeks—to get the henna tubes she needs, I’ll hopefully have already taken some of her customers.”

Priti smiles. “Seems like you’ve planned this out.”

“In depth.”

“Well … Sunny Apu is here.”

I haven’t seen Sunny Apu since her wedding a few weeks ago, even though over the summer we saw each other on an almost daily basis. Bengalis are like moths to a flame during weddings; and if they’re not all gathered together, spending all of their time talking and planning and dancing and singing, does a wedding even take place?

“What’s she doing here?” I peer into the sitting room only to find it deserted.

“She’s in your room …” Priti trails off. She doesn’t meet my eyes, tracing the groves of wood on the floor with her toe instead.

“Priti, what’s going on?”

“She said she wants to talk to you.” Priti shrugs, like she has no idea what’s happening. I know that something else is at play, something that Priti isn’t telling me, but with so many henna tubes weighing me down and Sunny Apu waiting up in my room, I’m not really in the mood to try and wheedle it out of her.

I push past her and up the stairs, henna tubes jiggling in my arms like jelly. When I push open the door of my room with my toe, Sunny Apu is inspecting my bookshelf. She stands up straight as soon as I appear, a practiced smile pasted on her lips.

“Nishat! Assalam Alaikum.”

“Walaikum Salam …” I mumble, tossing the henna tubes on my bed.

“That’s a lot of henna.”

“I’m running a business,” I say, as if that’s an explanation. I know she wants more from the way she arches her eyebrows, but I want to know why the hell she’s here, staring at my bookshelf and smiling at me like I’m a stranger and not someone who stood by her side as she got married.

She gently sits down on my bed, moving a henna tube aside. “Come, sit.”