Sister of My Heart by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page A

filigreed gold as delicate as a web, and studded with tiny diamonds. Even before Mother says anything, I know they’re meant to be part of my trousseau—as they’d been hers. From now on, she adds, each birthday she’s going to present me with a piece to match—bracelet, ring, ornamental comb—just as her mother had done.
    “They look very nice on you, dear,” she says when I try them on. “But I’ll have to put them back in the vault for now. You’re too young to wear them.”
    “Wait, first I have to show them to Sudha,” I say. “You know how much she likes jewelry. I bet she’ll want to try them on too.” I can already see the pleasure on her face as she runs her fingers over the gold curve of a bird’s neck. She’ll adjust each earring inher ear with a frown of concentration. And then she’ll give a small, satisfied smile, because the earrings will make her look even lovelier.
    I need to see that smile. Because something’s wrong with Sudha lately. She’ll hardly talk to me, and she’s been avoiding the mothers as well—especially Pishi, who I always thought was her favorite. What’s more puzzling is that Pishi hasn’t questioned or scolded her for her sullenness, as she usually would have. She’s only watched Sudha with an expression I can’t figure out and given me extra chores, almost as though she wanted to keep me away from her.
    Whenever Sudha thinks she’s alone, she gazes into the distance with her great dark eyes, and sadness seeps over her face like a stain. I must’ve asked her a hundred times, Sudha, What is it, what’s wrong? But all she’ll say is Nothing. Then she’ll make an excuse and go to her room, and if I follow her she’ll say she has a headache and wants to lie down.
    I want my Sudha back. I want her to swing her head so the diamonds flash in the sun, to say, You’ve got to let me wear these the first day of Durga Puja. I want her to cajole me into trying on whatever her mother’s given her—a pair of chappals, a sari—polishing the buckles, adjusting the anchal over my shoulder, buttoning me up and laughing when I complain that the blouse doesn’t fit me right. It’s our special birthday ritual, all the way back to when I’d take her my dolls who could open and shut their eyes and she’d tie back my hair with her satin ribbons, or take a shiny bindi from the box where she kept her few ornaments and stick it carefully in the center of my forehead.
    It never bothered us that I got a lot more gifts than Sudha, or that hers were a lot less expensive. We thought of them as joint property and never hesitated to rummage through each other’s almirahs for whatever we wanted. The mothers didn’t seem to mind either, though once in a while Aunt N would grumble when she found a mud stain or a tear on one of Sudha’s frocksthat I’d worn, because I never could learn to be as careful as my cousin.
    But today when I’m about to rush to Sudha’s room, my mother says, “Anju, maybe you shouldn’t.”
    “Shouldn’t what?” I say in surprise.
    “Show her your earrings.”
    “Why not?”
    “Maybe they’ll make her unhappy.”
    “Why?” I demand. “Why should they make her unhappy?” I can feel the anger beginning to flare like a fire spark inside my skull even before Mother says another word.
    I’ve never seen Mother look embarrassed before. “Because her mother doesn’t have such costly things to give her,” she finally says. “And it’s going to get worse from now on, as you grow older and I start putting together your dowry jewelry. I love Sudha, and I’ll try to buy her something each year, but I just don’t have the money to get her this kind of gift.” She looks down at her hands, and I wonder if she’s thinking how she’d always insisted to me that people mattered far more than possessions, or how she’d always said that there was no difference between Sudha and me as far as she was concerned.
    Watching my mother, I see something else that