Sister of My Heart by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni Page B

figment of my wishing. Still, I froze mid-sentence, and Anju, when she turned to see what I was staring at, froze as well. But she’s quick, my cousin, and in a moment she was talking faster, telling a made-up story about a scandal at school, a girl caught cheating during an exam, and how the nuns sent for her parents and told them they must take her away for good the very same day. Ramur Ma was listening avidly, her mouth fallen open, so I was able to turn to the window and give Ashok a smile. He smiled back. I noticed that one of his front teeth was slightly crooked, and at that an illogical rush of love filled me. Now he was taking an envelope from his pocket. A letter! I wanted it more than I had wanted anything in my life. But I closed my eyes to signal no. I think he understood how I felt, for as the traffic policeman blew his whistle and our car moved forward, he touched the letter to his heart. I put my own hand on my heart, and felt it hammer under my palm in exhilaration and frustration and fear, and then—shocked at my own forwardness—I raised my fingers to my lips. The car speeded up—had Singhji noticed? In the rearview mirror Ashok’s shirt gleamed like a small white flame until it disappeared. There was an aching behind my eyes, tears I must not shed. I slipped my hand into Anju’s, and though she must have been annoyed at the risk I had just taken, she held it all the way home.

    I saw Ashok a few times after that, each time at a different spot along our route to school. He would be drinking coconut water from a streetside vendor, or getting his chappal repaired at a muchi’s stand, or standing in line for a bus, his bookbag slung over his shoulder. But I knew he was really waiting for me. There was never any opportunity for talk. Our eyes would meet for an instant, a kind of electricity would shiver up my spine, then Singhji would honk his horn at a rickshaw-puller or weave past a fruit seller who was crossing the road at the wrong place, and we would be gone.
    So little. And yet, for my starved heart, so much.
    Anju and I never spoke of these moments. She too must have seen Ashok. Even if she didn’t, she would have known by my distracted air, the way she had to repeat a question—sometimes two or three times—before I answered. Perhaps she didn’t want to give these flash encounters further solidity by acknowledging them. Perhaps she believed that if she ignored them they would dissipate into the fume-filled Calcutta air until eventually I remembered them only as one remembers a beautiful dream, with wonder and resignation and a mild, painless regret for what could never be.

FINALLY IT’S HERE , in a flurry of mango leaves and hot April dust. The day of our graduation. I run up to the terrace as soon as I wake. The sky’s a brilliant cloudless blue, emptied by some magic of Calcutta smog. I throw out my arms and whirl around, singing “Freedom, freedom, freedom!” Generally, I wouldn’t behave in this childish way, but today I can’t help it. It finally seems real that in less than three months—as soon as summer vacation is over—I’ll start in the English honors program at Lady Brabourne College. One of our older cousins who studied there has told me we’ll begin by studying the ancient epic Beowulf . I’ve already borrowed it from the library and read it. Sometimes I whisper the names to myself—Grendel, Hrothgar, the brave and beautiful queen Wealtheow in the mead hall, and the little hairs on my arm stand up for joy.
    When I stop, breathless and sweaty, I hear someone clapping. It’s a desolate, out-of-rhythm sound. I spin around and see Sudha, sitting in the shadow of the water tank—she must’ve come up here even earlier. There’s a funny look on her face. But of course. For her today’s the exact opposite of what it is to me. Each hour that passes will be another nail pounding shut the door of her prison.
    As the hot terrace bricks burn into my soles, I make myself a