Chapter 8: Hearts and Hairpins

I was already thirteen, often accompanying Mother and Third Sister Sneha to parties at various households. Of late, I noticed that Third Sister, who used to favour plain dress, now took greater care with her appearance. Her silver hairpin had been replaced with a gold jhumka, her pearl earrings now kundan drops. At a summer lotus-viewing party, she wore a jasmine hairpin, drawing every eye.

The transformation did not go unnoticed. The aunties at the party exchanged glances, whispering about Sneha’s new glow. Even the cooks in the kitchen gossiped about which family might send a rishta next.

Beneath the willows, the seats were filled with talented young men. During a poetry contest, Inspector Kunal composed a poem in seven lines, winning admiration from all. I noticed Third Sister’s hand tremble as she held her fan; though she tried to hide it, her fingers twisted the edge of her dupatta, betraying her admiration. Nor did I miss Kunal’s lingering, heated gaze as he drank.

The poetry contest was all laughter and applause, but the true drama was in the exchanged glances, the stolen smiles. For a brief moment, the politics of power gave way to the old magic of romance.

On the car ride home, Mother tapped the window frame and suddenly asked, "Is this jasmine hairpin newly made?"

Her tone was casual, but I saw the warning in her eyes. Sneha’s ears flushed red, and she busied herself adjusting her dupatta.

Third Sister bowed her head, ears tinged red. I saw Mother frown almost imperceptibly, and that night she went to Father’s study.

I listened to their muffled conversation through the thick teak doors, my heart pounding with worry for Sneha. In our house, a single misstep could change everything.

Within half a year, Father arranged Third Sister’s engagement. The Verma family had been noble for generations; the current head was a professor at Delhi University, a most suitable match. Mother took Third Sister’s hand, sliding a pair of gold bangles onto her wrist. "You love books most; the Verma family has ten thousand volumes. In the future, reading by lamplight with a red-sleeved companion—how elegant."

Sneha’s eyes brimmed with tears as she accepted the bangles. I remembered how, as children, we would sneak into Father’s library and pretend to host our own conferences, dreaming of a world where knowledge, not marriage, was our fate.

Third Sister knelt on the white marble tiles, her forehead to the ground, the jasmine hairpin in her hair trembling. When she rose, her body swayed; I went to support her, only to feel the torn flesh at her fingertips. Mother took out a new gold peacock jhumka from her dressing case, replacing the jasmine hairpin in Third Sister’s hair. "This hairpin is old—it should be changed."

The gesture was both tender and final. Sneha did not protest. In our home, even grief was a private affair.

Second Sister lowered her eyes, watching Mother casually give the hairpin to a servant. Faced with Mother’s warning, Third Sister mumbled her assent. But as she turned, she caught her foot on the threshold and stumbled.

No one spoke of it, but I saw the tears that fell later, silent and endless, as if each step was a farewell to a dream.

The wedding was set for the following autumn, but Third Sister was ill for an entire season. Jasmine Villa was filled with the scent of medicine; rare herbs were sent in like water, but could not ease her sorrow. When I went to pay respects, Mother was gazing at the falling neem leaves outside, her voice uncharacteristically weary. "Go comfort Sneha. If… she truly cannot bear it, send her to the west suburban villa to recover."

Mother’s voice was softer than I had ever heard it, the mask of the matriarch slipping for just a moment. She too, I realized, bore her own wounds in silence.

I saw the reluctance in Mother’s eyes, quickly replaced by resolve. It was the last bit of maternal kindness, and the final test.