He can hold my hand—things like that. But that’s a mistake. I am about to turn seventeen, and she has just turned twelve. A twelve-year-old girl is not so little. Besides, she has already entered adolescence. But she still speaks with such childishness—when she was just six years old, one of our Brahmo relatives got divorced. That unprecedented event caused a stir throughout Bengal; whenever women gathered, there was no other topic—whether leaving one’s husband was good or bad, that debate. My mother and aunts would discuss these things—if someone told her to leave, she would refuse, saying, “Don’t say it, say it in front of me, I’m just a child, I won’t understand anything!” At that time, she truly didn’t understand, but now she does, I’m sure she does. She is very curious. Curiosity is good, it leads to questions, and without questions, how will people learn?

Besides, I notice something new in her. She feels pain that father makes such a fuss over me, that Rabindranath Tagore loves me so much, or that I love him and get to visit him, that such a great person is so close to me, but she cannot reach that place. This pain is sharp and intense, but it’s not her fault. If someone sees another being so favored right before their eyes, it can hurt. She doesn’t yet understand that her time will come, that she too will have her turn—she’s not old enough to grasp that. She pouts, cries, “Everyone loves Didi, no one loves me.” Everyone laughs at this sweet complaint of a little girl, but her sorrow does not go away.

When I went to Delhi, she once said to Ramananda Chattopadhyay, “If Didi isn’t here, you never come to this house.” Now she’s clinging to Mircea—she senses that I have a special bond with Mircea, a place where she is not included—I feel she has understood a great deal, and she fears that this man too will love Didi. I cannot discuss this with anyone. With whom would I need to? My special fear is that Mircea doesn’t understand any of this! Who knows what she might reveal in front of him. One day Sabi even said, “What are you two saying with your eyes?” When I told Mircea, he found literary delight in it—he laughed a lot—“Saying things with our eyes, a good expression. Let us try it again.” The more I observe Sabi, the more my heart trembles with an unknown anxiety—will she shatter this heaven of happiness, even if unintentionally, from the heat building up inside her? No, she’s just a child, what can she do? But every day I am plagued by this worry. I know Shanti knows everything! Khoka knows. They approve. They will never say anything. Perhaps even Kakima knows, but she won’t say anything. My only fear is that little girl. Sometimes it makes me laugh! She is nothing. But fear will always remain—‘Fear is ever awake. Close to the