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Diamonds. The colonial section of Singapore was getting ready for Christmas, but the Christian celebration could not hold a candle to Deepavali.
    On Bhai Doo, the fifth day of Deepavali, Hindu brothers invited their sisters to their houses and gave gifts. The idea made me sad and happy. I once had an older brother, too. I kept a photograph of him cuddling against my mother. Yes, a brother, and a male heir, would have made a great difference in our lives at the palace.

    Kahani’s Jewelry Emporium was the brightest thing on brilliant Serangoon Road. Mr. Kahani had an eye for making things look their richest and most beautiful. Now and again it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t really completely blind. It might be an elaborate ruse concocted for some reason. I was willing to believe that he had poor eyesight but could still see something.
    For instance, one day Mr. Kahani told me, “You look good in black and white. You should wear it more often.” —Did Ron sidle up to him each morning and say, “Oh, by the way, Agnes is wearing black and white today, and Sahhdie has on a rose-pink sari, and I myself am wearing a navy pinstriped suit.” It seemed possible.
    But there were even stranger things. For instance, Mr. Kahani could hold up any piece of jewelry and point out its virtues in detail. “Look at how this center emerald shimmers. And do you see that blue fire, flashing at the heart of it? That is the sign of an excellent stone.” He would angle his palm to catch the light on the jewel. Or he might take the hand of a woman trying on a ruby ring and comment on how the crimson brought out the gold in her skin tone. And he was always correct. No one had a better eye for beauty than the blind man.
    You could see the shock on the faces of new customers. They would crane their necks to get a better look at Mr. Kahani—as if he couldn’t feel them breathing close to his face, as if he didn’t know what they were doing. But the shock would turn into wonder. A childlike belief in the otherworldly. Mr. Kahani became a magical figure to us all.
    In the weeks leading up to Deepavali, most of our customers were those who lived in or near Little India, among the Hindu population. But as the holiday grew closer, the excitement spread, and every kind of Singaporean stopped in our store—the British colonials and the Chinese, Eurasians and foreigners. It was a great, sparkling party, and everyone was invited. We moved an enormous statue of the elephant god Ganesh into the front of the store—Ganesh, the remover of obstacles. It reminded me of the large bronze elephant outside of Parliament, the one visitors asked to see when they came by mistake to our palace.
    The November nights grew longer and darker, but Little India kept getting brighter. Hindus burned oil lamps to drive away the evil spirits and welcome Lakshmi, goddess of wealth. We were so busy at the jewelry shop that I was able to get my school friend Bridget a part-time job. Bridget’s family was large and her father was a notorious skinflint. She was a tall, dramatic-looking Irish girl with red hair, freckles, a long nose, and pale greenish-blue eyes.
    Sahhdie, the only other woman at the store, was so severe it was good to have a friend nearby, even if only to wave at her across the floor. Sahhdie was always fussing at me to fix my hair or adjust my blouse, or sending me into the ladies’ lounge to make sure the seams of my stockings were perfectly straight. Bridget and I took our breaks together and snuck out to one of the alleys so Bridget could have a smoke. Bridget would have died without her hourly cigarettes. The opium addicts also wandered in these alleys, but these poor souls were too dazed to trouble us, and Mr. Kahani was kind to them, bringing them plates of food or cups of tea.
    Mr. Kahani exiled my friend to the costume jewelry section at the back of the store. He kept me among the pearl strands, with occasional forays into the