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remember, I am half Chinese myself, and there is no need for anyone to look down at us. I say that even though I stood at barely five feet tall wearing heels.
    “Let us look at the diamond rings,” her husband said, and the woman’s mouth opened. She shook her head.
    “No,” she said. “Maybe the watches.”
    “Let’s just peek at the rings,” he insisted, and he guided her to the case where Ron was standing, gazing into the middle distance.
    “Look at this pretty diamond lacy one,” he said to his wife.
    She covered her mouth with her hand. “So beautiful,” she said.
    Ron finally spoke. “How may I help?” he said politely.
    “No, no,” the wife said. “No help. Just looking.”
    “Look closer,” said the husband.
    The young woman and I bent closer, on either side of the glass display. We drew in our breaths in unison. There, in the glass display case by one diamond ring, was a note: T O M Y L OVELY B RIDE , M EI W ING .
    “That is my name!” exclaimed the young woman. “Mei Wing!”
    The young man said, “I could not afford to buy a diamond when we were engaged. Now this ring is yours. My patient bride.”
    Ron slid the box out of the case and handed it to the man, who put the ring on his wife’s finger. She was sobbing. Her husband, too, was weeping. Ron reached into his coat pocket and handed me a handkerchief.
    It was the kind of thing that happened in a jewelry store and nowhere else. One morning, a bridal party entered our store in a single long line, a parade. They did not look happy. A plump girl dressed in pink led the way. Her large hand was immersed in a pot of water. The bride walked behind her, wearing her red-and-gold bridal sari. Her eyes were rimmed in black kohl.
    The line stopped in front of Mr. Kahani. The mother of the bride flung out her arms. “Ruined, everything is ruined!” she cried.
    The chubby young woman at the front of this parade was also in tears. She stared at her hand in dismay, submerged in the pot of water. “I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “I had to try it on just once.”
    The bride, apparently her sister, snorted. The groom said nothing. His eyes were fixed anxiously on the ring.
    “The wedding is in less than an hour!” moaned the mother of the bride. “Oh, Penina, why couldn’t you keep your hands to yourself? Or at least wait until the ceremony was over?”
    “This is not a problem,” Mr. Kahani said. “It happens all the time.”
    “Really?” sobbed the plump girl.
    “You have my word,” Mr. Kahani assured the family. He lifted the girl’s hand from the water and appeared to study it front and back. Again, I had a flicker of doubt. Could he not see at least something? But the blue marbleized eye looked no more alive than an oyster shell. “We possess a special emulsifier,” he said slowly.
    Sahhdie appeared by his side like some magician’s assistant. He whispered a few words, and she nodded and glided off to collect the necessary items.
    “Above all else,” he said to the tearful, chubby bridesmaid, “you must relax. You must meditate deeply on this wedding and envision the ceremony. Close your eyes. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
    The young woman sighed noisily, then hiccupped. “Good,” said Mr. Kahani. “Keep breathing gently. Think of Ganesh, remover of obstacles. Relax your shoulders. Relax your wrist.” Sahhdie was by his side, holding a small bottle and a silk cloth. She poured some of the fluid onto the cloth and handed it to him.
    Mr. Kahani, the blue eye rolled toward the door, deftly applied the magical potion and quickly twisted the ring off the girl’s finger. She gave a quick gasp, of pain or relief, but Mr. Kahani was already brandishing the sparkling ring high in the air.
    “Thanks be to God!” declared the bride’s mother.
    The bride held out her hand, which she had been keeping behind her back. Both palms were covered in elaborate scrolls and dots, the rich henna wedding