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cloths, men’s underwear, Wellington boots, double boilers, girls’ frocks in pastel colors. Tina’s right again. She’s never seen anything like Chandni Chowk.
      Her old friend is on a serious jewelry quest. She’s saved a sapphire from Sri Lanka to be set by the superior craftsmen in India.
      Sapphire. Monica loves the way Indians pronounce the word— sa-fire —emphasizing the stone’s blaze. She’s been dazzled by these multi-colored gems since her fifth grade project on the British Royal Jewels. The blue sapphire, she knows, is quite rare. Proletarian, artless little Monica writing about the Kings of England found herself seduced by gleaming stones and the distant lands where they were mined.
      “First let’s cruise the silk stalls.” Tina yanks her hand.
      Heat. Crowds. Monica feels faint. Perhaps she ate too fast.
      Shoppers swarm the small stalls of the indoor market. Loquacious men sit, chatting to each other, their backs to yardages of vividly colored and subtly patterned silk. Women lean forward, fingering the fabrics knowledgeably, then consult each other in whispers, their bracelets jangling.
      “One day we’ll buy you a sari,” promises Tina. “Green. I think you’ll look super in lime green.”
      “Where did you say your jeweler is?”
      “I’m serious, Monica. Indian women love saris. They know their attire is more elegant. They will expect you to dress appropriately.”
      “You wear a perfectly average doc’s coat and slacks.” She shakes her head, smiling.
      Someone pushes from behind.
      Monica turns to face a frazzled mother, three children in tow. Stepping aside, she lets them pass. The beguiling boy turns and grins widely.
      “I work at the U.S. Embassy with Americans mostly, not at a hill station treating local people.” Tina directs her back to the street.
      Monica’s head throbs from the racket of clattering carts and incomprehensible voices. The still Delhi air—which everyone says will lift any day now—presses against her eyelids. “Where did you say the jeweler is?”
      “Over here, see the sign, ‘Capital Jewellers.’ ”
      “Do they mean ‘capitol’ as in Delhi? Or ‘capital’ as in ‘foremost?’”
      “Hon,” Tina sniffs, “there are lots of things worth puzzling about in India. Spelling isn’t one. Just be happy when you see English signs. Until you learn Hindi.”
      She’s made minimal progress with Hindi despite her resolutions. Maybe Moorty will accelerate the pace.
      Tina stops at a darkened shop and presses the buzzer.
      That picture book on Raj jewels aroused a lifelong curiosity about Indian history. Monica recalls her eighth grade teacher being surprised that she wanted to do a geography report on Bombay. Amazing how those school projects provoked an abiding affection for India. Maybe that’s why she and Ritu became fast friends in med school.
      Finally, someone comes to the glass door of Capital Jewelers: a bald man peers drowsily as he parts purple velvet drapes.
      “Hi Ayan, it’s me,” Tina laughs. “Wake up from your mid-day snooze.”
      “Oh, many apologies, Dr. Nelson.” He opens the door. “I was forgetting your appointment.”
      “Good to see you! Ayan Dutta, please meet Monica Murphy, another doctor from America.”
      “ Namaste ,” they say in unison.
      He calls to the back of the shop, “Tea for the ladies, please, Sukemar.”
      Monica watches artisan and customer dicker heatedly and cheerfully about the design, the thickness of gold around the sa-fire , the appropriate chain.
      “Yes,” says Tina pensively. “The right width, but can you make it flatter ?”
      Feeling voyeuristic at the unexpectedly intense exchange, Monica glances into the dusty showcase containing glittering earrings and bracelets and necklaces. She wanders over to study the rubies, diamonds and emeralds. Suddenly, she’s completely dislocated. It’s one thing to read pretty books, but to