July 14, 1947 Dear Mama, I know you know what happened today at 6:00 a.m., twelve years ago. How could you not? It was the day we came and you left, but I don''t want to be sad today. I want to be happy and tell you everything. I''ll start at the beginning. You probably already know what I''m telling you, but maybe you don''t. Maybe you haven''t been watching.

I like turning twelve so much already. It''s the biggest number I''ve ever been, but it''s an easy number--easy to say, easy to count, easy to split in half. I wonder if Amil thinks about you on this day like I do. I wonder if he likes being twelve? We woke up at a little before seven. Amil and I usually sleep through our birth minutes and then when we wake up, we stand next to the last mark we etched into the wall with a sharp rock. No one else knows it''s there. I do it for Amil and he does mine and then we compare how much we''ve grown since last year. Amil has finally caught up with me.

Papa says someday Amil will tower over all of us. That''s hard to imagine. Papa gave me your gold chain with a small ruby stone hanging from it. He started giving me the jewelry when I was seven. Now I have two gold bangles, two gold rings, small emerald-and-gold hoop earrings, and the ruby necklace. Papa said I should save the jewelry for special occasions, but lately there are none, so I wear all the jewelry at once and never take it off. I don''t know where he keeps all of it, but each year on my birthday, another piece appears at my bedside in a dark blue velvet box with gold trim. When you open it, the blue satin lining winks back at you.

Papa always asks for the box back after I take out the jewelry. Secretly, I want the box more than the jewelry. I want it to be all mine and never have to give it back. I could find any old thing--a pebble, a leaf, a pistachio shell--and put it in the box. Like magic, these things would get to be special at least for a day. Maybe he''ll let me have it when your jewelry runs out. I want to tell you about this diary I''m writing in. Kazi gave it to me this morning wrapped in brown paper, tied with a piece of dried grass.

He never gives me gifts on my birthday. I once read an English story where a little girl got a big pink cake and presents wrapped in shiny paper and bows for her birthday. I thought about the little gifts Kazi gives us all the time--pieces of candy under our pillows or a ripe tomato from the garden, sliced, salted, and sprinkled with chili pepper on a plate. Cake and bows must be nice, but is anything better than a perfect tomato? The diary is covered in purple and red silk, decorated with small sequins and bits of mirrored glass sewn in. The paper is rough, thick, and the color of butter. It is not lined, which I like. I''ve never had a diary before. When Kazi gave it to me, he said it was time to start writing things down, and that I was the one to do it.

He said someone needs to make a record of the things that will happen because the grown-ups will be too busy. I''m not sure what he thinks is going to happen, but I''ve decided I''m going to write in it every day if I can. I want to explain things to you as if I''m writing a storybook, like The Jungle Book except without all the animals. I want to make it real so you can imagine it. I want to remember what everyone says and does, and I won''t know the ending until I get there. Kazi also gave Amil five charcoal drawing pencils. Five! He also made us rice kheer with our pooris. I''m not sure there is anything better tasting in the world.

Amil, who normally eats too fast, makes his pudding last extra long, eating the smallest bites he can. I think he just does it so I have to watch him long after I''ve finished. Every so often he''ll look up and smile. I pretend I don''t care. Sometimes he saves his sweets for me, but not rice kheer. Today we were running late, though, and Amil couldn''t spend forever eating his kheer because Dadi took our plates away and told us to get ready. Amil started grumbling about school and how he wished he was a grown-up and could work at the hospital like Papa instead. "The drums sound better at a distance," Dadi said like she always does, and rushed us out the door.

Here''s another secret, and don''t be mad. Amil and I didn''t go to school. We headed all the way out of town to the sugarcane field and tried to walk through it like a maze. We broke off pieces to chew. Later we stopped under a shady tree. Amil found bugs to draw and I read. After, we bought potato pakoras at the roadside cart in town, hoping no one would ask why we weren''t in school. The pakoras tasted crisp and extra salty.

Amil thinks they''re too salty, but I like the sting on my tongue that stays long after I''ve finished eating. Amil would rather draw and play all day instead of going to school. He would rather do anything besides school. He draws very well. Did you know that? I don''t hate school, but I didn''t want Amil to be alone on our birthday. When Papa finds out we didn''t go to school, he''ll be much angrier at Amil than he will at me. That''s how it is with Papa and Amil. It hasn''t always been like that.

Amil used to be Papa''s favorite, I think because Amil was always louder, happier, and funnier than I am. But now because Amil isn''t small and cute, Papa is different. When we were about seven or eight, Amil ran away. That''s when it started. Papa came home from a long day at the hospital and during dinner he told Amil to stop smiling so much, that it made him look ridiculous. This only made Amil smile more. Then Papa said, "Amil, you can''t read. You play around too much and draw little pictures.

You must be more serious or you will become nothing." "Maybe I should leave. Then you''ll be happy," Amil said. He waited for Papa to say something, but Papa didn''t. He just turned back to his food. Amil got up and walked straight out of the house. An hour went by and he didn''t come back, so I went out to look for him. I looked everywhere, around the garden, the shed, Kazi''s and Mahit''s cottages, all the places he might go.

I even looked in the pantry and in Papa''s closet. Papa acted like nothing was happening, but I told Kazi that I couldn''t find Amil anywhere and he told Dadi and Dadi told Papa, so Papa went out with a lantern. I stayed awake in my bed wondering what I would do if Amil never came back. I couldn''t imagine being in this house, in this life, without him. I heard Papa return and I waited to hear Amil''s voice or his footsteps, but I didn''t hear anything and began to cry, holding my doll, Dee, tight. At some point I fell asleep. When I woke at first light, Amil slept soundly in his bed next to mine. I wasn''t sure if I had dreamed the whole thing.

"Amil," I said, poking him awake, standing over him. "Where did you go? Does Papa know you''re back?" "Papa knows I''m back," Amil said in a dull voice. "I walked into town, but then I kept going. I didn''t want to stop. But Papa found me." "Is Papa mad?" I asked. "Papa will always be mad at me. It doesn''t matter if I smile or don''t smile.

I''m just not what he wanted." "That''s not true," I said, and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned away. He might have been right about Papa, though. Since that night he ran away, Papa always seems angry at Amil for being Amil. Papa left a book on Amil''s bed this morning. Normally on our birthday he only gives me the jewelry and we do puja at our temple and offer the gods handfuls of leaves and sweets for a prosperous year, but Papa did not talk about it this morning. Maybe we will go tomorrow.

Papa doesn''t like to go to temple. We only go on our birthdays and Diwali because Dadi begs us to go. Sometimes Papa walks her there and waits outside for her. I always look forward to going. I drink in the smoky smell of the lamps burning. I even like the metal taste of the holy water on my tongue. The soft sounds of the prayers being chanted and sung make me feel loved, like you''re there, watching. But maybe a Hindu temple is the last place you''d be.

Amil''s book is beautiful. It''s a thick collection of tales from the Mahabharata with gold lettering on the cover and bright colorful pictures inside. Amil will love the drawings, but he won''t read it. Amil says he can''t read right because the words jump around and change on him. Papa thinks he''s lying so he doesn''t have to do his schoolwork. But I know he''s not. I see the way he studies the writing, his eyes squinted, his face pinched. I see how hard he tries.

He even turns the book upside down sometimes, but he says nothing helps. I think it''s because Amil is a little bit magical. His eyes turn everything into art. Maybe Papa thought if he brought him a really good book, Amil would read it. Papa didn''t say anything about skipping school today. I hope our headmasters don''t send a messenger with a note. Now I''m tired and must drink my warm milk and go to bed. Amil is already sound asleep, making little whistling sounds through his nose.

I''ve decided that night is the best time to write to you. That way no one will ask me any questions. Love, Nisha *** July 15, 1947 Dear Mama, I only have time to tell you one thing tonight because my eyelids are heavier than wet sheets. Papa is very mad. I knew he would be when he found out. Amil''s headmaster sent over a message. Mine did not. When Papa found out, he made Amil sit in the corner with no breakfast this morning.

Amil didn''t ask why I wasn''t being punished, even though Papa must have known I skipped, too. I guess the difference is that I do well in school and Amil doesn''t. I only ate one of my chapatis and wrapped the other in a napkin. Then I stuck it in my schoolbook for Amil when no one was looking. I think Kazi.