Shraboni is a friend of my mother, and a true American. She was in love with fast food and cars, expensive jewellery and a life without responsibilities. But she could afford it. She and my mother were best friends at collage, a friendship that has passed the test of distance and time. Shraboni wanted to scour the jewellery stores for any new sort of item to add to her already vast collection. She wanted a tour and I readily agreed to take her.

Shraboni was an exceedingly handsome woman in her midthirties, with high cheekbones, wide-set, direct eyes, prominent nose, and a thick head of curling dark hair, wet now at the ends so the strands stuck on the pearl-like skin of her shoulders and long neck. She had altogether an aggressive face with sharp blue-green eyes now scrutinizing the jewellery shop in which we had sought refuge. Her fascination for jewellery was a good thing because she looked drop-dead

gorgeous in almost any sort of ornament.

The shop was a huge one and very brightly lit. It was decorated sumptuously in a florid style of old Venice with arched beamed ceiling, walls covered with gleaming jewellery in crystal-clear cases and lush colours everywhere--the wholly Venetian shades of blue, green, yellow and burnt orange. A massive clock hung beside the chandeliers that were weeping pear-shaped tears of blown glass.

A well-dressed man with a warm smile, stood behind the waiting to serve us. I scanned the jewellery. Everything was extremely flashy but nothing that Shraboni would fancy buying. Suddenly a strikingly brilliant necklace grabbed my attention. Instinctively I turned to draw Shraboni's attention. But she was gazing at the necklace with a dreamy look in her eyes. The keen salesperson noticed it and he carefully took it out so that we could have a better look.

"It is one of our finest piece, ma'm," said the man in an artificially honeyed voice. "This exquisite diamond necklace, as you can see madam, has pearlshaped stones strung together on a platinum chain." I could detect a faint note of pride in his voice as he said this.

Now that it was so close, it looked even more magnificent than ever. Shraboni took it out delicately and put it on her neck. She turned to her reflection on the long, full-length ornate mirror.

"Do you think it suits me?" asked Shraboni excitedly. She was trying to hide her enthusiasm from the salesperson...but she was not being particularly successful.

"Are you kidding?" I whispered in her ear, "You look stunning in that."

She was now totally hooked and asked for the price. It was much more than I had assumed. She was terribly rich, so she could afford it. The deal was a quick one. Shraboni left the place with a broad grin on her face.

A couple of months later, Shraboni came to visit us again. To be frank, I was a bit confused. She generally came after two or three years, never this early. I learnt later that the true cause of her trip here was not to visit us. "I have a friend who is an expert on diamonds. I asked him to check on my diamond. Do you know what he said?" she paused for a dramatic effect, "These are awfully good fakes. I was horrified when I heard that. I showed him the device, do you remember, that I bought?"

Of course, I remembered. When Margaret bought the necklace, the salesman had used a small device to prove that the diamonds were original. It made a tinkling sound when it was tapped against real diamonds. He said that this would not happen with the fakes. On an impulse, Margaret wanted to buy the device too. The salesperson was clearly reluctant to part with it, but he had been in any position to refuse.

"He also revealed that the pin-sort-of-thing, which was supposed to cause the sound, was actually broken. The tool would create the tinkling sound on any material, even wood!

I was shocked by this piece of information. "We have to go back to the shop. We cannot let them get away with it."

As planned, we went back to the shop and confronted the manager. With a thousand apologies, the manager said that they would take it back. However, 20 percent of the price would be deducted. The real cost of the necklace was much less than the twenty percent. Margaret left the shop with a clouded face. It was not a good sign. She had some really good contacts at the higher levels of government. This could mean that doomsday would descend on the shop.

Sure enough, a couple of days later, the headline of the morning newspaper confirmed my suspicion. The shop selling fake diamonds was finally exposed. It turned out to be a huge scandal. It was forced to shut down and the owners were fined heavily. As I had assumed, Margaret was there in the article too. She turned out to be quite a hero.

The shop had an elaborate scheme behind the screen.

Seeing the posh and lavishly decorated shop, with the glorious merchandise (fakes of the originals!) the ordinary people took them for granted.

They had devised a clever ploy of providing guarantee certificates, which were actually worthless.

On that moment, I could comprehend the true meaning of that clichéd proverb, "All that glitters is not gold."

Shama Naz Siddiqui is a Bangladeshi in the United States. This story was originally sent in for inclusion in The Daily Star Book of Bangladeshi Writing.