Their parents had been killed when they were one.

They were twins, not identical but definitely with that something that makes you realize, at once, that the people you behold are siblings - that something which is thicker than blood, truer than emotion - that something that women and men have still to figure out, realize.

The similarly-textured, though not similarly-coloured, hair; the similarly-sparkling, if not similarly-shaped, eyes -- their faces seemed a reflection of each other's and yet, even when they could barely crawl, they were worlds apart in so many ways.

Somebody took pity on them and had them moved to an orphanage, a week after their parents died and nobody came forward to claim them as relatives.

As they grew up, the stunned the place.

They were intelligent girls, both of them. At six years of age, they were the ones who won at hopscotch and racing; at eight, at racing and swimming. Not always, of course - but they were indeed the ones whom the other children in the orphanage could look up to, because they were always ready to help, as much as they could. One of them was the natural leader, the other the natural enthusiast. And both of them were natural beauties.

The kind of natural beauties whose loveliness begins to show early, in a strand of gold hair, or a brown lock, or a gentle smile. Or perhaps it was the fact that they were caring little children that made them so beautiful - they had that innocence, that gentleness, that makes people overlook any flaws in appearance, any blemishes that mark the skin.

Too well-mannered to live in an orphanage, some people said.

The people around them knew them. The neighbourhood might not be full of their stories, snippets and tales, but it definitely knew about the twin orphans that were barely ten, but well-mannered and kind pretty much beyond their age. “They are, at times,” said the people. “Extraordinary.”

At eleven, their letters came.