Painted Ghosts, page 16
The sisters sat holding him while he sobbed.
‘You fell for your young model. What happened to Janini?’ Stella said.
‘Janini ran. Hid herself in the billions of India,’ he said as Stella gave him a tissue and he wiped his eyes. ‘We can’t escape our karma. Janini loved me. After my wife — she ran — and took the baby—’
Lena said: ’You have a child you don’t know?’
‘There’s nothing left.’ Arun continued dabbing his eyes.
Stella was aware of the sound of sitar and tabla. Hundreds sat in the hall, spellbound, each individual going through their own unique mystic process. ‘You can have the studio and galleries I promised you.’ Stella urged him, ‘Lena and I will help you—’
‘You can’t do this — now. What you know — of me—’ As he straightened and looked up Stella took a tissue and began wiping his tears.
‘But you must find Janini and the child,’ Stella told him. ‘A single parent in India without an income can’t survive.’ She felt a new strength inside, a power that could carry her on. And she knew Arun better now that she saw his vulnerabilities.
‘My sons will not talk to me,’ he said.
‘I’ll help you find her.’ Lena held his hand.
He turned to her. ‘You would come with me — after this? Is it right to look for her?’
She nodded and he forced a smile through his tears. ‘I know her family in Mumbai—’
‘We’ll go and find her—’
Taking another tissue from Stella he wiped his face. ‘Only if — There is a piano in my house, Lena. You must come and play it and write songs—’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We can write songs together, Arun. ‘And you too, Stella —’
‘You want me to?’
‘Come on—’ Lena yelled enthusiastically, pulling them both to their feet.
As the slow brightness of dawn was infiltrating the foliage they made their way passed the open door to the concert hall and were halted by the spectacle. The sitar and tabla reached a climax, the players’ fingers working rapidly as the sound echoed through the place, thrilling the audience. Lost in the frantic melody, the dancer flashed across the stage, flipping her hands in gestures, moving her limbs quickly and supplely. For Stella the dancer was Sohni aching for her lover, Izzat Baig. Then she was Lena searching for lost chords, ending up as Janini, somewhere out there, waiting for the father of her child to come to her.
A line of candles lit the route out of the garden as the great hanging plants began to glow a brighter green.
‘Music rescues us from who we are,’ Stella thought to herself. She was no longer afraid.
A VIEW OF GLASS MOUNTAINS
1
2010
The rucksack on Ria’s back might as well have been full of rocks it was that heavy. It was two in the afternoon and the sun was hot for March, but it would soon be eclipsed by the white ridges above and the cold would kick in quickly. She stared at the high mountain lines moistened with salty expanses that fell into grey shadows and was mesmerised a time, reminding herself that these giants were the home of the Hindu gods. Even though the road to Dharamsala that she travelled was high up in the foothills the front line of peaks were like great waves about to break over her. On the other side the hills rolled into green valleys.
The sound of a single drum beat intruded on her concentration as she stared, its slow rhythm imitating to her the heartbeat of the mountains. She imagined a melody with lyrics singing to her: ‘Come, come, come to the peaks, soar through us like an eagle. See the gods sitting here.’
As she turned she found a figure behind her. Tall and with a rugged frame, she wore a sari of orange and gold neatly wrapped round her torso. With a wide grin she beat the little hand drum and chanted a few words Ria could not understand. She had sharp features, almost man-like and her arms were thick, her fingers broad and fat. Her eyelids and lashes were heavily encrusted with black make up, her sunken cheeks rouged and the eye sockets deep and hollow, out of which shone a gaze that disturbed Ria.
The drummer stopped in the road, chanting and singing and smiling, then pirouetting with a flip of the feet she danced a little for her. Embodying something of both male and female and with an apparent strength and intuition from both, she carried on her show for Ria.
The figure danced round her, and round again, drawing Ria in. Entranced by her melodies, she was compelled to watch her as she circled, the bangles on her arms rattling in rhythm with the tiny bells on her ankles. Mesmerised by the glare of her eyes directly into hers, Ria was trapped in the circle the dancing drummer circumscribed. As the sound of the drumming increased and the dancer sped round her, singing and laughing, Ria tried to shake off her fears. Not only that she would harm her, but the connection Ria felt with her.
She should run. She was at the edge of the village of Patrinath now with only a juice seller nearby. Even with a heavy bag she could make a dash.
The drumming stopped, but the dancer still blocked her path. The figure’s sudden smile eased her a little and she held out her open palm to Ria, her thick fingers painted with henna. Everyone had told her not to give to beggars and Ria turned to go, but the dancer blocked her path, smiling up at her, her open hand under Ria’s chin.
‘A few rupees, you can give. A few, madam.’
Ria’s fingers trembled.
‘You give, and I will bring you good luck and many babies.’
‘I’m not ready for that,’ Ria laughed. Her stare held Ria and she read anger there and hurt.
‘You will give, and I will bless you.’ She smiled. ‘You are from the west. You have riches and many things, you can give to the poor, to feed her. I will give you many many blessings.’
Ria hesitated.
The man at the juice cart called out to the dancer, and she turned a second, allowing Ria to step away, but she turned back with a gaze that seemed to go right into her, as if she was reading something of Ria’s inner self. Ria suppressed her fear.
There was another yell from the vendor: a rattle of short angry syllables directed at the dancer as he came over. The dancer did not move, howling something back. The vendor waved to Ria to go, then raised his other hand as if to strike the dancer but she shouted back. The slap fell on to the dancer’s neck, she whined, tried to strike back but was blocked by the vendor.
‘No,’ Ria shouted, but she could not stop the next whack from the vendor. The dancer stepped away, pulling her ragged sari back to shape and glowered at Ria. A myriad of emotions from hatred to compassion raced through Ria along with the anxiety that something about the drumming dancer was familiar. Gathering herself, the dancer checked her earrings and started walking in the direction of a row of shops.
‘Dirty.’ The juice vendor sneered a laugh. ‘Dirty people. No give money.’
‘You didn’t have to hit—’
The man laughed. ‘Man dress as woman. Mad man. I make juice for you. Come—’
Selecting a pineapple from the pile on his cart, he lopped the top off with a small machete, and slicing it again on a board, he loaded the pieces into a machine that he turned. Juice oozed out of the mincer into a cup below.
‘Here—’ He handed her the mixture and she drank. ‘They come here.’ He waved his hand again. ‘You do what they say. Or. Curse.’ He laughed again. ‘Stupid people think like that.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Hijra — man who want to be woman.’ He laughed again. ‘I say to my son — you be real man.’
‘Real man?’ Ria said.
‘Real man take what he want. Strong. No sissy. Not let men take from him.’
‘There’s too many men like that in the world already,’ Ria said, but he just looked back at her with a puzzled grin on his face. ‘There’s no need to hit—’
‘Hijra will rob, hurt, steal baby boy. Bad people, you stay away. I am helping you, saving you. You must give me some rupees now.’
She looked at him, thinking whether just to walk away, but he scowled and she was suddenly more afraid of him than she had been of the hijra. Diving her hand in her bag she came out with several notes, slapped them in his hand and walked away.
‘I save you,’ the man shouted after her.
She did not turn.
Instead Ria carried on towards the family’s house. Tramping half a kilometre she found a track to the left which she descended. Mountains were to her back now, the steep rocky route led down the edge of a fierce stream, then veered towards a group of concrete houses. The water tumbled on to a larger valley below of green where trees trailed into the misty distance of lush foothills.
The concrete house was perched on the incline, a small place with an unpainted wooden door and concrete steps with a rusty iron rail up the side, apparently leading to a top room and flat roof. The smallness shocked her and she could hardly believe a family of four could live there.
The sound of a woman singing drifted down from the top of the building:
‘Come little boy, little man,
Come into the world and do what you can,
Come little life, come sing with us,
Blessed and loved with soma and sweets,
Join in life with all its treats.’
Ria left her bag at the bottom of the stairs and as she climbed up she expected to see her half sister Sadie singing to her baby, little Krish, on the roof. A panorama of snowy tips to the back and a green valley sloping steeply ahead made her draw breath as she got to the top.
Sadie nursed her son without looking up then rose, leaving Krish in a chortling bundle and gave Ria a hug. Ria pulled her close but she seemed stiff and Ria doubted a moment whether Sadie wanted her there.
Sadie had pale-blue eyes, unlike Ria’s dark brown eyes, and thick curly hair of faded chestnut, to Ria’s flat black locks. Sadie often joked they did not look like half sisters. Ria joked that no one would guess; and people never did. They shared the same mother, but Ria’s father was Indian.
‘You made it then,’ Sadie smiled.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, I — it’s so lovely, you and the baby, the mountains—’
Sadie stooped back to her son, who giggled upwards to her, and waving a line of hair from her eyes she sang softly again.
Ria watched. There was one thing certain about the mountains: they were silent. Always. And always there, like giant buildings, a city towering over the speck of you. How would they be at night she wondered, with no light: silent buildings, cold and black, holding up the stars.
‘It’s so special.’ Ria ignored the tension she felt from Sadie. ‘The air is so fresh. The Himalayas. At last I get to see them. Home of the gods.’ She wanted to hold the baby but was hesitant to ask. ‘I came through Patrinath,’ Ria said. ‘Smallish village, isn’t it? I can’t wait to go to Dharamsala. All the Buddhist monks, the Dalai Lama.’ Ria was anxious to make a good link with her sister early on. ‘Didn’t think I’d get here this late.’ She looked down the green valley at a pile of smoke miles away slipping up in a windless line. ‘The trains were packed and—’ Ria continued, wanting to cuddle the baby but scared a moment of Sadie’s reaction.
‘Oh. Indian trains,’ Sadie sighed, laughing.‘Tell me about them.’
Perhaps Sadie was trying too.
‘But the Himalayas, Sadie, I never imagined. Just — fantastic. Like giants with lacy cloth around their peaks.’
‘You haven’t changed,’ Sadie said lightly, looking up smiling at Ria while attending to her son.
‘Their sharp lines scrape and scratch into the sky.’ Ria turned to face them. ‘When clouds are dashing it’s like the peaks themselves are moving—’
‘They’re just mountains,’ Sadie shrugged cheerfully.
Ria lost herself a moment, thinking out loud: ‘Yet somehow, sometimes, they seem like, I don’t know, protective and comforting or something.’
Sadie rocked Krish.
‘The others?’ Ria said. ‘The family?’
‘Inside. Some of them. It’s okay, they all speak good English. Only use Hindi amongst themselves. Probably Madhu is downstairs studying. Her mum Padma cooking, or washing—’ Sadie waved her arm towards the downstairs area. ‘That woman never stops. What an auntie Padma’s been to Ijay — and now to me. Without women India would grind to a halt.’
‘And Daya?’ Ria said. ‘I’ve heard so much about her — from Ijay. I can’t wait.’
‘At the shop with her dad, Bijal.’
‘It’s good of them to let me stay, I mean—’ Ria said.
‘It’s small. You should really stay in a hotel.’ She paused for Krish awhile. ‘Of course Padma is Ijay’s auntie really, but me being married to him and all that — she’s an auntie to me —’
‘Does a half sister count?’ Ria laughed.
Sadie rocked Krish again, then looked over to Ria. ‘Daya and Madhu sleep downstairs, mum and dad in that room down there.’ She waved downwards towards a door. ‘And me and Krish in that tiny space next to it. You’ll have to sleep with us. And no snoring or kicking in the night, right? — I know you.’ She laughed.
Ria sat with them on a low bench. ‘How is Krish?’ she said, gaining confidence. ‘Let me hold him.’
Sadie handed him over, Ria took him, cooing and then sang:
‘Be happy and wise, marry well,
Find money and good fortune,
For Laxmi looks over you,
Come to the temple and ring the bell . . .’
The sound of traffic along the road to Dharamsala carried on the wind and at the back whorls of misty cloud were covering the peaks.
‘My brother, Hari,’ Ria said. ‘Our mum reckoned my dad brought him to the mountains.’ She played with Krish. ‘Lovely little boy, aren’t you. Just a little darling — I mean Hari, he is my twin — How mum knew where they went I don’t know.’
Sadie leaned back, smiling. ‘You can’t believe all she says.’ She drew breath. ‘I’m not going back to her.’
‘Little Krish. Smile up to the mountains. That’s it. Giggle and laugh. He’s gorgeous, Sadie, you’re so lucky.’ Ria drew breath. ‘She doesn’t want me. New bloke. Jack.’
‘It’s like a dating agency, her flat.’
Ria was pleased they had found something to agree on.
‘She gave me the usual—’ Ria enjoyed the new ease.
‘Huh.’
‘The place isn’t big enough for me and him.’
The apartment in Kilburn was the top floor of a Victorian house. Two bedrooms. It was spacious enough. Dealing with mum’s drinking and binges of calming pills, Ria thought Sadie managed better than she did.
‘What changes?’
The baby chuckled up to his auntie.
‘I don’t like him anyway.’ Ria added. ‘The way he looks you up and down—’
‘You always had a knack of landing on your feet, Ria, that’s what I always liked about you.’
Ria did not know whether to take that as a compliment or a dig.
‘I used to wonder what it was like for you and mum, before my dad came along, and Hari and me were born—’ Ria left the sentence hanging, trying to find a way into Sadie. ‘You were always so close to our mum.’
Sadie shrugged. ‘When my dad had gone, I had to be. Then your dad comes along full of India.’
‘But one day dad and Hari were gone. I mean, I was just a kid. And my dad disappears with my twin brother—’
‘They were all you had to hang onto then?’
Ria was unsure whether she was being sarcastic. ‘You know—’
On the open sun roof of the house Ria could either face the mountains, or face the valley with her back to the snow tips and imagine they were not there. As she looked up at the peaks again the sight of cloud dissolving from the ridge inspired memories. Ria reckoned she must have been about six when dad got her and Hari together, excitedly showing them gifts. He had come back from a trip to India. Unwrapping gold and red paper with swirling patterns with elephants in lines, trunk to tail, he pulled out bits of twisted cardboard padding, then rustled tissue paper. Inside was a glowing model.
‘Glass mountains,’ dad said as he placed the model on the kitchen table.
Hari gasped. ‘They’re so real, dad, like real mountains. How?’
‘A piece of quartz,’ dad said. ‘Look. The base is black rock – like earth. The lower line is purple — the mountains. And the top is pale and clear, like glass.’
‘Or snow.’ Ria remembered her joy.
‘It could be snow,’ he nodded. ‘There’s a place in the Himalayas they call The Glass Mountains because early in the morning when the sun shines at a certain angle on them the snowy peaks glow like glass—’
‘Wow,’ Hari was full of wonder.
‘This is a model of it. My friend in Delhi made it for me.’
Her father placed one hand at one end and one at the other and gently easing, pulled a part away at each end, leaving a chunk in the middle. Each section was about two inches long, and the same in height. Ria recalled the beauty of its smallness and sparkling clarity.
Taking one piece of the carefully-fitting jigsaw joint from one end, he gave it to Hari and nodded for him to hold it, and the other end he held out to Ria who rolled it through exploring fingers and sniffed and tasted it.
‘This is for me.’ Her father took the centre section. ‘Now we all have a bit.’
She remembered her dad’s grin of joy and Hari’s shining eyes. Two years later they had gone.
‘Wherever we are we’ll never forget each other,’ dad had assured them.
As they sat playing, pulling them apart and putting them back together again, bending close to squint at the miniature range, she was aware of someone else at the door.
‘I got you this, Sadie.’ Ria’s dad handed her a parcel which she pulled apart. Ria remembered Sadie as bright and chatty as a child, but she was always serious and quiet when Ria’s dad was there.
