Jasmine Skies, page 16
‘What did he want you to tell me?’ I ask Lal quietly.
‘He said to ask you how many hands it takes to clap. He kept saying, “Tell her . . . she knows . . . It takes two hands to clap!”’
My whole body shudders. ‘My grandad used to say that whenever my brother and me had fights.’
‘We always tell this to children when they argue.’ Nili shrugs. ‘It takes two to make an argument. Two hands to clap. One hand only is silence! Talking of hands . . . we could do with some help to carry the street wishes to the shop.’
Nili, Lal and I carefully carry the children’s artwork through and start to hang all the wishes on the carved tree. When we’ve finished we step back to admire it. Janu walks into the shop with a look of sadness on his face.
‘Oh. So we didn’t get funding for computers.’ Nili’s voice has gone flat.
Janu looks down at the floor without answering, but then looks up again with an enormous grin on his face.
‘Yes we did!’ he shouts, lifting Nili in the air and dislodging her glasses so they shoot across the room. I’ve never seen this exuberant Janu before!
Lal picks up Nili’s glasses and hands them back to her.
‘We’re calling it the “Mirakal Suite”!’ Janu announces triumphantly. ‘It’s already agreed!’
‘You definitely live up to your name. So prosperous!’ She laughs, still jumping up and down in excitement.
Have I, Mira Levenson, actually done something to help the refuge? None of this feels real . . . I have never felt this happy before. I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. Standing in front of that classroom was unbelievably terrifying, but it was also one of the best things I’ve ever done and now it’s over, I want to do it again! But better next time.
‘No matter how many good arguments you have, you’ve got to get them here!’ Janu taps his chest. ‘And between you and Kal,’ he says, looking at me, ‘you pulled their hearts out. Thirty top-class computers are coming our way, with training sessions too. I love this place when it goes like this.’ He laughs, stretching out his arms wide as if to encompass the whole refuge.
And now we’re all laughing together because it is just magical to be a part of this moment.
‘Has Nili shown you her work yet?’ asks Janu, walking over to the walls and running his hands over the beautiful sari quilts. ‘This is another of our business ventures.’
‘These are yours?’ I say. So she’s the girl who made the quilt on Priya’s bed. Nili nods a bit shyly. I step closer to the quilts. I’m in awe at the detail of this sewing. I can’t believe how patient she must be to sew all these hundreds of pieces of silk and cotton together, and work out what the most beautiful combinations of patterns and colours will be. And over the material there are so many different styles of stitching. It reminds me of what Sari Man said in his shop. I wonder what thoughts and feelings went into all her tiny stitches.
‘How long does it take you to make one of these?’ I ask her, turning over the corner of a quilt. The one that Priya has in her bedroom has a plain dark-gold silk backing, but this one’s double-sided; it’s beautiful on both sides.
‘Depending on the size, two to six months, hours and hours of stitching a day,’ Nili says. ‘Kantha stitching looks quite simple, mostly running stitch, but it is so time-consuming. That’s why my eyes are so bad, I’ve been doing it since I was eight years old! Now I’m working here full time, I don’t have so many opportunities to sew, but we are setting up our own cooperative workshop, with proper lighting and everything,’ she adds, smiling at Lal.
I think of the two hundred pounds in my bag that Anjali won’t even let me change into rupees.
‘I would like to buy one,’ I tell Nili.
‘You can’t have this one,’ interrupts Lal, walking over to the most enormous double bedspread that’s covering half the wall. ‘Look!’ He points to the tiny brown tag on the corner. ‘It’s got my name on it!’
Nili smiles at Lal and nods. ‘Which one do you like?’ she asks me. I point to the smallest one, hoping I can afford it.
‘You can have it.’ She smiles.
I’m touched, but I shake my head. ‘No,’ I insist, ‘I really want to pay for it.’
‘OK,’ she says, ‘thank you. I accept. Do you mind if we leave it here till you go back home. I’ll attach a tag with your name on. It doesn’t look so nice to have an empty space, and the more people see the sold stickers, the more they want them! We already have enough orders for two hundred lep.’
Looking around the shop at all these beautiful crafts I wonder how we are going to put a price on the street wishes.
‘How much should we charge for them?’ asks Janu.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ I say. ‘Is the best thing for us to appeal to people’s consciences and say “Pay what you wish”.’
‘Great idea!’ agrees Janu.
‘Let me take a picture of you and Janu standing in front of the tree,’ suggests Nili.
Janu steps closer and wraps his arm around my shoulder and leans his head in towards mine. But as soon as the photo’s taken Janu steps away from me.
‘Here, Lal, I think you should buy this one!’ I say, opening the feathered matchbox to show him the tooth.
‘Guess I’m the tooth fairy then!’ He laughs. ‘I’d better go and get some money!’
‘I need to get on as well!’ says Nili. ‘It was lovely to work with another artist, Mira. I’m so pleased you like my work too.’ She places a hand on my arm as she leaves.
‘Nili,’ I call after her, ‘thank you.’
She raises her arm in the air without turning around, as if to say, ‘It was nothing.’
Kumartuli
I suddenly feel self-conscious standing here alone with Janu, so I rearrange some of the wishes to spread them evenly among the branches. Hanging altogether on Janu’s beautiful carved tree, the street wishes form an amazing display of colour and texture, and I think the real charm of them is, without even reading the wish, you can tell the age of the artist by the level of skill. I go over to the sari quilt I’ve bought from Nili.
‘Did Nili come to the refuge as a child?’ I ask Janu.
‘Yes. I think I met her for the first time when she was ten years old. She’s very talented, isn’t she?’ Janu inspects the quilt with me. ‘Like you! Thank you for your work today.’ He turns to face me. ‘But where’s your wish?’
I point to the Coke bottle. He carefully examines the decorated sides, takes off the lid and pulls out the scroll.
‘We have a very long way to go before that will happen,’ he sighs. ‘But the Mirakal Suite might help!’
‘Do you want to see what I work on with the older children, when I get the time?’
‘I’d like that.’
We walk back into the refuge and enter a room stacked full of wood and large pieces of half-finished furniture. If he lugs pieces of wood that size around, I can see why he’s so strong.
‘I’m working on this table, with five or six children . . . teaching carpentry. These are skills they can be paid for.’
As Janu talks I walk around the workshop, stopping at an intricately carved bench.
‘Try! I promise it won’t break!’ Janu comes over and stands next to me.
‘Ki sundor,’ I say, running my hands along the ornate carving.
‘Ki sundor,’ Janu echoes, smiling straight at me.
I can’t help the butterflies trapped inside my ribcage. Perhaps my wish should have been not to feel this way about Janu . . . I sit on the bench, thankful for the rest.
‘You’re tired. We’ll take a taxi home,’ he says, offering me his arm. It’s so old-fashioned and funny of him to do this, but I can’t pretend I don’t like it. What would Nana Josie say if she could hear me thinking thoughts like that . . . I can just imagine it: ‘Mira, don’t let anyone con you into thinking that you need to be looked after. We can fend for ourselves as well as any man can.’ And that’s true, I know I can, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hold Janu’s arm . . .
It’s starting to get dark when we step outside and hail a cab.
‘Why didn’t you tell me what happened with Sunil?’ Janu asks me as we step into the car.
‘I didn’t want to make a big thing about it,’ I say. To be honest I just want to forget what Sunil said and I don’t want to make things more difficult for him.
Once we’re sitting in the back of the yellow cab I practically collapse. I keep my eyes closed, but even then there’s no relief from my mind’s whirring; a whole gallery of eyes is staring at me: Jidé’s eyes, Mum and Anjali’s accusing eyes, Priya’s cat’s eyes, Branded Woman’s eyes, Sunil’s, Dust Boy’s, Kali’s three enormous eyes, and now, as I open my lids, I meet Janu’s eyes.
‘OK?’ he asks.
‘Fine, thanks. It’s just that this heat gets too much for me sometimes.’
It’s true, the heat is overwhelming, especially when you’re working in it, but that’s not what’s making me feel like this. I can’t blame the heat for taking Mum’s letters, or for how much I want to go back to the house in Doctor’s Lane, or for how I feel about Janu.
‘Lal thinks Sunil is suffering trauma. Many of the children need some sort of help like this. In London there is a college where you study how to work with emotion, using art and craft.’
‘I think there’s a place like that near where I live,’ I say. ‘Is that something you want to do?’
‘When I grow up?’ jokes Janu.
I laugh and nod.
‘I think they call it “Art Therapy”. I want to do the course. I think it’s what I’m made for. I would also like to maybe have my own gallery–workshop one day, for carving and handmade work like Nili’s, because as you see many times people are asking us for commissions. What about you? What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t know yet – maybe something with art too.’ I tell him, but what I’m thinking now is how much I enjoyed teaching today.
‘You really inspired the children.’ Janu smiles at me, a sincere, warm smile that makes my heart race. ‘You’re a natural teacher!’ Not for the first time I feel as if he can read my mind.
‘You want to see something special? It’s more beautiful to go there in the dark,’ says Janu, his eyes lighting-up. He leans forward to speak to the driver, then turns back to me. ‘It will take a little time in this traffic, but worth it! If you’re tired, you can sleep on the way if you wish.’
Whether I wish it or not, it’s not long till the din of the road fades out.
My head is resting against his shoulder.
‘Jidé?’ I say, sitting up.
Janu shakes his head. I can’t help noticing a hurt look cross his face, but he quickly smiles to hide it. ‘You woke just in time . . . Look!’ I peer out of the window down a narrow lane packed with artists’ workshops.
‘Want to see Potter’s Town?’ asks Janu, opening the cab door, and holding out his hand to me.
The workshops are all floodlit, like mini theatre stages. In each shop an artist is working on figures of idols – gods and goddesses, with their multiple arms outstretched. Some of the artists are dwarfed by the giant limbs of clay. One tiny man, smaller than Priya, is standing on a stepladder to finish the trunk of the elephant god, Ganesha. Another artist holds a fine brush in his hand as he paints a kohl line sweeping up over the statue’s eyelids. It’s ages since I’ve worn any make-up. At home I never go out without my eyeliner. The artist turns to me and grins before speaking to Janu.
Janu smiles and says something back, then translates: ‘This artist says you have the eyes of a goddess.’
‘And what did you say to him?’ I ask curiously. Maybe it’s because I’m still half asleep, but suddenly, standing here with Janu, holding his hand in this strange floodlit place of gods and goddesses, I feel a seriousness settle between us.
He looks at me with his dark intense eyes and says, ‘I agreed.’
We are both silent for a few seconds until Janu breaks the spell. ‘Kumartuli is my favourite place in all Kolkata. Artists making magic!’ he says. ‘Like your wishes.’
‘What would you wish?’ I ask him.
‘No need to ask. You told me already – my wish cannot be.’ He sighs, letting go of my hand.
Priya’s Gala
I’m getting ready to leave for Priya’s gala when Anjali comes into my room with a pile of clean clothes. She didn’t mention the letters at all last night. She smiles when she sees that I’m wearing the salwar-kameez she bought me from the market, but then her smile fades.
‘That’s the door of the old house, isn’t it?’ she asks, staring at my painting. ‘I must have described it very well in my letters. You are talented,’ she speaks with a sharp, knowing edge to her voice. I get a sinking feeling. What if she knows I’ve been inside the house?
I wish I could tell her about going to the house, so I could give her the piece of carving Janu found and she could mend the cupboard. But Priya’s right – whenever you mention the house Anjali raises a wall of silence around her. Whatever memories she has locked away, she’s not going to share them with me, so there’s no way I can ask her all the burning questions I have, whirring in my mind.
Manu must feel the tension between Anjali and me because he doesn’t attempt to make conversation like he usually does.
‘Did you read everything in the album?’ she finally asks.
‘Yes,’ I answer, the guilt flooding through me again.
She sighs deeply and looks out of the window. ‘You see, some things that happened in the past should stay in the past.’
I can’t understand how that can be true. How can it ever be good to bury something in the past as if it never happened? That’s like in the documentary Dad and I watched about people who try to deny that horrific things that happened in history – like the Holocaust or the genocide in Rwanda – actually took place. Dad said the only reason people try to hide the truth is to get away with evil and never having to face up to what they’ve done. How can people learn anything from the past if it’s hidden?
‘I don’t understand,’ I tell Anjali.
She just raises her eyebrows, as if to say, ‘Exactly.’
I feel a surge of frustration again, but I take a deep breath and look out of my own window. It takes me ages to pluck up the courage to ask the question that’s been playing on my mind and, when I finally do, it comes out as a cowardly whisper.
‘Are you going to tell my mum?’
‘I haven’t made my mind up yet.’
I think it’s a relief, for both of us, to get out of Manu’s car. Anjali immediately strides off. A little lump forms in my throat. I know it’s a bit pathetic, but I feel really close to Anjali, even though we’ve only just met. I hate the fact that she’s angry with me and upset, but I don’t know how to make things better.
There are hundreds of cars parked up in a field. In the middle is a huge white marquee. Women in every colour of silken sari are strutting across the field, like peacocks fanning their feathers. When I was little I always found it hard to believe that the pretty show-off peacocks that preen themselves are the males.
Inside the marquee it smells like the flower market: sweet roses and jasmine – that smell is starting to follow me around.
It takes me a few minutes to recognize that it’s the twins, Chand and Charbak from the mall, wearing identical gold cotton kurta pyjamas, who are warming up on the sitar and tabla at the front on the stage. I can’t remember which one plays which instrument, and they’re too far away for me to spot an earring.
I love the sound of instruments tuning up. I think the bit before a show begins is the most magical of all, when no one sends a signal to begin but everyone just somehow knows when to settle. Just as I think that moment’s approaching a large woman comes bustling towards the two empty seats next to me. It’s not until she sits down that I see the girl limping behind her.
‘Mira!’ Paddy calls out, hobbling over. ‘At least I get to sit with you!’ She grins and raises her eyes towards the large woman who must be her mum. Her wild hair is parted down the middle and seems to be smeared to her head with some sort of oil. ‘Ma made me straighten it! She’s always trying to tame me!’ she says, touching her hair self-consciously.
We chat for a while. Then Paddy leans forward and concentrates on watching Chand and Charbak.
‘Isn’t he brilliant?’ whispers Paddy, nodding towards the twin playing the tabla.
Now I remember that it was Charbak who plays the rhythm.
There’s a pause and the silence fizzles with expectation.
A short, strong-looking man walks on stage and blows into a conch. The sound is hollow and haunting as if it could carry across mountain ranges. The music begins, slowly at first, and then builds into a frenzied rhythm.
Te, tak a Te, te, tak a Te, te tak a Te te te . . . Charbak holds the beat as he plays.
Dancers in glittering emerald-and-gold saris enter the stage as if summoned. I pick out Priya straight away. She dances in the middle, her ankle bells jangling. She’s positioned slightly forward from the others, but even if she was right at the back of the stage she would stand out, and not only because of her short hair (looks like she got her way then!). She’s the one you’re drawn to, because of her grace and energy, and the fact that every movement she makes is so precise and perfect. Her eyes light up as she dances. Everything about her is alive. Watching her move around the stage I feel so proud of her. I see for the first time that all her energy, which sometimes feels too big for real life, is meant to be here, crackling and lighting up this stage.
‘What do you think?’ asks Paddy.
I shake my head in disbelief. Now I understand why she’s been rehearsing so hard.
