Jasmine Skies, page 17
There’s nothing to say when you see someone as talented as Priya. You just have to watch and feel and let her spirit carry you away so that you almost feel like it’s you dancing.
Anjali turns to me with tears in her eyes. She wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to her. No words pass between us, but I think she’s beginning to thaw.
‘Sorry you couldn’t dance, Paddy,’ says Anjali kindly.
‘Better it was me who was injured than Priya,’ Paddy says, her hands following the movements of the dancers. It must be awful for her to have to sit and watch after all that training.
When it’s time for the interval, I feel breathless, as if I had been dancing along with the performers. I turn to Anjali, and see that she’s beaming with pride. I wonder what it would feel like to be able to tell a story with your body, to learn the exact phrases dancers have been using for centuries. It’s like they’re tracing their bodies back through time, movement after movement, into the distant past. If Anjali understands this, why can’t she understand why I took Mum’s letters?
‘Do you need the toilet?’ asks Anjali, breaking into my thoughts.
I shake my head.
‘Give me five minutes,’ she says. ‘You’ll keep her company, won’t you, Paddy?’
‘I’m not going anywhere in a hurry!’ Paddy laughs.
The marquee’s almost empty now; only Chand and Charbak sit on the front of the stage, chatting and joking with each other.
‘Charb!’ calls Paddy.
Charbak squints into the audience and then sprints up the steps towards her, taking them in threes. Chand lopes along behind his brother.
Now Charbak’s sitting next to Paddy. He has flung an arm round her shoulder and they’re chatting away.
‘Hello!’ says Chand, awkwardly leaning on the edge of the seat next to mine.
‘Your sitar playing was brilliant.’ I say, feeling slightly embarrassed.
‘Have you heard others on sitar?’
‘Um . . . no, not live,’ I admit.
‘Well, how do you know it was good then?’
Chand has this unnerving way of saying exactly what he’s thinking.
Paddy and Charbak are deep in conversation, and I’m not sure how long I can keep this going with Chand, so I make an excuse about needing the toilet after all.
Outside there are crowds of people talking, drinking and eating picnic food. Families are sitting on blankets on the ground, but I can’t see Anjali anywhere among them. I look out towards the middle of the field and catch sight of the mustard and deep plum colours of Anjali’s sari. About twenty or thirty women are slowly turning in a circle. They stand close together, chatting and laughing. I watch the group move around, and every few minutes a different silken-robed figure disappears and reappears. I imagine that each of them gets their own turn to dance in the middle. Maybe all these women were dancers once, like Anjali. As the circle breaks up they all scatter in different directions I wonder what it feels like when your body’s been as free as a bird, like Priya’s, and then you start to get older. Maybe that’s why these women come out to the field to do their own dance.
In the marquee Chand and Charbak start tuning up again, and slowly people pack up their blankets and make their way back inside. There’s that sound again, of people gathering, voices fusing together and bubbling up into a state of expectation. Charbak strikes his tabla three times, and on the third beat the dancers enter, this time dressed in red silk sari skirts, choli and long garlands of white flowers draped around their necks. Priya is not among them; instead another girl is standing forward from the rest.
‘I thought Priya was dancing in this,’ I whisper to Paddy.
She shrugs and concentrates on the stage. I turn to Anjali to ask her, but she’s sitting way forward on her seat with her face cupped in both hands, and I don’t want to disturb her, so I just lean back in my seat and try to take it all in.
This time the music is poignant and gentle, a bit like ballet. I can see why Priya would prefer Kathak – it’s like her: so fast, strong and bright. This lead dancer, starting with her eyes and hands, begins to hypnotize the audience, drawing us into every single tiny movement she makes. Her limbs are long and flowing, as if a river is running through her body. Grandad told me once about this ancient temple dance. He said that when Lila used to perform it, it moved him to tears. I suppose Lila must have taught Anjali to dance, and now here’s Priya on stage. When I get back to London I’m going to see if I can find a class. Maybe Millie will come with me.
I don’t know how long it goes on for – it could be hours, it could be minutes – and for a time I forget where I am or that there is anyone else around me. I’m only brought back to reality by the loud applause. Now people are standing up cheering and clapping and calling out to the dancers. The star dancer steps forward and there’s a roar of approval as she takes her bow. Paddy’s on her feet making loud whooping noises. The dancer puts her hand to her head, pulls at her hair and lets her long black plait fall to the ground. She smiles up at us and ruffles her short red hair. I should have guessed, but from this far away I couldn’t really see her face.
There is a general gasp, but then the women around Anjali laugh and make comments to her. Paddy’s mum in her gold sari is laughing so hard that her three thick tummy rolls are set in motion. She catches me watching her.
‘Acha, you are the London cousin Priya and my Padma never stop talking about. London this, London that! Tomar naam ki?’
‘Mira,’ I tell her.
‘Gita,’ says Padma’s mum as I shake her plump hand. I notice her tiny wrists, jangling with bright gold bangles.
‘Gita and I used to dance together once!’ Anjali tells me.
‘Like tonight, in the field,’ I say.
The two women exchange a look and burst out laughing.
‘That was more of a dance of nature!’ Gita whispers in my ear. ‘The toilets are not smelling well on such occasions!’
I go bright red, feeling like a complete idiot.
‘Anyway, we don’t dance any more!’ Gita grabs hold of a roll of her tummy fat and wobbles it in my direction. ‘Too old and fat!’
‘Speak for yourself!’ says Anjali.
‘Your aunty never stops working – that’s how she keeps her shape! But what a shame you never got to see my Padma dance.’ Gita smiles proudly, putting a protective arm around Paddy.
‘Oh, Ma! Do you have to?’ Paddy protests, trying to squirm away.
We keep clapping as the dancers leave the stage. As Priya waves goodbye the audience claps a little louder. She takes a final bow and exits, leaving her long black plait coiled on the stage, as if a snake has shed its skin.
Tendrils of Jasmine
‘Come on, let’s get some air!’ Priya says, grabbing my arm and pulling me on to the outside landing and up the flight of stairs towards the roof terrace.
When we get to the top Priya stands still, pokes her nose in the air and breathes in the sweet scent of jasmine.
‘Janu says jasmine calms the nerves. It’s probably why he’s always so chilled.’
I stand breathing in the smell of the tiny white star-shaped flowers with the faintest touch of pink on the petals. They grow in lacy clusters on every piece of trellis up here. Even the slatted wooden roof is intertwined with vines, so that when you look up through the jasmine you see the sky.
It feels wrong to come up here, to Janu’s room, uninvited, but I can’t help wanting to find out more about him. I follow Priya through the arbour of jasmine to the flaking paint of a turquoise door, the same colour as the one at the refuge. Priya opens it and walks down a stone step into a cool room with earthy, copper-coloured walls. I stand on the outside of the door.
‘Is it OK to be here?’ I ask Priya.
Priya rolls her eyes at me. ‘Janu doesn’t mind, he knows he’s got the coolest room in the house. Stop hovering.’
Inside there’s a small wooden bed and a desk covered with tools, like files and tweezers and what look like pens with blades instead of nibs. Above the desk is a shuttered window through which tendrils of jasmine trail.
On a high shelf above the window is a collection of intricately carved wooden objects. I think of the carved piece of wood Janu found in the house on Doctor’s Lane. Maybe Janu did know how much it meant to me because, by the look of this collection, it’s the sort of thing he would like to have kept.
‘I don’t know why Janu bothers copying all those old patterns,’ Priya sighs, slumping back on the bed, stretching out her limbs and beckoning me to sit down beside her.
‘Maybe it’s for the same reason that you love to dance’ I say.
‘Are you defending him?’ Priya asks mischievously. I feel my face flush so I get up and walk around the tiny room. There are a few books on the high shelf too, mostly English language books and a few hardbacks that look, from their covers, as if they might be about carpentry. There’s also a copy of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana and a collection of poems by Tagore.
‘You should read Tagore’s poetry, Mira,’ I hear Grandad’s voice in my head. ‘Our monsoon poet. If you study Shakespeare, then you must study Tagore also.’
When I was young, just starting to read, Grandad bought us an edition of the Ramayana epic, written in Bengali, and I used to love looking through the pictures whilst Grandad read them to me. My favourite was the one where the king of the monkeys, Hanuman, led an army against the demon king Ravana. But the bit I really didn’t get was when Sita, after everything she’d been through, had to step into the fire to prove her innocence.
At the end of the bed, in a hollow in the wall, is a tiny shrine. Inside is a carved figure of a god; in front of it is a little copper bowl with a candle in it and a scattering of jasmine flowers.
Priya follows my eyes. ‘He carved that Lord Vishnu himself,’ she says, placing the statue in my hands. Now I remember Rama the hero was really Lord Vishnu in human form. This carving is so intricate it must have taken him years. I don’t think anyone would make such a thing if they didn’t believe in all this. I put it back carefully. Priya takes some matches from Janu’s desk and lights the candle. Then she picks up a single jasmine flower from the bowl.
‘Did you know that jasmine is the flower of luuurve?’ she says, turning to face me.
‘Really?’ I pretend to be serious for a moment before we both dissolve into giggles. Then Priya switches track, as if she’s hearing music in her head. She raises her arms in the air and starts rapping.
Give it up for Vishnu
Off-er-ings for Vishnu
Light a candle for the
Sun god
Give a little
Jas-mine
Give a little
Jas man
Give a little
Jazz to the sun god
De-vine
Hope
Pre–ser-ver.
As ever
Give a little jas-mine
Give a little jazz man!
If the music that’s in her head was blaring out, Priya could set any stage alight. She probably will one day soon. She’s one of those tiny people who become a giant when she performs.
‘Give it up for DJ Prey!’ She dives on to the bed and collapses with laughter. ‘Phew! Even for me this heat’s too much.’
‘Shall we go?’
‘No hurry, let’s chill here for a bit longer.’ She lies back down on the bed.
All I can think of is how embarrassing it would be if Janu came back to find me in his room. I’d feel like a magpie stealing into his nest. I stand up and walk back towards the shrine. The candle casts an amber glow over the walls, and the memory of Janu and me locked in each other’s gaze in the crumbling house fills my mind. I watch the flame flicker and my thoughts turn to Jidé. I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t want to hurt him, I don’t want to hurt him, I say over and over in my mind as I blow out the candle.
‘It’s the jasmine.’
I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of Janu’s voice. I turn to the doorway, feeling slightly panicked. But Janu is smiling and doesn’t seem angry at all. Somehow he looks different with his hair loose. He’s leaning against the door frame, holding a freshly picked vine of the white flowers. He steps into the room and nods towards Priya, who has fallen asleep.
‘Jasmine,’ he repeats. ‘It can make you sleepy. It’s why I come here sometimes after work, to relax.’
I try to smile casually and hope that I’m hiding my thudding heartbeat. It feels like anything I say at this moment will be wrong, so I stay silent.
Janu goes over to Priya. He places his arms under her, lifts her off his bed and carries her back down the wooden steps to our room. I follow behind him.
Once he’s lain her on the bed, he turns to me. ‘Here!’ He hands me the tendril of jasmine. ‘Priya doesn’t need it.’
‘Thank you,’ is all I can say. I look down at my feet, and when I look up again Janu has closed the door quietly behind him.
Under Jasmine Skies
I watch Priya’s face as she sleeps. It’s strange to see someone so animated sleeping because she looks so peaceful now. It’s as if all the energy she harnessed for the gala has drained out of her.
I turn on the lamp next to the bed, tiptoe over to the desk and find the paper and envelopes I’ve spotted tucked away in her drawer. The packet hasn’t even been opened. It’s like Priya said: ‘Who writes letters these days anyway?’
I sit down at her desk and write Jidé’s address on the envelope, because that’s the easy bit. There is nothing Jidé and I don’t know about each other, and I can’t start lying to him now. So, even though this is a million miles away from the love letter he joked I should send him, I have to find a way of telling him the truth.
Dear Jidé,
This place has shaken me up so much that I don’t even know if I’ve got the words to tell you what’s been happening.
As I write a leaden lump is forming in the back of my throat.
You said that the thing about us you love the most is that we would always tell each other the truth. Well, I’m trying. You were right about Mum’s letters – I shouldn’t have taken them, but it’s too late now. I feel so guilty, but once I had them I couldn’t stop myself from reading them and now I know more than I should, but there’s still more to learn. I’ve lit a fuse and it’s burning along, whether I like it or not, but it’s gone too far to try to put it out. I need to find out the truth. Whatever it is or however bad it is, I just have to know what went on between Mum and Anjali.
I was so upset when I first lost my suitcase, but now the only thing I really want back is your note. I should never have brought it. You’ve got to know how much I care about you, and the last thing I want is to hurt you . . .
The smell of jasmine wafts through the window, as if to goad me into feeling even more guilty than I already do. It’s no use. I can’t say this to him in a letter. Words are too brutal, too final. Now I’ve made up my mind not to send this I feel more settled, because I know that this letter will never be sent, and that frees me up to write whatever I want, just to get it all out. I realize how much I’ve missed talking to Jidé, telling him everything, sharing every silly thought that passes through my head, like I usually do. The way I clam up around Janu is the total opposite of who I am with Jidé. I don’t know how Jidé will feel when I get home and talk to him, but maybe if he met someone and felt about them the way I do about Janu, he would know that what we really are is the best friends ever. I carry on writing, trying to find a way to make sense of everything and calm myself down.
What I’ve discovered is that letters are full of secrets, but now I know I’ll never send this. I’m going to have to find another way to tell you how I feel about Janu and how it’s changed the way I feel about us – I don’t know what will happen when I do, but I will be praying to Notsurewho Notsurewhat – or to good karma or anything that could help me – that after I’ve told you, you will still be my best friend. According to the Goddess Kali there are loads of different kinds of knowledge and maybe there are loads of different kinds of love too.
Because I do love you in my own way, Jidé Jackson.
Mira x
Suddenly I understand why Mum and Anjali are so angry with me for reading their letters. This letter is definitely ‘private property’, and the thought of anyone reading it makes me feel sick. I fold the letter up, put it in the envelope and seal it closed. I go over to my bed and tuck it inside my pillowcase, with the little wooden carving. Then I lie down and let the tears pour out of me until I think they are never going to stop. I keep remembering all the kind things Jidé has ever done for me, all the fun times we’ve shared together, the feeling that we would always be Mira and Jidé.
I cry at the thought of having to tell him about how I feel about Janu, I cry imagining the hurt look on his face, I cry thinking what it will be like between me and him at school from now on, but mostly I cry because I know now, no matter how much I fight it, the way it was between us is over. Something’s going to happen between me and Janu, and no matter how bad I feel, I don’t think I want to stop it any more.
I walk into the little bathroom, turn on the light and look in the mirror. My eyes are puffy from so much crying and my skin is burning with salt tears. I splatter cold water over my face and then dab myself dry with a towel.
I walk silently past sleeping Priya and then up the stairs to Janu’s balcony.
‘Janu?’ I whisper.
He’s still awake, sitting outside reading a book under his lamp. He turns at the sound of his name.
‘You are crying?’ He speaks so gently and looks so worried that I can’t help sobbing again. Why is it that when you’re really upset and you’ve just managed to pull yourself together, someone being nice to you just sets it all off again? He gets up and comes over to me and goes to wipe away my tears, but I stop him.
