Jasmine Skies, page 20
‘For goodness sake, Krish, give Jidé and Mira a moment on their own,’ Mum shouts, shooing him out. I hear the door slam.
‘So you’re back from the trip?’ I say.
‘Looks like it.’
‘How was it? The mountains?’
‘You know! Tough! Manly stuff, but I made it through!’ he jokes. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says. Then a fuzz appears on the screen and everything starts to jump about. I hope it’s happening at his end too so that he can’t read my expression.
‘I thought there’d be a ton of your texts waiting for me when I got home!’ I hear him say, even though the image is still jumbled at this end.
‘I would have but my phone’s not working!’
‘You don’t exactly look happy to see me.’
‘Of course I am!’ I protest, ‘It’s just a surprise, that’s all!’
‘OK, let’s email then from now on. So, what’s it like out there?’
‘It’s too hard to explain. There’s been so much going on . . . I’ve taken loads of photos, and video too.’
The image on screen settles and I can see by the way he’s looking at me, even across the slight delay, he’s not really listening.
‘I wish you were coming back today.’ He smiles the biggest, loveliest smile. Then he frowns slightly. ‘You’re being very quiet,’ he says, and then leans forward. ‘Did you write me that letter?’
I shake my head. ‘Jidé? I . . .’
‘Mira . . .’
Our voices overlap, then the screen crackles and his face cuts out. My head is aching with the tension of having to face Jidé like this.
‘I’m coming to meet you at the airport,’ is the last thing I hear him say.
‘Well, that was awkward! Did you tell him?’ asks Priya.
‘No, I have to talk to him face to face, not when he’s at my mum and dad’s.’
I feel completely drained. I just want to be by myself.
‘I’m sorry to leave you again, but I’ve got to go and see Paddy,’ says Priya. ‘I’d bring you with me, but it would spoil the surprise! Tonight, you and me are sneaking out, and no arguments!’
I have no idea what Priya’s got planned, but I’ll need to do something to stop my mind endlessly replaying that conversation.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK?’ Priya calls out to me from the stairs.
‘Fine,’ I shout back.
I listen to my iPod for a while and check my Facebook, but nothing I do can erase Jidé’s face from my mind, or the twisted feeling in my gut. I head to the kitchen and pick at some food but, even though I haven’t eaten breakfast, I’m still not hungry.
I kneel down at the little wooden table that’s become my easel. I start to remember all the clothes that were packed in my case: my favourite little blue cardigan and my peace T-shirt, one of the ones Jidé gave me. I start sketching a crowd of people, some wearing my lost clothes. I like the idea that instead of my things being abandoned somewhere in a lost property office, someone like Dust Boy has got hold of it all, and handed the stuff out to his family. There could be someone walking around Kolkata in my T-shirt right at this moment. I think maybe when that case was lost, with Jidé’s note inside it, a bit of me was lost too, the bit that said, ‘This is who I am . . . this is who I belong to’. I don’t know how people can actually belong to each other?
In a few days’ time me and Janu will be thousands of miles apart. Jidé will be waiting for me at the airport and I will have to tell him, and it will change everything.
I take the silver paint and trace a thin line around a girl’s wrist and add a tiny charm to it. The girl has her head turned towards me, her grey-green eyes sparkling out from the canvas.
I open the wardrobe to decide what to wear tonight and spot the shoebox with Priya’s new white Converse inside.
I’d completely forgotten I said I would personalize them for her. She’s been so kind and friendly, I’d like to give something back to her. It’s not like she’s had the best of times, what with all her rehearsals and being ill. I open the box and inside I find a packet of twenty felt-tip pens especially for drawing on fabric. She’s thought of everything! I sit on the bed and start to doodle anything that comes into my mind when I think of Priya. Headphones, CDs, the sitar, the tabla, I manage to draw a tiny doll-like outline of her dancing Kathak with her punky red hair; I draw a pair of her red Converse, a yellow taxi, a basket of flowers, jasmine, her midnight-blue eyes, Bacha . . .I just keep on going and going until every available piece of white on both shoes is covered in pictures and swirls. By the time I’ve finished my head feels like I’m floating through a bank of clouds. I love the way I can lose myself in art. I place the shoes at the end of Priya’s bed and lie down, a wave of tiredness washing over me.
House Party
I open my eyes to the shocking blue of Priya’s contact lenses staring back at me. She’s sitting on her bed carefully studying her Converse. Her eyelids are lined with a dramatic thick black signature of kohl, sweeping upward beyond the end of her lashes. It’s the same stage makeup that she wore on the day of her gala. As if that’s not over the top enough she’s also wearing an enormous glittery silver bindi that glints at me through the darkened room, like Kali’s third eye.
‘These are amazing!’ she hugs me to her and holds the shoes closer to the lamp. ‘You could make a living out of doing these! This is the best present ever!’
‘You like them?’ I smile.
‘I love them.’
‘Good! But what time is it?’ I ask sleepily. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep.
‘Only eleven,’ she says, raising her finger to her lips and pointing towards the door. I can hear Anjali chatting away on the phone in the front room. After a few moments there’s a knock and Priya turns off the lamp and springs back on to her mattress.
‘Pretend you’re asleep!’ she whispers.
The door creaks open slightly and Anjali says something, but Priya groans as if she doesn’t want to be disturbed and keeps the covers pulled over her face.
Anjali says goodnight and closes the door again. Priya doesn’t move for a while, until she hears Anjali’s bedroom door click shut. Then she throws back the covers and flicks the light back on.
‘Come on, get dressed,’ she says, flashing me a wicked grin and handing me my own Converse that she must have picked up off the landing.
What I’m thinking, as I do up my laces, is that the Mira Levenson stepping into these shoes and getting ready to sneak out in the middle of the night, is a different person than the one who left London.
‘Is Janu coming?’ I ask in the most casual tone I can muster.
‘Why? Do you want him to?’ Priya smiles at me mischievously.
I shrug, trying not to be too obvious. The truth is it suddenly feels like my time here is draining away so fast, and I’ve hardly got to know Janu yet. I want more days like yesterday . . .
‘Janu doesn’t know anything about this. And if he did, he would probably bust the whole thing,’ Priya says. ‘And believe me – what I’ve got planned is something you’ll want to do just as much as kissing Janu!’
She puts her fingers to her lips, levers herself up by the arms and climbs out of the window. I try to do the same, but I quickly realize how much stronger Priya is than me, probably from all her dancing. She holds her arms out for me to cling on to and yanks me through the window. Halfway in and half way out I get the giggles!
‘Too many ladoos!’ I laugh.
This sets Priya off too, but with one last tug she hauls me clear. I tiptoe along the metal gridded balcony, past the outstretched branches of the Kadamba tree and around to the main stairwell. At the bottom Bacha barks a greeting at us.
‘Shhhh!’ Priya scolds.
I have never seen the road so deserted. The tram pulls up, and we take a seat in the women’s section, which is empty apart from us. Some men turn and stare. I don’t like the way they’re looking at us.
‘Pretend we’re tourists!’ says Priya quietly.
‘Isn’t this a bit dangerous?’ I feel a sudden panic.
‘Not if we keep our wits about us. Anyway, I chose tonight because of all the weddings! No one’s going to notice us.’
‘Why are they all on the same night?’ I ask, looking out of the window at all the floodlit street-side wedding venues, lavishly bedecked in garlands of colourful flowers.
‘It’s why Chameli and Ajoy have been so busy lately. This is one of the auspicious days, when all the planets are lined up to bring happiness,’ explain Priya.
‘You believe that?’
‘Why not?’
I’m leaning my head against the tram window and remembering standing by the river, Janu placing the garland over my head, holding me in his arms and his lips touching mine . . .
‘Look!’ Priya points as the tram stops just outside a hall where a bride swathed in red and gold silk is being lifted in the air on a plank of wood.
‘It’s part of the ceremony,’ says Priya. ‘Her feet must not touch the ground.’
The two men get off the tram first, looking behind them a couple of times to see which direction we’re walking in. I’m probably being paranoid, but I’m worried they’re planning to follow us. Priya takes my arm and stands a little way behind a policeman, who is busy directing traffic. ‘We’ll just stay here for a while,’ she tells me. The two men loiter for a moment and then one of them shrugs and they walk off. Priya grabs my hand and we head in the other direction, through the narrow streets I walked with Janu.
These side roads are sleepy now, and people are sitting outside in the hope of catching a cool night-time breeze, but if anything the air feels heavier tonight than usual. Even the cows are taking a rest. We walk past one cow dozing under an old film poster of Marilyn Monroe. I can’t resist taking a photo.
‘Know where we are now?’ Priya looks so excited.
We are standing outside the carved wooden door in Doctor’s Lane.
‘Thank you for bringing me here,’ I say, thankful to be here again.
‘That’s OK. I know how much you wanted to see it.’
I hear Janu’s voice echo through my head: ‘It’s not safe, I should not have brought you here.’ I think about telling Priya that I’ve been here already, but it feels like it would spoil her surprise, and, well . . . that memory belongs only to Janu and me. Priya’s already climbing on to the little balcony and through the shuttered windows, as if she’s done this a hundred times. Before I even get inside I hear the music start up, a heavy, pulsing bass.
The rooms are lit with battery lanterns, and flowers have been hung around the doorways and beams. The place looks so beautiful in this half-light. The exposed rafters make me feel as if I’m in the hull of an ancient ship. I peer up the staircase where garlands are wrapped round and round the banisters. Music is pumping through the ceiling and it sounds as if there are hundreds of people upstairs. Paddy and Priti’s faces appear over the rail, shouting and waving at us, but the music’s too loud to hear what they’re saying.
I tread carefully, looking out for rotten wood.
‘Don’t worry! We’ve fixed it all up for you,’ says Priya, pulling me up the staircase. I was desperate to see around the house the day Janu brought me here, but now there are so many people dancing in this room I can’t get a good look around. We follow Paddy through a sea of bodies. Occasionally Priya stops to chat to friends in the crowd. Among them I recognize some of the dancers from the gala. At the far end of the huge room someone has built a stage with a mixing desk and speakers on it. Chand and Charbak are sitting on this platform with their sitar and tabla.
‘What do you think?’ asks Priya, buzzing with excitement.
I just stare into the crowded room. I can’t believe what I’ve walked into, what Priya and her friends have created here.
‘Get this on video!’ she laughs, before walking over to her decks. She puts on a piece of ambient dance music that seems to calm the mood. Priti and some of the other dancers come up to the stage area and gradually people turn towards them, as if they’re expecting something to happen. Now Priya plays a more upbeat track . . . Charbak starts to pick up the rhythm on the tabla, improvising around it, and I watch Priya’s feet pound out the beat, just like she danced Kathak at the gala.
‘This is DJ Prey in the house,’ Priya calls out, her voice booming through the microphone.
Her friends raise their arms and start to chant: DJ Prey . . . DJ Prey . . . DJ Prey . . . !
Priya takes a low, graceful bow and comes back up to flash her brightest grin at the crowd.
‘This one’s for Mira.’ She winks and points straight at me.
Everyone looks in my direction, and Priya cranks up the music even louder. I can feel the bass travelling through my body. Another chant starts up.
‘Prey, dance . . . Prey, dance . . . Prey, dance . . . !’
Priya laughs and the music fades to silence. She nods at Chand and he starts to play the sitar. I recognize the tune straight away. After a few seconds a different track starts playing. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the voice is my own. Priya must have done some serious technical stuff to make it sound that smooth.
World is turning round and round
World is turning upside down
Words are floating out in Space . . .
So this is why she wanted me to record it for her. Priya begins stretching her body into graceful statuesque shapes, then Charbak ups the tempo on the tabla and Priya’s slow moves change to something more unpredictable as the track transforms into something heavier. At exactly the moment she’s timed the drop into dubstep, at the end of my lyric, Priya leaps in the air. She must have rehearsed that over and over to get it so perfect. The crowd go wild, leaping and dancing around. I whistle and cheer along with everyone else, feeling so proud that this daring, talented girl is my cousin.
‘This is the next big voice!’ shouts Priya, pulling me on to the stage. ‘My cousin, Mira Levenson, from London! You heard her here first!’ Priya laughs as she gets swept into the throng of dancing bodies.
I look up at the ceiling, where the boards have all rotted away, and wonder if Sunil could be hiding somewhere, watching all of this. It’s strange to think that Anjali once danced, and my mum sang, for Priya’s and my great-grandmother here. Priya’s gone to so much effort for this party, but right now I wish that it was quiet for a few minutes so I could just go walking through the rooms of this house alone. I’m sure no one will miss me if I have a look around on my own.
I go back into the hallway and pick up one of the lamps. Someone has stuck a red and white tape barrier across the bottom of the staircase that leads to the next landing. I hesitate for a second, but then I place my foot on the first stair and it feels secure enough. I just need to be careful. When I reach the next landing I see that the brickwork of the walls has crumbled away and ivy is curling in through gaps wide enough for me to put my hand through. It’s actually quite spooky up here, and my heart is starting to pound. I look into a room which has a sink and a few old metal pans strewn over the floor – this must have been the kitchen. I take a step in and the floorboard cracks under my weight.
‘You should go back, Mira, go back down,’ I tell myself, but my feet are carrying me up the next flight of stairs, up and up as I hear Anjali’s voice . . .
I will paint a picture of Dida, your Thakurma . . .
I pick my way up the staircase, in one place having to stretch over three rotten boards to climb onward. The air suddenly feels cooler. Once I get to the top there’s another small landing and the way is blocked by a tree that’s fallen right through the roof, exposing the grey, bulging sky. That must be what’s left of the fruit trees on the roof terrace . . . ‘I always think the branches growing above the top balcony make the house look alive.’ I bend down to get a closer look at the tree and find that lemons are growing on its branches. It must have fallen recently. I pick one off and put it in my pocket.
Walking the rooms of this house is like reading a book, only instead of reading it, I’m in it. I know that something happened in this house, something that pulled Mum and Anjali apart. Something that kept Grandad Bimal away after Great-Grandma’s funeral. And if I look hard enough, perhaps I’ll find the truth. I shudder as hundreds and hundreds of black moths flurry up between the branches of the lemon tree, buffeting against me as I squirm to get away from them. I step over a branch and enter what must once have been my great-grandmother’s bedroom. My heart is beating so hard I put my hand on my chest as if that could calm it. I look into the room and find that all that’s left from Anjali’s description is a wrought-iron bedstead with an old mattress. I don’t know what else I expected to find. I walk around the bed and shine the torch against the wall. The faded flaking blue paint is lighter in one patch, where a tall piece of furniture might once have gone. This must be the place where the sari cupboard stood. I was so longing to see it and now there’s nothing here I feel so flat.
To the right of the bed is a window that looks down on to the street below. My great-grandma must have had the best viewing point in the house. I trip over something heavy. I shine the torch and find a stack of books. I open the cover of one and read the name Bimal Chatterjee. I feel breathless. I open the next, and the next, and in each one Grandad’s name is written. I flick through the books and see diagrams of hearts and lungs and skeletons. As I pick up another book I hear something under the bed, maybe a rat, I think, as something scuttles over my hand. I jump backwards, but a hand reaches out and grasps mine. I am frozen to the spot as Sunil’s eyes shine out of the gloom.
He’s talking on and on excitedly. ‘Doctor Sunil, Doctor Chatterjee . . .’ he chants over and over again, grabbing the books out of my hands and hugging them to his chest. Then he opens my palm and places a small rag of green cloth in it. My heart is thudding so hard against my ribcage that I feel as if I’m about to split open as I back out towards the door. I can’t understand what Sunil is saying. All I know is that I need to get back downstairs to Priya. I turn away from Sunil and walk towards the door.
