Jasmine Skies, page 9
‘Not so little girl wearing sari! Old sari,’ Lila says, raising her eyebrows and patting Anjali on the shoulder. Anjali nods and both women trace their fingers over the embroidery of the pallu.
Priya comes bounding up, and Lila gives a little yelp of surprise at the sight of her hair. Then she pulls her granddaughter close to her and laughs, shaking her head and feeling the spiky dyed red ends. She says something to Priya as she runs her fingers through her new hairstyle.
‘Didima says I look like the washerwoman hedgehog she saw in the Beatrix Potter museum when she went with your grandad and grandma to the Lake District!’
‘Acha, hedgehog.’ Lila laughs.
‘Ma!’ calls Anjali, pointing her camera in our direction. Lila draws me and Priya close to her. Anjali clicks the camera and when I inspect the photo all three of us are wearing the same wide Chatterjee smile.
‘We can send this one to Uma,’ says Anjali, going off with the camera to snap everyone else in the room.
Lila takes hold of my face, just like Grandad used to, and looks straight into my eyes as she speaks and Priya translates for her.
‘Didima says, her ma used to call your grandfather her “shudurer putro”.’
It feels all wrong that I’ve read this already in Anjali’s letters, like I’ve stolen other people’s thoughts. ‘It means,’ Priya continues, ‘“her far away son”. She’s saying that now he is too far away, but you his granddaughter have brought something of him back here in your soft smile.’
As Priya speaks Lila touches my cheek again and then carries on talking. Not being able to speak Bengali makes me feel like I’m trying to cross a bridge but can only get so far, because to reach the other side it’s not just the words you need to understand, but also the tones and colours; the way of thinking and seeing the world that are all locked inside the language.
A tall man enters the room. He looks a bit like Anjali.
‘Ma!’ he calls to Lila, and walks over, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and kissing her on the forehead.
‘My shudurer putro,’ says Lila, kissing him on both hands.
Priya takes a running jump at him and he swings her around like a little girl.
This must be Prem, Anjali’s brother who lives in New York. Lila and Priya chat to him excitedly, talking over each other in Bengali. I hear both of them say my name and Mum’s name and Grandad’s name. Prem scruffs up Priya’s hair and places her back on her feet. He turns to me with his arms outstretched and takes my hands in his.
‘Hi! Great to meet you, Mira!’ he says in a strong American accent.
‘You too.’ I smile at him.
He has sparkly dark eyes and shaved-short hair and he reminds me a bit of my Uncle Rohan. It’s ridiculous of me, but I do feel embarrassed at the thought of him teasing Anjali about the sexy sculptures they saw on their trip. I wish I hadn’t read that postcard.
Lila is still talking to Prem and says something that makes him laugh.
He turns and explains to me. ‘Ma says you wear the sari well. She thinks maybe Priya could learn some lessons in ladylike behaviour from you, Mira!’
‘Joker!’ laughs Priya. ‘I’m ready for NYC! Just waiting for the invite!’
‘But is New York ready for you? That’s the question!’ Prem smiles and scruffs up Priya’s hair again, tutting at her new style. ‘How’s our wild child?’
Priya shrugs and jumps into a Kathak pose, tapping out a lightning rhythm with her feet; her hands and eyes telling their own separate story.
‘I don’t see how you’re going to be a classical dancer with hair like this!’ Prem laughs.
‘I don’t know how they dance in NYC, but here we don’t dance with our hair!’ Priya jokes.
Prem taps his head as if to say, ‘She’s nuts.’ Lila laughs, kisses Priya on the hair and leads Prem away.
Priya turns to me. ‘Didima’s so happy to have her beloved Prem and you at the same party! The way she goes on, you wouldn’t guess she gets to see him every three or four months when he’s here on business.’
Priya strolls over to the desk to line up some tracks on her laptop. ‘Not my sort of thing this Bollywood stuff, but the family like it!’
Grandad would have loved to be in this room surrounded by all this warmth and laughter and the smells of delicious food cooking. Now that I’m here with all the family it’s hard to understand why he didn’t come home for so long, whatever may have happened . . .
A few of the younger cousins have come in and, it’s just as Priya warned me – I’m the only person of our age wearing a sari. They must all be looking at me and thinking how weird and old-fashioned I am. It’s not even as if it’s a modern design.
One of Anjali’s cousins comes over and offers me a plate of bhajis, vegetable samosas and spicy lentil cakes. I take a bit of everything and then sit next to Lila on the sofa. She watches me closely, as though to see my reaction to each taste.
‘Mach-bhaja?’ she says, offering me some fried fish from her plate.
I shake my head.
‘Oh-ho! Tumi niramish?’ Lila laughs.
‘No meat or fish Ma,’ says Anjali, coming over with a tray. ‘Uma says rasamalai is your favourite sweet. I prepared this for you myself.’ Anjali smiles. But instead of handing me the bowl, she passes it to Lila, who takes a spoonful and feeds me like a baby. This should be really embarrassing but no one seems to take a second look.
‘Delicious, na?’
‘Khub bhalo,’ I reply. If it’s true that Lila is the real reason I’m here, and the reason Grandad would have finally come back home if he’d lived long enough, then the very least I can do is try to speak a few words of Bengali to her.
She cups my chin in her hands and kisses me on the forehead, just like she did to Priya.
‘Looks like you’re a hit,’ says Priya, winking at me. ‘Come on, let’s dance!’
She moves around the tiny rectangle of green carpet, prancing around with a plump boy of about seven who she spins round until she lets him drop to the floor in a dizzy heap. Now she’s guiding me around the room and the aunties and uncles begin to clap. I try to follow what she’s doing, but she’s so graceful she makes me feel clumsy. I’m also worried in case my sari gets stepped on and it falls off! Thankfully someone walks into the room and Priya runs towards the door, abandoning me and the little dancing boy. He looks up at me hopefully for a second as if I could take over from Priya, but then he clocks my sari, thinks better of it and wanders off.
I lean back on the arm of the sofa for a minute and glance at the door. Priya is chatting away to a tall man with a thick mane of hair pulled back from his face in a shoulder-length ponytail. He searches the room and when he finds my face he smiles, nods and flicks away a strand of hair that’s fallen over one eye. When he smiles his face looks younger, more boyish. He has huge almond-shaped eyes surrounded by thick lashes. It’s only the eyes that I recognize from the photos Lila showed us when she came to London. He’s wearing traditional cotton kurta pyjamas and he’s just about the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in real life. Now he’s walking towards me and smiling with his hand outstretched . . .
‘Mira, this is Janu.’ Priya smiles, inspecting both of us for a reaction.
I can barely look him in the eye as he offers me his hand. His skin is rough and he has a plaster covering one finger.
Priya is watching me like a hawk. ‘I’m always telling him he’s got the hands of a builder; I say, if you’re going to be a carpenter you could at least remember to cut wood and not your fingers!’ she jokes.
Janu takes my hands in his and smiles at me until I’m forced to meet his gaze. And when I do it feels like he’s looking straight into me and reading my thoughts. I only have to glance down at my chest and feel the heat travelling up to my face to know that I must be blushing.
‘So, you are Mira. I have . . . I mean . . . Priya has told me so very much about you,’ he says.
His voice lilts up and down with a low melody. He has a stronger accent than Priya’s and Anjali’s, less polished.
I try to say something back but my mouth won’t work. What is the matter with me?
‘Your sari is beautiful,’ Janu tells me. His eyes are the same colour as mine, almost black. My heart’s fluttering like a trapped bird, so when Anjali calls Janu over I can’t help feeling relieved. He nods at me and then goes off to help her.
‘Told you he likes homespun.’ Priya raises her eyebrows and dances off.
I’d planned to thank Janu for the paints and the flowers, but every thought left my head the moment I saw him. I feel hot, like I’m about to pass out, so I slide down into the comfy cushions of the sofa to try to pull myself together. An ancient stick-thin man in brown linen trousers and a crisp white shirt eases himself into the seat beside me.
‘So you are Bimal’s granddaughter. Very pleased to meet you indeed.’ He holds his hand out to me and shakes it formally. I can feel every delicate bone and vein through his skin. ‘I was his friend, you know.’ The old man’s voice is dry and cracked. ‘I met your grandfather when I was Postmaster General of Kolkata. Those days it was top job, you know? Before all this fancy Internet.’ His eyes are all glazed over with a misty film. I’m not sure how well he can see. ‘In some ways I was the one who was responsible for him going to England all those years ago. You know, it was me who posted that letter personally to the ship’s port with the reference for him to take up medical practice in England.’ He pauses to take a breath, again scanning my face, searching for Grandad.
I smile. I want him to carry on, because these are the pieces of Grandad’s life that I should have asked him about when he was alive.
‘He was just a young man in his twenties . . . handsome, you know, good-looking family, na!’ The old man pats my hand and looks up at Prem and Anjali, who are chatting away. He rests his shiny bald head on the back of the sofa, as if he’s exhausted himself with the effort of talking. Anjali comes over and gently smoothes her hand over the creased skin of his forehead as she speaks to him. He nods with his eyes closed and then she gestures to Janu to come over and he gently lifts the old man out of his seat.
‘Strong boy!’ says the man, patting Janu’s arm. ‘I too was strong once,’ he sighs, ‘but at my age you have to accept weakness. Every time you say goodbye, it may be the last.’ He turns back to me as Janu steers him away. I feel a weird rush of emotion. All I seem to be doing today is trying not to cry. Normally I’d be really embarrassed about getting so emotional in public, but no one seems to care here . . .
When Janu comes back into the room he comes straight over to me.
‘He’s very weak. Ninety-eight years old, you know. But he was so keen to meet you.’ Janu’s looking into my eyes again. I can feel that blush starting to travel up my neck.
‘Thanks for lending me the paints,’ I blurt out.
‘It’s nothing. You have paper?’
I shake my head, realizing I forgot to buy any at the mall.
‘No problem. I can bring some,’ he says, still gazing into my eyes.
Suddenly Priya springs in between us, and I silently thank her.
‘So, what adventures are you planning for us while Mira’s here?’ she asks Janu.
I hadn’t counted on spending any time at all with Janu, but with the paints and now the flowers and the art paper, he already seems to be part of everything.
For the rest of the night all I can think about is how weird Jidé’s going to think I am for not having told him that Janu lives with Priya’s family. As if I was trying to cover something up, when the truth is I just didn’t think about it. After all, Janu’s at the refuge more than he’s here. But what if Jidé thinks I kept it from him on purpose?
It’s late and most of the guests have left now, and Janu has gone up to his balcony room. ‘Do you mind if I go and lie down for a while?’ I ask Anjali. I am so tired all of a sudden.
‘No, no. You’re probably still jetlagged! Priya will help me clear up, you go and have some sleep,’ she says gently, steering me towards the bedroom.
Jidé is standing at the end of my bed.
‘So you’ve lost my note,’ he says.
‘It was in my case.’ I tell him.
‘But you’ll get it back?’ he persists.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s lost then.’ He sighs, turning and walking away.
The tears are rolling down my cheeks.
‘But I know all the words off by heart . . .’ I call after him.
He doesn’t turn around.
My pillow’s soaked. I look over at Priya’s bed, but she’s already up. It’s a relief she’s not here to see me in such a state. I don’t think I’ve ever cried in my sleep before, but that dream about Jidé was so real and horrible, and I’ve woken up feeling so muddied with guilt, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. Except for . . . how can I start to explain the way I felt the moment I saw Janu, because the truth is I’ve never felt anything like that for anyone before.
I don’t even want to think about yesterday. Even saying Janu’s name feels like I’m betraying Jidé. I’ve read about this sort of thing a million times in books and seen films, when people meet and there’s something instant between them, some sort of pull that they don’t understand . . . supposedly like Cathy and Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, (I read it from cover to cover on the plane). But I’m not sure that I believe in ‘love at first sight’ . . . that being ‘meant for each other’ stuff. Life’s not like it is in books and films, is it? You don’t actually have to do anything about those sorts of feelings, do you? I mean, that’s the whole point of being human. We can reason so we don’t have to let our emotions take over.
Anyway, you can’t betray someone by just thinking about someone else, can you? No one knows me better than he does, and probably no one knows him better than I do. I’m being ridiculous even thinking about Janu, he must think I’m so immature, blushing up bright red and not being able to talk to him! He probably just sees me as Priya’s little cousin. And, as soon as I can, I’ll tell him all about Jidé. Maybe Priya’s already told him?
I go over to the bathroom and blow my nose, staring at the red-eyed me in the mirror. I splash some cold water on my face and try to wash away the smears of guilty tears. When I’m in this sort of mood the only thing to do is escape into my art . . . just lose myself in colours and shapes. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me; my head’s so stuffed full of pictures I need to get them out, but I’ve got nothing to paint on.
I take out my notebook and start scribbling down some words, just stuff that’s going round and round in my head. Somehow just playing with words on a page and making them sound right together helps to calm me down. After about a hundred crossings out I only get this far:
World is turning round and round
World is turning upside down
Words are floating out in Space
Little girl
Tapping at the window of my mind
All the colours floating through the windows of time
My stomach rumbles. I put on Priya’s dressing gown and go into the living room to find a feast laid out on the table.
Normally I have toast or cereal for breakfast, but here there are curd sweets, mango slices and doi yogurt, puri and aloo. As I bite into a piece of mango I notice a note propped up against a vase.
Got to dance! See you around lunchtime. Help yourself to breakfast. Ma’s at refuge. Number by phone. Need anything, call on Manu’s wife. Chill!
Priya x
It’s actually a relief to be on my own after all the busyness of yesterday. I glance at the clock and see that it’s already ten. I can’t believe I’ve slept for so long. I help myself to a puri stuffed with aloo, still hot from the warming plate.
There’s a gentle knock at the front door of the flat. I get up from the table and walk towards it, but then pause, wondering if I should open it.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
‘It’s Janu,’ comes the low lilting voice from the other side of the door.
My heart’s racing again and my face and neck are turning crimson. I will my cheeks to cool before I open the door. Janu’s standing with a scroll of paper and a sketchbook under his arms. He’s slightly out of breath, as if he’s been running.
‘I brought you this paper and book from the refuge,’ he says, pushing his hair away from his face.
I can’t think of what to say. I feel like I can’t move.
‘I’m thinking you might want to do some painting?’ he prompts, holding the paper towards me.
‘Thanks. It’s really kind of you,’ I say, taking the scroll from him. He must think I’m dim.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘No tears?’
My eyes are still puffy from crying.
‘Just tired,’ I lie, finally finding my voice.
‘Probably this heat. Sorry, I have to go back now. Today is too much happening. You’ll come soon to see. I will show you around so you can meet the staff and children. They are so looking forward to your artistic project!’ He smiles.
‘Me too.’ I smile back at him, but it’s only half true. I do want to see the refuge, but it’s also been niggling at me since I got here. It was so easy to say I’d come up with a project to get time out of school, but now that I’m here I can’t even begin to imagine standing in front of a class of children. Compared to the children I’ve already seen here living on the streets, what have I experienced that would make me qualified to teach them anything?
‘Priya tells me you are talented artist,’ says Janu.
‘Not really!’ My voice comes out too high-pitched. Why can’t I just be normal with him?
‘I also like art, especially working with wood – making things and carving. Anyway, I must go now,’ he says, looking straight into my eyes, just as he did last night.
‘Thanks for these!’ I tell him, lifting up the paper scroll and sketch pad.
