Jasmine Skies (19 page)

‘It’s for you. I was thinking you might want something from your grandfather’s house,’ he says, laying the wood on to my palm. ‘It’s a miracle the house still
stands. But someone should at least save the carving; it’s the work of a master carpenter.’

‘Thank you,’ is all I can say, running my fingers over the fine leaf pattern. Now I know where I’ve seen this design before! Janu probably has no idea how much this means to
me. If I never go back to that house again, at least I have this tiny piece of wood to hold on to forever.

We walk on in silence, past an arbour cascading with roses. A couple are sitting inside. They have covered their heads and bodies with the woman’s bright green shawl to stop prying eyes,
but the strange thing is it only makes you want to look more. It’s a bit like me with Janu – the more I try not to think about him, the more he fills my mind. The couple are facing each
other and you can just see the tops of their heads above the border pattern of the shawl. Underneath their bodies sway as they kiss.

Without saying a word Janu holds out his hand for me to take. There are no busy roads to cross here. I glance down at the map of scratches and cuts that score his skin. There is still space
between us – a safe, friendly space I know he’ll never cross unless . . . I reach for his hand and we walk through the park, together.

Under My Pillow

It’s only early evening when I get back to the flat, but Priya’s already asleep. Janu says the only time she really rests is before a gala, like she’s storing
up her energy. I creep into the bedroom, take the wooden carving out of my pocket and walk over to Priya’s trophy cabinet.I knew it! I trace my hands along the edge where the carving’s
broken away and slot the piece into place. It feels so good to see the frame complete. I would have loved to have seen how this once looked when it stood in the house in Doctor’s Lane.

If I gave this piece to Janu he could probably mend the frame, but I can’t risk Anjali knowing I’ve been inside the old house, so I tuck the piece of wood inside my pillowcase. I eat
dinner with Anjali and then quietly slip into bed. The air is full of heat and dust and guilt, as I keep going over the moment when I stood in that stream of orange light with Janu and the rest of
the world seemed to melt away to nothing.

Priya hasn’t even moved for the last hour. I switch on the tiny lamp. I rummage in my bag and take out Mum’s letter album. I go through everything again, trying desperately to read
between the lines. This is exactly how it feels, like . . . ‘
The paint is flaking away, leaving the old brickwork peeping through as though a layer of skin has been grazed off . .
.
’ and I’m only just starting to get a glimpse of what’s underneath. I imagined seeing the house would settle something inside me once and for all, but now all I want to do is
go back and explore deeper.

After everything that’s happened there is no way I can sleep. The heat seems to grow more intense every day, and the days are running away so fast, but I don’t ever want this to end.
It feels as if I’m wrapped in a kind of heat-spell and if the weather breaks I’m afraid that the spell will be broken too.

I move the lamp over to the table and open up the box of paints. The canvas is starting to fill up, but what’s missing, what I would really like to paint into the picture, is Janu and me,
caught in a dust haze in the house in Doctor’s Lane. Instead I draw the red arches of New Market and two figures holding hands rushing across a road strewn with taxis, a rickshaw with a stray
wheel, tuk-tuks and bikes. The figures I’ve drawn
could
be anyone . . .

Priya’s Wig

I’m not in bed.

My arms are splayed out over a hard surface and something is sticking into the side of my chin. My back aches. Without moving I half open my eyes and see that I’m slumped over my painting.
Then I remember. The letters. What did I do with the letters?

I hear Anjali and Priya whispering, but the words spewing out of them are glinting and sharp, like blades cutting through the air. I sit up and yawn, trying to look as innocent as I can. It
takes me a while to work out who it is sitting on the bed opposite me, but of course it’s Priya. She’s wearing a short blouse and a rich emerald and gold silk sari skirt, which has fan
pleats at the front. She is literally draped in jewellery and her long black plait is trailing almost to the floor.

She sees me wake up and switches to English, as if she wants me to take her side. ‘I’m
not
wearing it!’ she shouts, tearing off the wig to reveal her flattened crop.

Anjali shouts back, ‘This is the
dress
rehearsal and you’ve been told to dress in the standard costume; your hair is not standard! Anyway, you know that was the condition of
having it cut.’

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind,’ yells Priya, throwing the long black wig at the wall. ‘In what ancient Sanskrit rule book does it say that you can’t have short hair
to dance Kathak?’

‘One day you’ll learn to have respect for the past!’ says Anjali, but she’s looking at me now, not Priya. I glance down at her lap and see Mum’s letter album. I
feel like running away, but there’s nowhere for me to go.

‘
You
are in so much trouble,’ Priya mouths behind Anjali’s back.

Anjali leafs through the letters, takes one out and starts to read it silently. Then she looks down at my painting again.

She sighs. ‘So you
have
read these,’ she says.

I nod. I feel awful that I’ve lied to her after everything she’s done to make me feel at home.

‘Where did you get them?’ she asks in a tiny voice, tracing her fingers over the surface of the album.

‘Mum doesn’t know I took them,’ I tell her, a sick feeling rising up in me.

‘You stole them then?’

‘Steal’ seems like too strong a word for what I meant to do, but I suppose she’s right. I did steal them.

‘I was going to put them back,’ I say feebly.

Anjali stands up with the letter album tucked under her arm and walks out of the room. She closes the door behind her quietly with a final determined click, as if she would rather not set eyes
on me or Priya for a very long time.

Priya sits down next to me, where I’m still slumped over the table. The tears are pouring out of me on to my painting. She lifts my head up gently.

‘Careful you’ll smudge it! My plan was to be the decoy duck! Make her angry with me so she’d be less upset with you. Guess it didn’t work.’

‘Do you think she’ll tell my mum?’

Priya shrugs. ‘Hard to tell, but I’m sorry to say it’s not a good sign when she goes off in one of her silent moods.’

Howrah Bridge

‘Let me take a photo of the two of you.’ says Manu, as Lila envelopes me in the warmest of hugs. ‘Lila has brought you to best view. No tourist guide will
tell you how to get to this ghat,’ Manu smiles, looking up at the bridge. From this angle its great metal web almost looks like it’s been spun by a giant spider.

Lila walks down the steep steps and sits down slowly on the second to last one before you reach the water. She stares up at the underbelly of the bridge and starts to talk again as Manu
translates.

‘No connectors . . . not a single nut or bolt, much stronger this way,’ he says, as Lila continues to give me her personalized tour. Poor Manu’s voice is actually getting
hoarse from talking all day, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

I can’t believe that Lila’s in her late sixties. She’s got so much energy. I remember Nana Kath telling me how Lila had insisted on buying a pair of walking boots in the Lake
District, and Nana Kath had been worried that she would be too cold and wouldn’t cope with the weather, but apparently Lila had walked through the driving wind and rain all day, scrambling up
and down crags and she’d actually been the first to reach the top of the fell! Apparently, when Lila came back to India, Nana Kath told Grandad off:

‘
All these years have passed, and Lila and I could have been best friends. It must have been so hard for her, losing her husband so young. We should have visited Kolkata every year if
we could, but we were working so hard and then I always seemed to be pregnant or nursing a little one. Still, you always did your best to support her.
’

And I think Nana Kath was right, because all morning Lila’s been asking me so many questions about Nana Kath. She even told me that when they first met they’d talked about running an
import– export business together. She speaks about Nana Kath with such fondness. Manu paused a long time before he found the right translation for what Lila called Nana Kath – ‘My
fair sister’ is what he came up with.

If Nana Kath wanted to go back to Kolkata so much, especially to see Lila, it makes everything even more confusing. Even though Grandad was busy, they still had holidays. Why would Grandad stay
away for so long? Whatever the reason, I’m sure it has something to do with mum and Anjali. Maybe even Nana Kath doesn’t know the truth?

I thought I had an idea of what Lila was like, but after today I realize I didn’t really know her at all. This morning when Anjali left the curt note on the table saying that Lila would be
coming to take me out, I wasn’t expecting her to be so into all the modern buildings in Kolkata, including her flat. I couldn’t believe it when she took me back there for lunch. Her
flat’s part of a new complex, with a swimming pool and everything. She even showed me the gym she uses. So far today she’s taken me to two contemporary art galleries and the planetarium
and she even got Manu to wait for us by the Howrah Bridge while we went on the underground – I mean, the metro – just for the experience.

Lila takes off her sandals, walks down the last step and beckons me to follow. I place my hot achy feet into the cool brown water of the river. Lila wiggles her toes and starts gently paddling
them this way and that.

‘Anjali’s angry with me,’ I tell her.

‘Acha.’ She nods slowly as we watch the sun sinking through the sky. I think she understands quite a lot of English; she’s just not confident about speaking. I know how she
feels, because I’m starting to understand much more in Bengali, but I feel self-conscious about speaking even the smallest phrase.

After a while of staring up at the bridge and the sky Lila starts speaking slowly and deliberately to give Manu more time to translate properly.

‘You see, no language between us, and we hardly know each other, but we are like Howrah – no matter what happens, strong standing family. Bimal, your grandad, built the bridge, now
it’s up to the next generations to cross from one side to the other. After I visited Bimal and Kath in the mountains they were planning to come back. Bimal was even saying he would like to
bring you with him. But maybe he is here in spirit.’ Manu pauses as Lila wipes away her tears. She coughs to clear her throat and gather her emotions together. ‘I’m happy we had
this time together, because you know in a few days I’m travelling with Prem to New York. Elen is having a baby soon, and I must go to help with my grandchildren. Have you ever been to New
York?’

‘No, I would like to though!’ I say to Manu, and then turn to Lila. It’s weird having a translator!