Authors: Sita Brahmachari
Jasmine Skies
In memory of Dad –
Dr Amal Krishna Brahmachari
Written with love for Mum –
Freda Brahmachari –
and my whole family
Contents
Kolkata Airport
I can’t wait to grab my suitcase and walk through to the other side.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve finally arrived in India, and that I, Mira Levenson, made it here, all by myself . . . against all odds. You’d think your mum would
want
to encourage you to visit the place where your grandad grew up. But it feels like it’s been me who’s had to make it happen . . . well, to be precise . . . me and Priya, my second
cousin, who’s the same age as me. And if we hadn’t got in touch with each other through Facebook after Grandad died, I don’t suppose I would be standing here now.
I don’t care how many times Mum tells me that the only reason she hasn’t been back to India since she was my age is that her and Priya’s mum, Aunt Anjali, ‘just lost
touch’ . . . I don’t believe her. When I finally persuaded her to start talking to Anjali it seemed to take them hours and hours of phone calls till they could sound anything like
normal with each other. Then, when Mum finally agreed I could make this trip, she kept switching between over-the-top happiness and nervousness. What was it she said to me?
‘You’re going in Grandad’s place, Mira. If I could go with you, I would.’
But I didn’t believe that either, because if she really wanted to go, then what’s been stopping her for all these years . . . or Grandad for that matter? When I asked him when the
last time he’d been to Kolkata was, he said it was when his ‘ma’ died, which was thirty years ago. I didn’t even know my own great-grandma’s name was
‘Medini’, till he told me. The more I think about it, the more I know it can’t be true that the reason why no one in our family’s been back to India for so long is that
everyone was ‘working too hard’, ‘couldn’t afford it’ or ‘just lost touch’. There are kids in my year at school who go to the other side of the world
every year
to see family, and it’s not like they’re rich or anything or not hard-working.
It’s sad really, because not long before he died Grandad seemed to decide that he wanted to go back ‘home’. I remember that’s what he called it, because it made me wonder
how long you have to live in a place before you think of it as home.
‘If I get better, you can come to India with Nana Kath and me!’ he told me, in that way he had of making you think that anything he said would actually happen. But he never did get
better. I suppose it’s because he’s not here any more that I felt like I had to answer Priya’s email, like I
needed
to keep some kind of connection to the place where
Grandad was born . . . for both of us. But arranging to visit India has been such a struggle: getting Mum and Anjali to talk to each other in the first place, then persuading Mum that I’d be
all right flying with a minder (I am fourteen!), then Anjali convincing Mum that I’d be well looked after, then getting the time off school (mainly because I said I’ll be working in
Anjali’s children’s refuge and organizing an art project) then the luck of Priya being picked for a dance gala so she only has a couple of hours of lessons a day. I think it’s
probably fair to say that me and Priya have been on a mission to wear down any objections, but even after all our planning Mum was still wavering. I think it was Dad who finally persuaded her that
it was a good idea for me to come here. I overheard them talking one night . . .
‘Let her go, Uma. I remember when I was her age I got so into tracing my roots. I drew up this whole journey of my dad’s family from Poland to the East End. It’s why I became
interested in history in the first place.’
Good old Dad!
‘I suppose I did visit at her age . . . so it’s only fair to let Mira go too.’ Mum sighed as if a part of her was actually afraid to let me come here. I don’t know why,
but I intend to find out.
Now here I am, crushed up close to all these people yelling instructions over each other’s heads, scrambling for cases and trolleys, I’m being jostled backwards and forwards, but
mostly backwards . . . The air-conditioning is either switched off or broken and sweat patches are spreading embarrassingly under my T-shirt. Jidé says boys sweat, girls glow, but I reckon
whatever spin you put on it, it’s the same. There’s no way I can meet Anjali and Priya looking and smelling like this.
Gradually people start to steer their trolleys, laden with cases, back out through the crowd so that I catch sight of the conveyor belt for the first time. No sign of
my
case yet.
Suddenly my stomach tenses into a nervous knot of excitement . . . I know it sounds a bit sad, but I’ve loved everything so far – the take-off, the hot towels, and even the moment when
I handed over my passport to the sour-faced uniformed woman sitting behind her glass screen. She checked me against my photo a couple of times and for a second I thought she wasn’t going to
let me through, but then she handed my passport back to me and said, ‘Welcome to Kolkata,’ without even glancing up.
I take another look at my passport photo. I suppose I do look different now. I was only twelve when this was taken. Jidé laughed his head off when I showed it to him, remembering me like
that. I’ve got jet-black hair (no sign of dye) tucked neatly behind my ears and I’m wearing no make-up (not even eyeliner or lipgloss). No dangly earrings either, just neat little gold
studs. My braces must have just been fitted, because my mouth looks all pouchy, like I’m struggling to stretch my lips closed over them.
‘Have I changed that much?’ I asked Jidé as he handed the passport back to me.
‘Smile!’ he said, snapping a photo on my dinky digital camera, the one mum and dad gave me for my birthday. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, laughing and showing it to
me.
It’s a good photo . . . It actually makes me look like I’ve got cheekbones! The best ones are always when you don’t expect them to be taken, but I still can’t get used to
myself without my brace. It only came off a few days ago. I scan from Jidé’s photo to the passport picture. It’s still me . . . the eyes are just the same, but I look so
little-girly compared to now, and my hair’s so neat! I can’t believe Jidé liked me when I looked like that! I stow the camera and my passport safely back in my bag and feel
around for the photo of him I always carry around with me. I don’t know why I love this one so much, but it was taken when we first met. I can’t believe how young he looks either! Just
thinking of Jidé makes me feel a very long way from home. I wonder where he is now, probably on his way to France on the coach, winding up through the mountains. Maybe it will make it easier
to be away from him, not being able to be in touch for at least two weeks. Maybe . . .
I glance over at an old couple who are waiting patiently for their cases. They arrived in baggage claim just ahead of me, so maybe there’s no need to panic . . . yet.
They’re not, anyway. The woman’s sitting on an empty trolley and the old man’s standing next to her, one hand resting on her shoulder. The woman idly unravels her tight grey plait
and the old man lifts his hand and runs his fingers from the top to the bottom of her silvery waves. She tilts her neck backwards and rests her head in his hand.
‘My Iris,’ I hear him whisper to her. She looks up at him and smiles, and he struggles to bend towards her to kiss her on the lips. I don’t know why it’s so embarrassing
for two old people to show that they love each other
like that
, but it just is. You hardly ever see that sort of love between people their age. Jidé and I have been together for three
years, nearly, and that’s way longer than any of our friends. I wonder how long those two have known each other. Probably most of their lives, like my Nana Kath and Grandad Bimal. Poor Nana
Kath – it must be so hard for her to live on her own now. She said she would come with me, and I believed her, but she’s not well enough. Now I think of it, the person who was happiest
that I was coming here was Nana Kath.
‘I spent years trying to persuade your grandad to take time off work to go back and visit his family. You’re going to love Kolkata. And you must send my love to Lila,’ she told
me.
Apparently Nana went to Kolkata for the first time after she and Grandad got married, and she loved it, meeting my great-grandma and getting to know Grandad’s sister Lila, who taught her
how to cook the best curries and sweets. Nana Kath is the most amazing cook. Just thinking about her curry makes my tummy rumble. Grandad always used to joke that his English wife was a better cook
than any of the Bengali wives he knew!
It’s actually quite weird how much the old man with the trolley reminds me of Grandad. With his thin V-necked jumper, striped shirt, tie, smart trousers and shiny shoes, he looks just like
he’s stepped out of Grandad’s wardrobe.
I must be staring, because the old man catches me watching him and nods in my direction. How embarrassing is that! I quickly look away. I never mean to stare, but sometimes it feels like
I’m in a sort of trance, as if I’m watching a film being acted out in front of me and I forget that
I’m
actually part of what’s going on and that I can be seen too! I
get so caught up in people-watching that I forget that it’s really rude to stare. I suppose what I try to do (because it wouldn’t feel right to take an
actual
photo) is take a
photo in my head so I can pluck it out of my memory and paint or draw it later. Jidé says I’m always staring. He usually gives me a nudge to snap me out of it.