Jasmine Skies (10 page)

After seeing all this, the streets at home are going to feel so empty, so lacking in colour and life. It’s like here, the street is where people are heading to but at home the
street’s just where you have to walk to get to your door and close it behind you. Grandad always used to say that it’s the weather and the landscape that form people’s characters
and the way they live more than anything else. I suppose that’s like Cathy in
Wuthering Heights
; a part of her was that wild moorland. Before I came here I expected to be excited about
being here and seeing everything, but what I wasn’t ready for is the way that every sense in me is zinging with energy and ideas at the newness of everything that’s bombarding my
mind.

There are pretty bunting flags everywhere here; even in the most grimy-looking street someone has hung a garland or a poster, as if a party’s just about to start. On the other side of the
road there are lots of people walking into the glass skyscrapers that line the street. Some of the women are wearing saris and others bright salwar-kameez. Some wear shirts or pretty tunic tops and
jeans, others are in formal black, grey and navy suits. Compared to London, people don’t seem to be in such a hurry here. Maybe it’s the heat slowing everyone down. I feel like
I’m going to pass out in this car, with Manu’s sandalwood incense streaming down my throat. Just as I think I can’t stand it any more Manu pulls over. Anjali steps out, grasping
my hand and reaching for Priya’s.

‘Ma! We’re not children!’ complains Priya as Anjali steers us into the busiest road I have ever attempted to cross. If I wasn’t clinging on to her hand, there is no way I
would dream of joining this carnage of cars, buses, humans, dogs, rickshaws and mopeds. My heart’s beating so fast it feels as if I’ve been running. Anjali’s chin is pointed
imperiously upward as she pulls me across the road. Now Priya’s broken away from us and is dancing between vehicles, her hands raised in the air, conducting the traffic to stop and start. I
hear her tinkling laugh as she dodges between a cycle rickshaw and a yellow cab. Horns sound, but the traffic stops for her. Anjali shakes her head at Priya, who is waving to us triumphantly from
the safety of the pavement.

Now Priya’s holding open a sparkling glass door and I’m being ushered into the most amazing shop I have ever been into in my life! ‘Ta-da!’ she mock-announces, like a
magician opening a magic box. The shop has wall-to-wall dark wooden shelves stacked layer upon layer with colourful saris: pink and lime and mustard and gold and green and copper and orange and
silver and turquoise . . . every colour you can imagine, all folded neatly in piles on the shelves. Mum must have known I would love this place. Why didn’t she tell me she’d been here?
Anjali adjusts the green silk sari she’s wearing and takes a seat on a low wooden bench. She looks so elegant today, and she’s wearing gold earrings and bracelets, whereas yesterday she
only wore her shell bracelet, like the one Nana Kath has always worn, to show that she’s married. It was a wedding present from Lila. I think Anjali might have dressed up for the occasion.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her wearing the sindoor, vermillion powder through her parting, and the great red teep between her eyes.

‘First customers. That’s good.’ She smiles, glancing around the shop and kicking off her chappal sandals. She raises her eyebrows at Priya and nods towards her bright red
Converse but Priya shakes her head, refusing to take them off.

‘Mira,
you
will need to take off your shoes – you don’t want to damage the cloth.’ Anjali looks down at my feet and takes a second glance at my shabby, doodled
trainers. She probably thinks it’s a bit weird of me, liking things that are so old and worn.

‘Don’t fight it!’ Priya whispers in my ear, ‘Just find something for your ma quickly and then we’ll have more time at the mall.’

A tiny man in a mustard shirt appears through a purple curtain. He presses his palms together in a formal namaste greeting. Anjali namastes him back. By the way that they chat together
it’s obvious that they know each other well. Then he turns to Priya and me. I copy Anjali, but Priya just says, ‘Hi!’ Now Anjali is pointing out cloths and chattering away to Sari
Man. He pulls each one she’s interested in off the shelf so that she can inspect the patterns and the quality of the silk or cotton.

‘What do you think?’ asks Anjali as the man unravels a black and white fabric with a geometric border design.

‘This one is latest fashion design,’ he says.

‘Gross!’ groans Priya, screwing up her nose.

‘I was asking
Mira
!’ says Anjali, obviously getting annoyed.

I smile politely but shake my head.

‘How about this? Khub bhalo modern design,’ says Sari Man, wafting open a shocking pink cotton with a silver border.

Priya tuts.

‘I’m not very keen on pink,’ I say apologetically, because he’s trying so hard to find something I’ll like.

Now Anjali’s having words with Priya. I can tell enough from their hand gestures and the stony tone of Anjali’s voice that she’s not happy with Priya butting in.

‘Is it for special occasion? Let me guess, maybe the young lady’s sixteenth birthday?’ Sari Man interrupts Anjali and Priya. ‘No, no, she’s only fourteen,’
says Anjali.

‘You’re lucky. No one ever thinks
I’m
older than I am,’ complains Priya.

‘We’re looking for a sari dress for Mira,’ explains Anjali.

‘This is shame I have nothing made up at the moment – so many wedding orders, you know – but if she can find material she likes I can take measurements and make something, no
problem!’ Sari Man smiles.

‘And we want to find a sari for her to take home to her ma,’ Anjali adds.

‘OK, this is good. I can start with Tussar silk – slightly heavy . . . handwoven, georgette . . . pretty because no shine, crêpe . . . very light. Depending what she likes for
flow and fall. For borders I have brocade, Zardozi . . .
very
beautiful, hand-embroidered with jewels! Special gift.’

For every kind of sari he names, he takes something off the shelf and throws it towards us in a dramatic flourish. A sea of colours unravels in waves in front of our eyes.

Priya leans into me. ‘Just choose something quick, or he’ll go on and on like this all day!’

‘Here is example of handwoven, very subtle!’ he says. ‘A little worn, but still beautiful.’ He smiles at Anjali. I think he might be flirting with her! She ignores him as
she reaches out and touches the fine embroidered cloth. The actual sari is cream silk but the border is a sage-green colour, with little bits of faded orange, turquoise and gold. When I look closer
I see that there are tiny clusters of white flowers scattered everywhere. I can’t help it – I just have to reach out and touch it. The stitching is so detailed and beautiful.

‘Mum would
love
this,’ I say.

‘Excellent choice.’ Sari Man nods, clapping his hands together like he’s clinched the deal.

‘Na, na.’ Anjali is shaking her head and wagging her finger at Sari Man. ‘Uma should have a new sari, a modern design, and this is not suitable for a sari dress.’

‘No no, not for sari dress – of course it cannot be cut,’ agrees the man, looking outraged at the idea, ‘but if she thinks her mother would like it . . .’ He raises
his hands in the air as if to say, ‘But it’s completely up to you.’

Anjali doesn’t answer, so Sari Man turns to me and holds out a length of the cloth so that I can inspect it again.

‘See! Only a little damage on the pallu,’ he mumbles, running his fingers along the largest section of embroidery. ‘This is very rare indeed, to find something this old in fine
silk. Probably this sari is over a hundred years old. Sorry to say, expensive choice though.’

Anjali is starting to look annoyed, but Sari Man’s on a roll. ‘We have more old saris I can show you, only for your interest. Just look at the work in this Kanchipuram sari,’
he says, walking over to a cabinet, taking out a little key, opening the lock and pulling out a pile of red and gold . . . see . . . true craftsmanship.’

Sari Man drapes the cloth over his arms, presenting it like a waiter serving the most delicious dish. ‘Should be in museum really . . . Many times I think to myself, if this sari could
talk . . . telling stories of all the brides who wore it . . . You know, it is becoming quite fashionable now for daughters to wear their mother’s and grandmother’s saris for their own
weddings,’ he says, pointing to Priya and me.

‘Good thing traditions change then!’ Priya whispers in my ear. Somehow I can’t see her ever wearing Anjali’s bridal sari!

Sari Man catches the slightly bored look on Priya’s face, sighs and places his precious sari back in the cabinet. As he’s locking it up he turns to Anjali. ‘What I can’t
understand is how anyone could let go of such a beautiful family heirloom!’

Anjali doesn’t answer him. She’s staring at the cupboard, but she looks distant, as if she’s been transported somewhere else.

‘Ma!’ Priya shouts at Anjali, tapping her on the shoulder. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’

‘Ghost?’ she asks vaguely.

‘Take a seat, take seat,’ says Sari Man. Anjali slumps down as if she’s been drained of all her energy. Bring some refreshment,’ the man shouts, clicking his fingers at a
boy who’s standing watching from a doorway. He must be about my age and looks just like Sari Man, but taller. Maybe he’s his son. The boy springs into action and reappears with a cup of
steaming hot tea for Anjali, which she sips without saying a word.

The tea seems to have given Anjali a new spurt of energy.

‘Sorry, Mira!’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I think I’ve been overdoing it a bit lately. Of course, if this is the one you think Uma will like, we will buy it. Perhaps
we’ll come another time to choose for the sari dress, or maybe you and Priya can buy something from the mall for the party tomorrow.’ She sips her tea slowly.

‘I can wear this,’ I say, holding out mum’s sari.

‘Why would you do that?’ whispers Priya.

‘It might speed things up a bit!’ I tell her.

‘OK!’ She winks at me and grins.

Before I know what’s happening Sari Man is offering me his hand and helping me on to a little wooden stage.

‘Why not try it, so you can see how it will look? Ever worn a sari before?’ he asks. I shake my head. Sari Man moves like an opera star . . . all flourishes, bows and grand gestures!
Now he kicks away the reams of cloth so that my feet find the wooden boards underneath and he fixes a belt around my waist. Anjali steps on to the platform too and begins to dress me. I’d
thought she’d be pleased if I said I would wear it, but she doesn’t seem to be. The strange distant expression has returned to her face.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and hardly recognize myself.

I watched Nana Kath putting her sari on, the day of Grandad’s funeral. It’s weird to think that the letter album and Nana Kath’s sari were both bought in this shop. I remember
I was impressed that she could put it on so well by herself. She said Lila taught her years ago. Anjali wraps the sari around me and makes the folds. The truth is I’ve always fancied wearing
a sari, but Mum can’t put them on and even if she could, when and where would I wear it? It wouldn’t feel right wearing it back home but here, in the middle of this shop in Kolkata, it
feels like the only thing I should wear.

‘You look like film star!’ Sari Man says, grinning at me in the mirror. He’s so over the top I can’t help smiling back.

‘Much better!’ He laughs. ‘Why you are wasting this lovely smile?’

‘Suits you!’ Anjali agrees, stepping back and looking me up and down. She seems more herself again.

Priya is sitting on the wooden bench flashing her eyes as if to say, ‘Finally we can go!’

I really want to go to the mall to buy some clothes and meet Priya’s friends, but I could also spend hours in this shop, sketching the patterns. I love the vintage saris best. Sari Man is
right . . . looking at the fineness of the stitching makes you wonder whose hands from another time pulled through all the tiny threads. I feel like I want to know what stories they stitched into
the cloth while they were sewing day after day after day.

‘The choli blouse my tailors can make up within two hours,’ Sari Man tells Anjali as he takes my measurements.

We’re just about to leave the shop when Anjali walks back towards Sari Man.

‘Ma! We have to go!’ Priya moans.

Anjali ignores her and carries on speaking with the man. He goes into the back of the shop and comes out with a huge hessian sack. His son carries it out to the car and Manu puts it in the
boot.

‘It’s for our quilt maker at the refuge,’ explains Anjali. ‘She made that lovely Kantha stitch lep on Priya’s bed out of old bits of sari. Now she has more
commissions than she can cope with. In London the double bedspreads are sometimes selling for five hundred pounds each, and I’m not even sure that’s enough money for the work that goes
into them. Now we’re planning to set up a workshop cooperative for her, and she’s teaching some of the other girls the many wonderful arrangements of the kantha stitch. I intend to take
lessons from her myself,’ Anjali tells me proudly.

In the car on the way home I try to do what Manu said and ‘forget the road’, because I feel as though I can’t take anything else and I haven’t even been
to the refuge yet or thought up my art project.

It is so hot today, my clothes are already damp with sweat. When Manu drops Anjali off at the flat I think about asking if I can have a quick shower, but by the way Priya practically pushes
Anjali out of the car I can tell she’s not planning to hang around.

‘She can’t wait to get rid of me,’ laughs Anjali as Bacha jumps up at her and tries to lick her face. ‘At least someone loves me!’

The Mall