Jasmine Skies (11 page)

We are waiting at traffic lights
again
when the tiny hand is thrust through my half-open window. At first I feel so shocked that I can’t work out what’s
going on, but now I see that a woman is forcing her baby’s hand through the gap. She’s clutching its wrist so hard that the skin is turning white. The baby wails and wails, its other
arm flailing in the air. No sound comes from the mother’s mouth, but her face speaks loud and clear; it says, ‘Pity me, help me . . . give me and my baby money.’

Priya tries to close my window slowly, but the woman refuses to pull the baby’s hand away.

‘Why don’t we just give her something?’ I say.

‘
Dut!
’ shouts Manu, making me jump as he leans over into the back seat and winds up the window, missing crushing the baby’s fingers by millimetres.

The woman holds her baby against the glass in a pleading gesture. It has a cross scored into its forehead and flies gather around the wound. I notice that the woman has one too, but hers has
healed into a scar.

‘What’s that mark on their heads?’ I ask Priya.

‘Probably made on purpose. Like branding an animal. It shows that they belong to the same begging ring. Anything you give her she will be forced to hand over. It’s hopeless.’
Priya sighs.

She looks thoughtful and sad as she glances at the baby, who must be about six months old. ‘That’s why I’m
never
having children . . . I’ve seen so many of them
suffering,’ she says. ‘At least if they come to Ma’s refuge there’s some hope, perhaps even a way out, but if you hear the stories they tell you . . .’ she
shudders.

Now Branded Woman is tapping at the window, just like Dust Boy tapped, in exactly the same place. I feel awful because all I want is for the traffic to start moving again so that I don’t
have to look at this poor woman and her baby for a second longer. Eventually the light turns green and we move off, drawing up outside a huge building, like a sparkling glass palace. It’s
strange how you can feel like you’re moving between worlds here just by taking a turn on to a different street. When we set off shopping this morning, I couldn’t wait to get here and
find some new clothes to wear. Now, after seeing Branded Woman and her baby, I’m not sure I have the stomach for shopping. I’ve only been here a couple of days and already I feel as if
my whole world has been turned upside down. I need to write and paint, and find a way to filter all of this. It’s not the feeling I have at home, when I stand in front of my easel and have to
think about what I’m going to draw . . . it’s like all these images and mixed-up emotions are pressing in on me, and I know I’m going to have to find some way of letting it out
and making sense of it.

We walk past two security guards standing at the entrance to the grand glass doors of the mall. I wonder what they would do if Branded Woman tried to come into this air-conditioned, spotless
glass dome. Suddenly it feels like I could be in any of the shopping centres I’ve been to at home. So many of the stores are exactly the same, and a part of me quite likes that. It’s a
relief, just for a while, to be in a place that feels familiar.

As we wander around the shops, Priya chatters on to me as we pick up a few T-shirts, long-sleeved cotton tunic tops (they’re called kurti), chunni scarves (Priya insists I buy five
different plain colours and five patterned ones), cotton leggings and underwear. Occasionally she’ll pick something up and say, ‘Like?’, but I get the feeling my taste’s a
bit tamer than hers. She picks up a short red leather jacket and slings it around her shoulders.

‘Suits you,’ I tell her.

She checks out the price tag and whistles. ‘Mad world, isn’t it?’

I know she’s thinking of Branded Woman too. When we get to the checkout and everything’s rung through she turns to me. ‘Are you sure you don’t need anything
else?’

I shake my head.

A text beeps into Priya’s Inbox. She reads it and laughs. ‘Fancy grabbing a coffee with some of my friends?’

We walk into a Starbucks, an exact replica of the one Jidé and I always go to. Priya takes a running jump into the arms of two tall boys who look identical. They catch
her, as if this is how she always makes her entrance.

‘Princess Priya!’ says one of them as he lowers her on to a chair and ruffles her hair up. Both boys have spiky black hair, slightly downy moustaches and are willowy thin.

‘Meet Chand and Charbak,’ says Priya.

I look from one to the other in total amazement. I have never seen two people look more alike, except that one of them is wearing a stud earring in his right ear. He sees me looking at it.

‘Just remember, Charbak is the one wearing the earring! He’s the only boy in our school that the teachers actually thanked for having his ear pierced, as long as Chand doesn’t
do the same. Then they’re both in trouble!’ says Priya, hugging me to her. ‘Everyone, this is my cousin Mira!’

‘Priya has told us all about you. It’s great to finally meet you,’ says Charbak, smiling and gesturing for me to sit down.

‘And these are my friends Paddy and Priti.’ Priya continues with the introductions, waving in the direction of two girls perched on the seat opposite me. ‘Cappuccino?’
Priya asks me.

‘Yes, please!’

Priya goes off with Charbak to queue at the counter. They’re chatting away happily in fluent English, which makes me feel sort of inadequate. I still only know a tiny bit of Bengali.

‘Bad luck about your case. How did the shopping go?’ asks the girl sitting on my left, with the crazy, wavy hair.

I nod and lift up the bags to show her, suddenly feeling a bit shy without Priya around. She introduced everyone so quickly I can’t remember who’s who, which I think the girl senses
because she smiles warmly at me. ‘I’m Paddy – short for Padma!’

‘It’s not shortened if it’s the same number of letters.’ Chand says in a deadpan voice.

‘Well, no, it’s not
technically
shorter. Chand takes everything literally!’ Paddy laughs, rolling her eyes.

‘So you’re Priti?’ I say turning to the incredibly beautiful girl on my right, who has the shiniest plait of hair falling down her back.

‘She’s the priti-est!’ bursts out Chand.

Priya and Charbak stroll back over with the drinks.

‘That’s a matter of opinion!’ laughs Charbak, winking at Paddy.

Paddy shrugs as if she couldn’t care less. In fact, I get the impression that she wouldn’t want to be called ‘pretty’. She’s wearing all black: black leggings,
black T-shirt (with some band name I’ve never heard of), black high-tops and a huge piece of skeleton costume jewellery around her neck.

‘I like what you’ve done with those,’ she says, inspecting my Converse.

But before I can thank her, Priya stands up.

‘Mind if I leave you with the Pod for a few minutes?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer before she dashes back into the shopping centre.

‘She’s always up to something!’ Paddy smiles at me.

‘What’s the Pod?’ I ask.

‘Us three! Priya, Priti and Paddy . . . three
P
s in a pod! It’s what our English teacher used to call us at school because we’ve always been so close!’

‘It’s a great name!’ I say. ‘Do you both dance with Priya?’

Priti smiles. ‘Strictly speaking, we dance in her shadow.’

‘And
we’re
just the musos!’ Charbak chips in. ‘What Priya calls the Rhythm and Blues section – Chand’s on sitar and I’m the rhythm!’ He
demonstrates by drumming out an impressive beat on the table. When he’s done he takes a huge glug of his coffee.

‘You’ve got a froth moustache!’ Paddy laughs, handing him a serviette to wipe it off. I get the feeling that Paddy and Charbak like each other.

Priya strides back with a shoebox under her arm, which she hands to me. I know what’s inside as soon as I see the slim brown cardboard box with the star logo.

‘They’re not actually for you!’ says Priya. ‘But would you personalize them for me, like yours? Don’t tell Ma though – she’ll go mad at me for buying
another pair. She doesn’t really get fashion.’ Priya places her foot next to mine. Even though I’m taller than her, our feet are more or less the same size.

‘Don’t worry. If Anjali finds them, I’ll say they’re mine,’ I tell her.

‘Thanks, cous!’ She grins and grabs my hand. ‘Come on. We should be heading back. You’ll see this lot in action at the gala.’ She pulls me to my feet and says bye
to her friends in a whirlwind of hugging and high-fiving.

‘Can I have a photo?’ I ask.

They jump into about five different silly poses, grinning and waving, and Paddy, Priti and Priya even strike some dance positions. I suppose they
are
performers!

‘It was great to meet you all,’ I say as Priya springs out of the photo and drags me towards the door.

‘Bye! See you soon, Mira,’ they chorus back at me.

We walk along an avenue of ornate fountains, the sort of thing you would expect to find in a grand park rather than a shopping mall. She dips her hand into one of them and splashes me. I shiver.
I’m not wearing enough clothes. It actually feels
too
cold in this air-conditioned world of the mall.

‘Where would you prefer to shop? Camden Market or somewhere like this?’ asks Priya, staring up at the enormous glass chandelier above our heads.

Priya knows so much more about London than I know about Kolkata. Mostly because she’s always googling stuff and watching films and clips on YouTube about bands and clubs. But I still feel
a bit embarrassed that I don’t know more about the place where a whole side of my family is from.

‘Camden . . . I think,’ I say, hesitating for a second because I don’t want to offend her.

‘Me too, but don’t tell Ma!’ She smiles and takes my arm in hers and together we walk out of the mall, back into a wall of heat.

Homespun

I wake to the sound of hammering and glance over to Priya’s empty bed. I open the lace curtains and watch tiny brown birds flitting around the Kadamba tree. A chipmunk
leaps from branch to branch, offering up a high-pitched stuttering call. I try to catch it on video, but it moves so fast that all I see is a disappearing tail! It’s so strange to see
chipmunks running wild, but I suppose they’re no different to the playful squirrels I see every day when I walk across the rec to school.

‘Come and see!’ shouts Priya, suddenly appearing in the doorway, grabbing my arm and leading me out on to the landing.

I can’t believe it. The entrance to the flat is decked in garlands of marigolds and roses, as if there’s going to be a wedding or something. The marigolds are the background and the
white roses spell out the words W e l c o m e  M i r a.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Priya asks, hopping up and down in excitement.

I don’t know what it is about being here – at home whole days can go by when everything feels more or less normal, but here my emotions are all over the place. I can feel like
laughing one moment and crying the next, and now my throat has gone all tight and my eyes are blurry.

‘I thought you’d be happy!’ Priya flings her arm over my shoulder and hugs me tightly.

‘I am,’ I tell her, hugging her back. ‘Thank you!’

‘To be honest it was Janu’s idea as well. It was him who organized it with our friends from the flower market.’

I don’t know why, but all the time I was arranging to come here I kept forgetting about Janu, and even now that I’m here I can’t really picture him living in this house, but
that’s probably because I haven’t met him yet. He seems to spend more time at the refuge than here. I know Anjali told Mum that she couldn’t run the place without his help. Even
so I’m not sure how much a part of the family he is. All I know is that he’s already been so kind to me, offering me the paints and now these flowers.

‘Get ready for Didima and the aunties and Prem uncle to arrive! And definitely get ready for lots of
this
!’ Priya squeezes both of my cheeks between her fingers and thumbs.
‘At least my new hair will take some attention away from you.’ She smiles and runs her fingers through her short red spikes.

I’ve just stepped out of the shower when I hear Anjali and Priya’s voices outside the bathroom door. They’re having a raging argument. I think about turning
the shower back on, but that would probably seem weird. So I go to the sink and let the tap run for a few seconds, but when I turn it off they’re still going at it so I haven’t got much
choice. I pull on Priya’s dressing gown and walk into the bedroom. Priya switches from Bengali to English, for my benefit, I assume.

‘I’m
not
wearing a sari dress, Ma! I told you that yesterday!’

‘OK! OK!’ sighs Anjali. ‘You can wear one of those pretty tunic tops I bought you instead.’

‘I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt,’ insists Priya, stomping off to take a shower and slamming the bathroom door behind her.

‘I don’t suppose it really matters,’ Anjali mutters under her breath.

My sari is laid out on the bed, and along with it a matching cream blouse and underskirt.

Now Priya’s not getting dressed up, I’m regretting saying I’d wear this sari, but Anjali’s gone to so much trouble I don’t see that I’ve got much choice. I
turn away from her and pull on the underskirt, tying it at the waist. I shrug off Priya’s cotton dressing gown and try on the blouse. I’m struggling with the little hooks and eyes at
the back, so Anjali comes over and helps me close them.