Jasmine Skies (12 page)

‘You know, Mira, you coming here has brought back so many memories of your ma and me when we were your age.’ Anjali wraps the silk sari around me, tucks it at the waist and starts to
fold in the tiny pleats. She’s lost somewhere deep in her own thoughts as she readjusts the folds she’s already made and half unravels the silk again; folding, pleating and undoing,
tutting and starting again – folding, pleating and undoing once more, even though it looks perfect to me every time.

‘I think this is finally coming better now,’ she says, standing back to admire her work. ‘You were right, Mira – the detail on this pallu is gorgeous!’ She smiles
as she drapes the long piece of cloth over my shoulder.

‘I love vintage clothes,’ I tell her.

‘What is this “vintage”?’ Anjali asks.

‘Old things. My Nana Josie loved them too,’ I say, looking down at the silver charm on my wrist.

‘Ah! Acha, antique,’ she says, inspecting my charm. ‘Very pretty. What is it?’

‘An artichoke heart,’ I tell her.

‘I see. Layers of leaves . . . beautiful heirloom.’ Anjali sighs, sitting down on the bed and stroking Priya’s sari quilt. I see her eyes are glistening with tears.

‘Mira, our whole family is charmed by your visit, especially my ma,’ Anjali continues, opening her arms. I walk into them and she holds me close. I can feel the emotion welling up
inside her.

Priya springs into the room wrapped in a towel.

‘What do you think of Mira?’ Anjali asks her, pulling me gently to my feet.

‘Very traditional. But rather you than me!’ Priya has an amused expression on her face as she wriggles into her skinny jeans and pulls on a bright red T-shirt with a black star print
all over it.

‘Well, I think she looks gorgeous!’ says Anjali. ‘Wait! Let me take a photo of the two of you for Uma!’ She goes off to find her camera.

I slip my feet into the pretty leather sandals she brought for me. She says they’re made by the children in the refuge. I can’t believe that the youngest sandal maker’s only
seven.

‘You look like a proper traditional girl,’ says Priya. ‘Janu will approve. He’s into homespun!’ She grins and picks up the edge of my sari, inspecting the border
pattern more closely. Something about the way she talks about Janu makes me feel slightly nervous, like it’s important to her that he likes me.

I can hear people arriving and the sound of voices filling up the flat.

‘Let’s get this party started!’ laughs Priya as she walks towards the living room. I take a deep breath and then follow her.

As soon as I enter, people start to hug me and – Priya was right – squeeze my cheeks! There’s a whirlwind of introductions and then I hear a high-pitched voice screeching my
name. Her arms are flung into the air in greeting – here comes Lila with a huge smile on her face. It’s four years since I saw her, but so much has happened since then. Nana Josie dying
and now Grandad Bimal . . . Lila walks straight up to me, chattering away as she smoothes her fingers over my brow. She’s saying my name, and she’s running her hands over my shoulders
and down to my waist as if she can’t believe how much I’ve changed. She says, ‘Kath, Laila baby, Uma, Sam . . . Krishan . . .’ I know she’s asking after everyone at
home, and the very last name she says is ‘Bimal’ . . . as the tears roll down her cheeks. Even though I can’t understand what she’s saying now, I can tell that she’s
trying to find some of Grandad in my face, just like his friend Nayan did at the airport. When Lila’s finished inspecting me she moves on to my sari.

‘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 . . .