Jasmine Skies (13 page)

When Janu comes back into the room he comes straight over to me.

‘He’s very weak. Ninety-eight years old, you know. But he was so keen to meet you.’ Janu’s looking into my eyes again. I can feel that blush starting to travel up my
neck.

‘Thanks for lending me the paints,’ I blurt out.

‘It’s nothing. You have paper?’

I shake my head, realizing I forgot to buy any at the mall.

‘No problem. I can bring some,’ he says, still gazing into my eyes.

Suddenly Priya springs in between us, and I silently thank her.

‘So, what adventures are you planning for us while Mira’s here?’ she asks Janu.

I hadn’t counted on spending any time at all with Janu, but with the paints and now the flowers and the art paper, he already seems to be part of everything.

For the rest of the night all I can think about is how weird Jidé’s going to think I am for not having told him that Janu lives with Priya’s family. As if I was trying to
cover something up, when the truth is I just didn’t think about it. After all, Janu’s at the refuge more than he’s here. But what if Jidé thinks I kept it from him on
purpose?

It’s late and most of the guests have left now, and Janu has gone up to his balcony room. ‘Do you mind if I go and lie down for a while?’ I ask Anjali. I am so tired all of a
sudden.

‘No, no. You’re probably still jetlagged! Priya will help me clear up, you go and have some sleep,’ she says gently, steering me towards the bedroom.

Jidé is standing at the end of my bed.

‘So you’ve lost my note,’ he says.

‘It was in my case.’ I tell him.

‘But you’ll get it back?’ he persists.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s lost then.’ He sighs, turning and walking away.

The tears are rolling down my cheeks.

‘But I know all the words off by heart . . .’ I call after him.

He doesn’t turn around.

My pillow’s soaked. I look over at Priya’s bed, but she’s already up. It’s a relief she’s not here to see me in such a state. I don’t think
I’ve ever cried in my sleep before, but that dream about Jidé was so real and horrible, and I’ve woken up feeling so muddied with guilt, even though I haven’t done anything
wrong. Except for . . . how can I start to explain the way I felt the moment I saw Janu, because the truth is I’ve never felt anything like that for anyone before.

I don’t even want to think about yesterday. Even saying Janu’s name feels like I’m betraying Jidé. I’ve read about this sort of thing a million times in books and
seen films, when people meet and there’s something instant between them, some sort of pull that they don’t understand . . . supposedly like Cathy and Heathcliff in
Wuthering
Heights
, (I read it from cover to cover on the plane). But I’m not sure that I believe in ‘love at first sight’ . . . that being ‘meant for each other’ stuff.
Life’s not like it is in books and films, is it? You don’t actually have to
do
anything about those sorts of feelings, do you? I mean, that’s the whole point of being
human. We can reason so we don’t have to let our emotions take over.

Anyway, you can’t betray someone by just
thinking
about someone else, can you? No one knows me better than he does, and probably no one knows him better than I do. I’m being
ridiculous even thinking about Janu, he must think I’m so immature, blushing up bright red and not being able to talk to him! He probably just sees me as Priya’s little cousin. And, as
soon as I can, I’ll tell him all about Jidé. Maybe Priya’s already told him?

I go over to the bathroom and blow my nose, staring at the red-eyed me in the mirror. I splash some cold water on my face and try to wash away the smears of guilty tears. When I’m in this
sort of mood the only thing to do is escape into my art . . . just lose myself in colours and shapes. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me; my head’s so stuffed full of pictures I
need to get them out, but I’ve got nothing to paint on.

I take out my notebook and start scribbling down some words, just stuff that’s going round and round in my head. Somehow just playing with words on a page and making them sound right
together helps to calm me down. After about a hundred crossings out I only get this far:

My stomach rumbles. I put on Priya’s dressing gown and go into the living room to find a feast laid out on the table.

Normally I have toast or cereal for breakfast, but here there are curd sweets, mango slices and doi yogurt, puri and aloo. As I bite into a piece of mango I notice a note propped up against a
vase.

It’s actually a relief to be on my own after all the busyness of yesterday. I glance at the clock and see that it’s already ten. I can’t believe I’ve
slept for so long. I help myself to a puri stuffed with aloo, still hot from the warming plate.

There’s a gentle knock at the front door of the flat. I get up from the table and walk towards it, but then pause, wondering if I should open it.

‘Hello?’ I call out.

‘It’s Janu,’ comes the low lilting voice from the other side of the door.

My heart’s racing again and my face and neck are turning crimson. I will my cheeks to cool before I open the door. Janu’s standing with a scroll of paper and a sketchbook under his
arms. He’s slightly out of breath, as if he’s been running.

‘I brought you this paper and book from the refuge,’ he says, pushing his hair away from his face.

I can’t think of what to say. I feel like I can’t move.

‘I’m thinking you might want to do some painting?’ he prompts, holding the paper towards me.

‘Thanks. It’s really kind of you,’ I say, taking the scroll from him. He must think I’m dim.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘No tears?’

My eyes are still puffy from crying.

‘Just tired,’ I lie, finally finding my voice.

‘Probably this heat. Sorry, I have to go back now. Today is too much happening. You’ll come soon to see. I will show you around so you can meet the staff and children. They are so
looking forward to your artistic project!’ He smiles.

‘Me too.’ I smile back at him, but it’s only half true. I do want to see the refuge, but it’s also been niggling at me since I got here. It was so easy to
say
I’d come up with a project to get time out of school, but now that I’m here I can’t even begin to imagine standing in front of a class of children. Compared to the children
I’ve already seen here living on the streets, what have I experienced that would make me qualified to teach them anything?

‘Priya tells me you are talented artist,’ says Janu.

‘Not really!’ My voice comes out too high-pitched. Why can’t I just be normal with him?

‘I also like art, especially working with wood – making things and carving. Anyway, I must go now,’ he says, looking straight into my eyes, just as he did last night.

‘Thanks for these!’ I tell him, lifting up the paper scroll and sketch pad.

‘Not a problem,’ he says.

I close the door and breathe out, looking down at myself. I’d completely forgotten I’m still wearing Priya’s dressing gown. Janu has probably been up for hours working . . .
I’m not even dressed and I’m telling him
I’m
tired! He must think I’m so lazy.

I walk through to the bedroom and place the handmade paper on the low table beside the bed. It fits perfectly, but it’s curled up at the ends and needs something to weigh it down. I run my
fingers over the slightly bumpy surface; it’s as if it’s ingrained with some sort of hair. I’ve never painted on anything like it before. I walk over to Priya’s trophy
cupboard with the idea I can use her dance trophies as weights, but then the carved wooden edges of the border give me an idea of how to begin this painting. Working out how to start is always the
hardest part. I pick up the paper and take a charcoal rubbing of the carved pattern around the outside of the cupboard. At first I think I’ll use it as a border, like a picture frame, but I
love the effect so much I decide to make it the background of the whole painting, like a textured wash under everything. It looks a bit like ancient peeling wallpaper.

I think about Grandad’s brother, Shudi, who carved this cupboard so long ago, yet there’s still something of him here to trace. I plug in my iPod, turn up the volume and let the
music flood my mind. I let a drop of deep red paint splash into the middle of the paper and watch it seep into the texture and spread, like blood through a bandage. Then I take a fine brush and
trail blood lines all over the page.

I don’t really think about what I’m going to paint. I just sketch in the things and people that pop into my mind . . . a suitcase floating in space, the old couple kissing at the
airport, Dust Boy . . . ‘Ma’am, ma’am, little money, ma’am . . .’ I can still hear his voice echoing around my head. I draw School Girl in her clean uniform, sitting
under her blue tarpaulin; then I add her mother plaiting her daughter’s hair. Next comes the great glass dome of the mall, with Manu’s Ambassador parked outside, Branded Woman and her
baby peering in through the window. I draw Priya and me dancing on her bed, and the sari shop with Anjali holding up a piece of cream silk. Then I sketch a sari cupboard, and in the door I place a
little silver key with a heart-shaped end, just as Anjali described it in her letter. I take out all of Shudi’s rainbow paints and the finest brush I can find, and brush stroke by brush
stroke, line by line, fold by fold, I fill the cupboard with saris and even manage to paint in the detail of some lace-like border patterns in gold and silver.

Priya bounds into the room and I pull out my earphones. I have no idea how long I’ve been working on this.

‘OMG, have you done all that in half a day?!’ asks Priya.

‘I’m just sketching really,’ I tell her.

‘That’s not what
I
call sketching. Wait till Janu sees this! Serious talent! You’ll never get away from teaching at the refuge,’ she says, taking the paintbrush
out of my hand and springing a great big cousin hug on me.

Human Garlands

There’s no fan in the yellow cab we’ve jumped into, and the driver refuses to have the windows open because of the pollution, which is really bad today. After being
stuck in here for about half an hour I feel like I’m cooking. Even Priya keeps fanning herself.

As soon as the oven doors of the cab are thrown open I take a deep breath of hot air, scented with the sweet smell of roses and petrol fumes. We stand under the vast metal arches of the Howrah
Bridge, where thousands of people and vehicles of every kind are crossing back and forth as if they’re taking part in some epic choreographed dance. This place makes the middle of London look
like the countryside!

I look down at the water flowing slowly under the bridge. I love the feeling of being this close to the river. It’s like in London when you walk along the Thames – the city suddenly
feels rooted. The water keeps on flowing, and no matter how important people might think they are, the river was there before them and it will be there after them, flowing on and on through time. I
look down at the wide brown river as boats of every size – from great metal tankers to tiny rowing boats with colourful bunting flags – pass along the river. There’s so much I
don’t know about this city. Today I read in my guide book that the River Hooghly was a tributary of the holy River Ganges. I read about those ‘ghats’ too – the steps that
lead right down to the water’s edge, where people are washing their clothes and bathing.

‘I wouldn’t recommend it!’ Priya laughs as we watch a bare-chested man walk into the murky brown water. ‘But this you’ve got to see!’ She grabs me by the hand
and leads me down some steep concrete steps and along a pathway. A smell of roses fills the air, getting stronger and stronger. And then I’m in among a festival of flowers and people.

‘How do you like the flower market?’ asks Priya.

‘I love it!’

‘Thought you would!’ She smiles, looking pleased with herself that she chose the right place to bring me to.

I take out my sketchbook and try to capture anything that grabs my attention, which is just about everything: a baby peering over her mother’s shoulder, wearing a crown of pink and white
roses in her hair; ancient hands stringing a garland of marigolds; a young girl in a bright pink salwar-kameez, her bare feet planted among a mountain of yellow flowers; a teenage boy who is
smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings in our direction.

‘Why don’t you take photos?’ asks Priya, leaning over my shoulder and watching me sketch.