Jasmine Skies (21 page)

‘You’ll feel OK in a minute once you’ve had some sweet tea. I’m sorry Sunil frightened you. I’ve been working with him for weeks now. I would never have expected
that from him. Strangely, he does know a surprising amount about medicine. I was examining one child and I couldn’t believe Sunil knew stuff about the human eye I didn’t learn until I
started university. He says he’s got his own textbooks and a tutor. He told me his parents had an Ayurvedic stall, so he probably learned from them.’

‘What happened to them?’ I ask, taking a calming sip of chai.

‘There was a fire in their roadside business and they were killed. Sunil tried to save them. He was badly hurt in the fire – he had extensive burns, he showed me his scars –
but he told me that he treated his wounds himself using the medicine he saved from their stall. Poor boy, you know he’s probably still traumatized and pretending to know your Grandad may be a
cry for help, a way to impress you.’ Lal sighs and pats me on the arm, ‘I’d better get back to work.’

I sit at the table and finish my chai, wondering how on earth I’m going to be able to teach anyone anything, feeling this shaky. I was nervous enough already.

Janu walks into the room and sits next to me. ‘I haven’t missed your project, have I? Some possible funders from one of Kolkata’s multinational digital companies are looking
around today. We’re hoping they’re going to set up a computer room. You don’t mind if they pop in?’

I shake my head. I can’t exactly refuse, can I? ‘I’m about to start,’ I tell him, trying to steady my voice.

‘Ah! There you are!’ says Nili, popping her head around the door. ‘The rubbish is all washed! We’re ready for you.’

‘Sounds interesting!’ Janu smiles encouragingly as we all walk towards the art room together. The noise coming from the room is deafening. My legs are still wobbly and I feel as if
my every move is being followed by Nili and Janu and all these expectant faces. I can’t believe how many children have turned up – maybe fifty, ranging from about two to fourteen. How
am I ever going to explain this project? What if they hate it? What if they all feel like Spitting Boy and think the whole idea is a waste of time?

The children are all sitting on mats on the floor, each holding on to a piece of cleaned street rubbish. There are two chairs at the front of the room. Nili sits on one, and gestures for me to
sit down next to her. I notice that someone has set up a row of chairs by the door. I suppose those must be for the funders. Please, please, please, I beg Notsurewho Notsurewhat, don’t let
them have time to come in here. How bad would I feel if I messed this up and it made them think twice about funding the computer room? You couldn’t get more low-tech than what I’m
planning to do, so I don’t see how any of this is going to impress them.

‘You want me to take a video?’ asks Janu. I reluctantly pass him my camera. I suppose I did promise my school that I’d document the project, but to be honest, it’s the
last thing I need right now.

Janu walks to the back of the classroom, chatting to some of the children as he goes. Some of them hang on to his legs and others high-five him. He leans against the wall, and switches on the
camera. Janu takes a few photos of the children around the room, and then I see him flick the switch to video. The red light blinks at me.

Nili raises both hands in the air and gradually the children nudge each other and look our way. There is silence in the room now and I don’t know how to start. My heart is beating hard and
I suddenly feel sorry for my teachers.

‘Over to you!’ whispers Nili, just as the smart-looking funders file in and sit down on the waiting seats.

My whole body is shaking with nerves. I take a deep breath and hope that my voice isn’t going to shake too.

‘Hi! Amar naam Mira,’ I say. I
really
wish I’d planned this better. I’ve seen teachers’ lesson plans on the table that look like military operations; now I
know why.

A few children giggle at my accent. Tooth-Fairy Girl jumps up in excitement, saying my name over and over, and that sets all the other children off laughing.

‘She’s excited because her name’s Mira too!’ Nili explains.

I look at this little girl with her eyes full of hope and the bloody gap between her teeth, and my mind goes completely blank. Spitting Boy scowls at me, and there’s a general level of
children shuffling around and starting up conversations again. I know I have to say something else quickly before I lose them completely. I look out at all the faces and see that Janu has lowered
the camera. I can’t read the expression in his eyes, but the lines on his forehead are set in deep furrows. He’s probably regretting asking me to work with the children in the first
place, especially in front of these VIPs. The thought of letting him down makes me feel sick.

Nili touches me on my arm as if to remind me where I am.

‘Would you like
me
to explain the project?’ Nili whispers, glancing over towards the funders and looking a bit concerned.

I touch Nana Josie’s artichoke-heart charm, twisting it around and around, and I start speaking. ‘I got the idea for this project when Janu and I were walking in the streets and I
saw children collecting rubbish, scrabbling among the dirt . . . and I started to think about how different the life of those children is to, say, my little sister’s life in London.’ I
take another deep breath as the children start to hush and face forward again.

Nili looks a bit surprised, but then she starts to translate. I hear some of the children muttering, ‘Janu Dada,’ and looking back at him as they hear his name. He smiles and
gestures for them to turn around and listen to me. Talk from the heart, I tell myself as I try to steady my voice.

‘I think children everywhere have “tender loving hearts”,’ I say, twisting the charm on my wrist as I remember Nana Josie’s words. ‘And they should be looked
after and protected, not treated like rubbish on the street.’

It’s good to have the time to work out what I’m going to say next as Nili translates.

‘I saw a little girl with no clothes on sorting through rubbish, and I wondered what she wished for . . . what her dreams for her life were.’

I glance up at Janu and he’s pointing the camera back at me. I look away from him before I lose my nerve. As I wait for Nili to repeat my words I look around the room at the reactions of
the children, and they are definitely listening now. I dare to glance over at the funders out of the corner of my eye. One of the young slick-looking suited women is smiling with real emotion in
her eyes. As Nili finishes, the children’s attention turns from her to me.

‘I love painting and drawing, so I thought if this rubbish could be made into something beautiful with the dreams and wishes of the child–artists written on each piece, then people
might be touched and pay some money towards each wish coming true.’

Nili looks over to me as if she’s expecting me to say something else, but that’s all I can think of at the moment. She must be asking the children if they have any questions because
Spitting Boy’s hand shoots up. I feel my heart racing as he stands up to talk. We must be about the same age, and he probably resents me just for being me, and having the life I have, which I
don’t blame him for. I glance up at Janu as the boy talks and he is nodding as if he agrees with whatever the boy’s saying. When he’s finished speaking Spitting Boy sits back down
as the children start to clap. I notice Janu claps too, and the scowl on the boy’s face softens.

Nili translates, and as she does I make myself look the boy straight in the eye.

‘This is Kal, he says, “I thought your idea was rubbish at first. I have had enough of collecting rubbish and being treated like rubbish. I’ve been collecting since I could
walk. But now I think your idea is good because it should make people feel guilty to treat children like rubbish. Some of these tourists who buy from the shop will have children of their own and it
will make them think . . . that we are not rubbish . . . that we have wishes and dreams too. All of these children have ambitions. I want to wear a smart suit and work in one of the big new
computer companies, like these people,”’ Nili finishes, pointing to the funders.

I look at Kal and he stares back. There is an understanding between us that wasn’t there an hour ago. I want him to know that I care. Janu stands up, walks to the front and pats Kal on the
back in a brotherly gesture. Then he turns to me and smiles.

‘If I have time, I might make a street wish of my own,’ says Janu, handing me my camera, then walking out with the funders.

I’m so relieved it went well and that Kal isn’t angry with me any more. It feels like the best way to start the project is to make my own street wish. I take a plastic Coke bottle
and walk over to the wall of drawers. I decide to decorate the bottle with sequins. Then I make a paper scroll that I’ll attach to the lid, so when someone opens it they can pull out my
message in a bottle. Some of the older children gather around as I work. They start talking, sounding excited – I suppose they’re bouncing ideas off each other – and soon they
take a few of the younger children off and help them to make a start. I’ve never thought about this before, but there is something really lovely about people of different ages working
together, helping each other out. No one being the boss. Kal stands over me, watching me work and asks Nili a question.

‘He wants to know what your wish is,’ she says.

I unravel the little scroll I’ve made to fit inside the bottle. I write:

Nili reads my wish and Kal smiles at me. ‘What’s your wish?’ I ask him.

‘I wish I could
write
a wish!’ He sighs and wanders off.

I hadn’t even thought of that. Of course, some of these children are too young to write, but some of them, like Kal, just haven’t had the opportunity to learn. I should have thought
about that.

I wander around the room to see what everyone else is making and to take some photos. Little hands that are normally scrabbling in rubbish are now painting, drawing and sticking on sequins. The
room is full of children laughing and chatting. I feel so ridiculously happy: that an idea that’s come from me, Mira Levenson, could actually bring some happiness to these children who have
such hard lives. Nili walks around with me and writes down the wishes for the children who can’t write. She translates every wish into English too – ‘for the tourists,’ she
tells me.

We walk down the rows of glittering street wishes. I bend down to little Mira, who is just finishing hers off. She has spent over two hours decorating a matchbox with feathers.
She opens the outer box and inside is a smaller one completely covered in pink sequins. She hands it to me to open. Sitting on a little soft cushion of cloth is her newly extracted rotten
tooth!

Nili asks what her wish is, but before she can answer I jump in.

‘Her wish is that the tooth fairy will come – am I right?’

Nili translates, and the little girl nods and giggles.

‘Come on, let’s take a break.’ Nili’s smiling.

I nod. I’m tired, but it’s a good tiredness, as if I’ve done something worth sweating for. I think of what Jidé says about ‘girls glowing, not sweating’ and
smile. Because I actually do feel like I’m glowing with happiness inside. I’m glad this has been caught on video now, so that I can show Jidé. He would love this place.

We leave the street wishes to dry and go through to the canteen, where some of the children are already eating. I sit with Nili and we tuck into more simple rice and dhal. Lal and Sunil walk in
and my stomach tenses.

‘I told Janu what happened with Sunil. He’s spoken to him and Sunil wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to frighten you,’ says Lal. Sunil is talking
urgently, but Lal doesn’t translate; instead he keeps shaking his head as if to say, ‘I’m not telling her that.’ Nili looks from Sunil to me as if she doesn’t
understand what’s going on. She says something to Sunil in her soft, firm voice and he stands up and leaves.

‘What did he want you to tell me?’ I ask Lal quietly.

‘He said to ask you how many hands it takes to clap. He kept saying, “Tell her . . . she knows . . . It takes two hands to clap!”’

My whole body shudders. ‘My grandad used to say that whenever my brother and me had fights.’

‘We always tell this to children when they argue.’ Nili shrugs. ‘It takes two to make an argument. Two hands to clap. One hand only is silence! Talking of hands . . . we could
do with some help to carry the street wishes to the shop.’

Nili, Lal and I carefully carry the children’s artwork through and start to hang all the wishes on the carved tree. When we’ve finished we step back to admire it. Janu walks into the
shop with a look of sadness on his face.