Jasmine Skies (3 page)

He nods and smiles as he keeps my hand in his, as if he can’t believe that we’re parting so soon.

I do feel a bit weirded out as I watch the old couple wheel their trolley away. That’s why the
tap, tap
on my shoulder makes me jump right out of my skin.

‘Sorry! I am wandering around looking for miniskirt, not Indian girl in traditional dress!’ Creepy Guard laughs at his own joke. ‘Your family are waiting for you, worrying
where you are. Baggage may be lost. Make some report. Better not wait more, or you may be lost too.’ He fires these orders at me, then goes off through customs. I suppose I have to follow
him.

Now he’s sitting behind a desk.

‘Probably your case is travelling in other direction,’ he chuckles, not exactly kindly.

I nod without looking at him and start to walk past.

‘One minute! Quick check of hand luggage,’ he demands.

I open my bag, feeling slightly sick that I have to let him paw over my belongings.

‘What is this?’ He asks, pulling out Mum’s letter album.

‘Personal letters,’ I explain.

He looks up at me with a mischievous glint in his eye and begins to pull them out one by one: photos, cards and letters. He lays them on his white Formica table, just for his own amusement, I
think. A photo of Mum and Aunt Anjali I’ve never seen before, hugging each other and grinning happily, catches my eye.

‘This is you?’ he asks.

‘My mum and aunt,’ I tell him.

‘Looks like you!’ He smirks, glancing down at my covered legs, as I gather up the letters and place them back in the album.

A few minutes ago I could have put these letters away forever, but now, after all that stuff with Grandad’s friend, and Creepy Guard putting them on display, it feels like I don’t
have much choice any more. There is no way I will be able to stop myself from reading them now. Bad karma or not.

As I walk through to Arrivals I hold on to my silver bracelet, twisting its small artichoke-heart charm round and round. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a mix-up of emotions as
I’m feeling right now, as I take my first steps into India on my own.

Meeting Priya

‘Mira! Mira!’

I suppose that must be Priya leaping up and down, hollering and waving. She looks nothing like she did last week on Skype . . . I’m sure she had long hair. As I draw nearer she vaults over
the barrier and sprints towards me with her arms opening into the widest and warmest of hugs. The tears that have been threatening to spill over for the last half-hour suddenly cascade down my
face. To meet a whole side of your family in the flesh, for the first time in your life, is the strangest feeling in the world, sort of like coming home.

Anjali steps forward and enfolds me in her graceful arms and the soft folds of her cotton sari. Her hair’s pulled back into a tight bun, and without wearing a spot of make-up she still
looks beautiful. She takes my head in her hands and studies my face. The tears are rolling down her cheeks too.

‘So pretty, like your ma at your age.’ She smiles at me and kisses my cheek. ‘We were getting so worried about you. How was your journey? Tiring, na?’ She sighs, wiping
my smudged eyeliner away.

‘Ha! You didn’t even recognize me!’ Priya laughs and scruffs up her hair, which is now a pixie crop with hennaed red tips. ‘And look at you, all trad! Anyone would think
I
am the London chick and you are the Hindu princess!’ Priya wafts my
chunni
scarf over my shoulder, blows an egg-sized gum bubble, then pops it with her tongue.

‘Priya!’ scolds Anjali.

‘Want some?’ Priya grins and hands me a piece.

The peppermint feels fresh and cool in my mouth. I can’t wait to brush my teeth properly.

‘Well, thank goodness you’re here safely. We thought you were lost, let me take . . . but where is your case?’ asks Anjali.

‘Is that
all
you brought?’ Priya gasps, taking my shoulder bag from me.

‘Priya! Give Mira a chance to breathe! You should know, Mira, that
all
of this –’ Anjali points to Priya’s hair, and then down to her skinny jeans and what look
like brand-new red Converse – ‘all of this is done in your honour!’

‘I was cutting my hair anyway, Ma. I told you that
ages
ago.’ Priya shrugs, then turns to me. ‘So where’s all your stuff?’

‘My case is missing.’

Anjali claps a hand to her forehead in a gesture of total despair. ‘Typical!’ she snaps and then strides over to an official. But, by her increasingly passionate hand gestures and
his crossed arms and shaking head, I can tell that she’s not having much luck. After a while she comes back towards us, smoothing her damp hair away from her face.

‘Don’t worry, Mira. If it doesn’t turn up, we have everything you need here. It’ll be a great hardship for her, but I am sure my Priya won’t mind taking you
shopping!’ Anjali laughs, trying to put a bright spin on things.

‘That’ll be
such
a chore! I hate shopping! But I suppose I
could
just make an exception for you, cous! I’ll take you to the mall. You’ll love it. All the
shops you’ve got in London and more!’ boasts Priya.

‘But I brought presents for you all.’ I can hear a wobble in my voice and I swallow hard.

‘Forget about presents!
You
are the present. Come on, you must be exhausted. Let’s take you home. I’ll call about the bag later.’ Anjali sighs, then walks towards
the exit, gesturing for me and Priya to follow.

I can’t bear the fact that all my clothes are missing. All the T-shirts Jidé’s given me – my favourite Banksy one, with the girl with the red balloon, and the one with
the peace sign on it that he bought for me in Brighton last summer. And
what
was I thinking, packing Jidé’s note in my case?! It seemed like a good idea because whenever
I’m feeling stressed I just read Jidé’s words and I can’t help feeling happy again. I miss him so much already . . . Even though I know it off by heart, if that
note’s lost I can never replace it. If he wrote me a new one, it wouldn’t be the same. Maybe losing it is some sort of payback for taking Mum’s letters.

‘What were you going to give me anyway?’ whispers Priya, breaking into my thoughts.

Anjali overhears her, then turns and shoots her an ‘I’ll deal with you later, look!’ I wonder if
all
mums, wherever you live, anywhere in the world, have the same silent
repertoire of reprimands.

Priya takes my arm and squeezes it tight. Walking arm in arm with her feels so natural, like we’ve been friends forever. It’s only now that I realize how nervous I’ve been
about meeting her, and Anjali, and how relieved I am that they’re so lovely.

A flock of tiny birds shoots ahead of us, swooping low; shaving the air millimetres from my head. I automatically duck down.

‘Only airport birds,’ says Priya. ‘They’re always passing through, just like all the other international travellers! That’s going to be me one day. New York, Paris,
London . . .’ She sighs as we watch the birds dart between people and luggage.

‘And I’m
never
having kids,’ announces Priya, shaking her head at a little girl who’s throwing a tantrum. Her mum looks exhausted. ‘Don’t see why I
should add to this crazy population! I’ll just travel, like you, Mira, free as a bird . . .’

Anjali smiles knowingly at Priya’s chatter. ‘Never is a very long time!’ she says, catching my eye. For a moment a look of sadness sweeps the smile from her face. She quickly
turns away and walks briskly towards the exit.

The electric doors open and I step out of the airport and into the fierce furnace of Kolkata. So the air-conditioning wasn’t broken after all. No amount of Mum warning me how hot it was
going to be and trying to persuade me that Christmas was a cooler time for me to come here could have prepared me for this. I open my mouth to gulp some air, but the heat’s already curling
its way down my throat. Only five steps out of the airport, and my face, back and legs are literally dripping with sweat.

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it,’ sighs Anjali, taking a handkerchief and wiping her own brow. She waves to the driver of a sparkling-clean white car that’s
drawing up next to us. A man with a head of thick silver hair jumps out and opens the boot. Anjali must be telling him that my case hasn’t turned up, because he shakes his head and slams the
boot closed again. Then he opens the back door and ushers me and Priya on to the wrinkly beige leather seats. Inside the car it smells of beeswax and incense.

‘This is our friend and sometimes driver, Manu,’ Anjali tells me. ‘Manu, this is my cousin’s daughter, Mira.’

‘Pleased to meet you, welcome to my Ambassador!’ he says, grinning widely.

Priya raises her eyes to the sky. ‘This car is Manu’s pride and joy!’ she whispers, stroking the seats in mock adoration.

The engine starts up, but just as we turn out of the airport and on to the main road, we find ourselves surrounded by traffic and splutter to a standstill.

‘I told you we should have taken the metro!’ Priya groans.

Manu calls someone on his mobile, tuts and then turns off his engine. ‘Apparently there’s been an accident on the road ahead of us.’ He sits with his arms folded on top of his
round tummy and closes his eyes.

Priya nudges me and grins in Manu’s direction. ‘He’s meditating.’ She says, ‘When the traffic moves off again, you have to tap him on the shoulder or he’d
just sit there all day!’

Priya’s English is almost perfect. I can’t believe she’s only fourteen and can already speak it so fluently. She goes to an American school where all the lessons are taught in
English. It makes me feel ashamed that I can hardly speak a word of Bengali.

‘And Ma’s taking relaxation lessons from him.’ Priya laughs, nodding towards Anjali, who also has her eyes closed.

‘Music’s
my
meditation,’ she goes on, taking out her iPod. ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours?’ She grins, holding out her hand for me
to pass over mine. I do and then she hands me hers.

I’ve got such a random collection on it, especially all the stuff that Jidé loaded on for me.
What’s
she’s going to think of me?

‘You might not like some of it.’ I say apologetically.

‘Maybe you won’t like mine either.’ Priya shrugs, plugging herself into my earphones.

I press shuffle, landing on something I’ve never heard before. It’s a mixture of street sounds, people talking and children playing, fusing into classical Indian music with a
dubstep, heavy bass thing building underneath.

‘That’s my own mix,’ says Priya, moving closer to me and listening in. ‘But check out some of Sukh Knight’s sounds – they’re totally awesome!’ She
takes an earphone and searches through for me, choosing more and more tunes for me to listen to. ‘And what about the Engine-earz . . . if only we could mix it up like them.’ She sighs
wistfully.

‘We?’

‘There’s a few of us experimenting with dubstep.’

‘I know people who listen to stuff like this for hours,’ I tell her, thinking about my friend Ben.

‘Been to Fabric or XOYO?’ she asks excitedly.

‘Not yet. I mostly do festivals!’ I tell her.

‘So we can go to Fabric together when I come to see you in London!’ She plugs herself back into my iPod and I realize that I haven’t got anything anywhere near as experimental
as this. What I do is get completely obsessed with one or two artists for a while – it’s Adele, Florence and Bombay Bicycle Club at the moment – then I sort of listen myself out
and start on someone new.

‘Joplin!’ says Priya, closing her eyes and waving her hands around in the air. She lifts her bum off the seat and gyrates her hips as she sings along, as if she’s in music
heaven. The suited man in the new-looking estate car that’s pulled up alongside the Ambassador is laughing his head off. Priya notices and pops a gum bubble towards his window, as a grand
finale. She just doesn’t care who’s watching her. I suppose, because I knew she was into classical dance, I thought she’d be all quiet and serious, but she’s the complete
opposite! I wonder what she thought I’d be like?

‘Soooooo retro! Haven’t heard this in
ages
!’ she sighs as she scrolls through the rest of my playlist. If I’d thought the first thing Priya would do was listen to
my iPod I would have cleaned it up a bit, but it’s too late now. She skips over all the mainstream stuff, but at least she seems to be finding some tracks she likes . . .

‘I’m not the best singer!’ she laughs, but she’s so confident it doesn’t even matter that much.

‘Jidé loaded that on for me before I left,’ I mumble.

‘Sounds like he doesn’t want you to forget him!’ Priya smiles and unplugs herself. ‘Mind you, from the Facebook photos I’ve seen of him, you’re not likely to
do that. He’s drop-dead gorgeous! Got any more pics?’

I rummage in my bag.

‘Nice camera,’ Priya says as I switch it on and scroll through a few photos I took of Jidé before I left. She wolf-whistles.

I can’t help laughing, because I know he’s good looking, but I just don’t go around saying it! I suppose we’ve been together for so long, sometimes I don’t even
think about what he looks like any more.