Jasmine Skies (5 page)

We turn into a wide tree-lined street with electricity lines strung between well-looked-after buildings, like wire bunting. I feel like I’ve stepped into a different world.

Anjali smiles. ‘Welcome to our neighbourhood.’

Priya’s Flat

We draw up outside a small apartment block with a wrought-iron arch, painted pale green, at the entrance. It looks quite retro, probably 1930s. Through the arch is a leafy
green garden that must be watered all the time to keep it looking so lush. A thin brown dog dozes on a metal swing chair.

When Priya flings open the door the dog springs up and bounds towards us.

‘Ah! Bacha, Bacha, Bacha!’ Priya giggles, stroking the little dog and snuggling it to her. ‘Bacha belongs to no one, but for some reason he thinks I’m his
owner!’

‘He recognizes a kindred spirit!’ Anjali smiles.

‘What? Moi? Very funny, Ma! “Bacha” means “naughty”!’ explains Priya.

We climb the stone steps to the second floor, where a metal balcony overlooks an enormous tree that has glossy green leaves and orange flowers. Its branches reach up and up to the top of the
three-storey block.

Priya and Anjali take their sandals off on a communal landing. I take mine off too.

‘Those are awesome!’ she says, picking up one of my Converse and inspecting it closely.

Jidé calls them my ‘hippy feet because of the hundreds of tiny flowers, hearts, rainbows, swirls, multicoloured bindi patterns . . . anything really I’ve doodled all over
them.

Priya puts my shoe back down and then places her hands on my shoulders and steers me through their front door and into an airy living room that has an archway off to the right. I look through
and see a tiny kitchen with silver and copper pots hanging from hooks all over the ceiling and walls. We walk past it and into the living area, which has two sofas, a dining table and also a little
computer desk, just like ours at home. I look behind it for the embroidered Rajasthani wall hanging that I saw when I Skyped Priya. And here it is, with its hundreds of tiny mirrors glinting back
at me. The difference is, now here
I
am, on
this
side of the screen, and that does feel quite weird. When you’re looking into a room from the other side of the world, you can
think that it’s just next door, but now home – Mum, Dad, Krish, Laila and Jidé – feel a million miles away.

What I couldn’t see through the screen, to the right of the hanging, is some beautiful French windows that open out on to a balcony shaded by a canopy of leaves. ‘That’s my
bedroom,’ says Anjali, pointing down a corridor.

‘By the way, Dinesh sends his love. He’s sorry to miss you, but he couldn’t rearrange his business trip. Anyway, hopefully this visit will be the first of many.’

Priya is walking further down the corridor.

‘There’s the bathroom, and
this
is our room,’ she says, pointing to the last remaining door. She grabs my hand and pulls me into her bedroom. ‘All mod cons here,
en-suite and everything,’ Priya jokes, opening a door into a tiny shower room.

I look up at the little window high above the bed, which is covered by a leaf-patterned metal grid. The combination of the leaves rustling on the tree outside, the ceiling fan whirring and the
cold marble under my bare feet make me feel sleepily calm.

‘She has the best view,’ says Anjali, peering through the window to the enormous tree outside.

‘Actually Janu’s got the best roof-top view!’ corrects Priya, pointing to the ceiling. Somehow I didn’t think of Janu as still living here because of working at the
refuge, but I suppose he must only be sixteen.

‘This flat’s an oasis from the heat and the chaos for all of us,’ says Anjali, walking into Priya’s room, ‘except for the racket that comes out of this room, of
course!’

‘I keep telling you it’s called
music
, Ma!’ Priya shakes her head.

‘Mira, maybe you want to shower before eating,’ suggests Anjali. ‘I expect you could do with getting out of those clothes too.’

I’m just about to tell her that it’s not long since I changed into them, but then I realize that my top is already damp with sweat. The thought of having a cool shower and fresh
clothes to step into is just about the best thing I can imagine right now.

‘Priya you’ll find something for Mira to wear?’ asks Anjali, wandering back into the living room. Priya casts Anjali a look as if to say, ‘Have you actually
seen
me compared to Mira?’ Priya is tiny. I’d say she’s smaller, and just as skinny, as my little brother Krish, who’s only twelve. Even though we’re the same age,
I’m about two heads taller than her but, as Jidé likes to point out, I’ve got curves. In fact I’m probably closer to Anjali’s size than to Priya’s.

When I first started to grow I was so embarrassed that I kept trying to cover up with big jumpers and cardigans, but then I sort of got used to myself. My best friend (after Jidé!),
Millie, and me made a pact that we weren’t going to get hung up on the whole weight thing. There are girls in my class who will actually make themselves faint from not eating. It’s so
weird that people can be starving all around the world, and then people I know starve themselves because they want to be a size zero. Anyway, as Jidé says, being obsessed with how you look
is about the most boring thing in the world. Even so, I would prefer it if I could borrow something of Priya’s, but her clothes just won’t fit me.

‘Maybe you could ask your mum if she’s got something she could lend me.’ I suggest.

‘Poor you! I’ll try to find something that’s not
too
awful!’ Priya mutters, wandering off towards her mum’s room.

The shower is icy bliss. I let the water run over my hair, face and body, washing away the journey with sandalwood soap and shampoo. The warm, spicy smell takes me to Nana
Josie’s flat. She’s burning sandalwood joysticks and dancing around the room with a paintbrush in her hand. The cold water streams over my face. I open my eyes to look down at the charm
bracelet Nana gave me when I was only twelve, just before she died . . . that seems like such a long time ago. At least I didn’t pack
this
away in my suitcase. I twist the little
artichoke charm around and around. Holding on to it makes me feel like everything’s going to be all right, just like Nana used to make me feel. It’s a strange thing, memory . . . People
say it fades over time, but I never want to forget the way she always used to know how I was feeling. The way I could always be myself around her.

I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a long white towel and twist a smaller one into a turban shape around my head. Then I take a hand towel and pat dry the tiny silver leaves of my charm. I
hear Nana’s voice in my head, talking about the layers of the heart and love. I suppose if you love people who have died, but you still love them as much as you did when they were alive, then
in your memory your love can actually keep them alive. Maybe that’s why I keep thinking of Grandad all the time. I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror, towel-turban wrapped
around my head. ‘Come on, Mira,’ I say to myself, ‘step into the room.’ That’s what Jidé always says to me when I’m daydreaming.

Priya has laid out a midnight-blue and silver salwar-kameez for me and some knickers (still in their packet). It didn’t even occur to me that I’d have to borrow
underwear.

‘Sorry about the pants – at least they’ve never been worn!’ Priya jokes. ‘First thing tomorrow, you and me are going shopping! But the salwar-kameez is OK. Ma says
she’s never worn it because the waist’s too tight for her.’

Priya’s tall wrought-iron bed is like a work of art, with silk and mirrored cushions and bolsters at either end that make it look like a sofa. It’s covered by the most beautiful
quilt, made out of hundreds of random shaped pieces of cotton and silk, all different colours. Each bit of material is stitched together using an intricate pattern. When I think how long it took me
to sew a bookmark in cross-stitch for Mum once, I can’t imagine how many hours it would have taken to make this quilt.

‘You can sleep on my bed, and I’ll sleep down here.’ Priya points to a roll-down mattress on the floor. ‘I don’t sleep much anyway! I’ll leave you to
it,’ she says, closing the door behind her. I think she can tell, even though I’m trying to put a brave face on it, what a nightmare it is for me not having my own things.

I quickly dry myself and put on more deodorant – I’m starting to feel a bit paranoid about ‘glowing’ on this trip! I step into Anjali’s cotton trousers, tying them
with the drawstring at the waist. They’re tight at the bottom and they cling to my calves and ankles. Next I tug the long blouse over my head, and zip it up at the side. It’s fitted at
the waist. I walk into the bathroom. There’s no full-length mirror, but standing on my tiptoes, from what I can see, it actually fits. I smile at myself in the mirror, I’m still getting
used to the sight of me with no brace. It’s like I’ve been hiding behind it for so long that now it’s not part of me any more I feel a bit exposed. I tie my wet hair back into a
scruffy ponytail and walk out into the living room.

Priya whistles at me and looks down at my legs. ‘Love the churidar. You look amazing!’

I can feel myself blushing at the compliment.

‘What a figure!’ says Anjali, standing between me and Priya and wrapping an arm around each of our shoulders. ‘My beautiful girls . . . I told Uma, while you’re here,
Mira, you’re like a second daughter to me. There is
nothing
you can’t ask of me, OK?’

‘OK!’ I say, wondering what would happen if I came straight out with the questions I asked Mum a few days ago. ‘How come you two lost touch for so long?’ I ask the
question in my head and it seems to hang in the air, waiting to be answered.

Priya and I sit on the benches around the little wooden table, drinking hot sweet chai as Anjali lays out a feast. There are spicy chickpeas, rice, dhal, fried fish, samosas, chapattis and
yogurt. My mouth waters and I eat until the fitted waist of Anjali’s top feels a bit tighter than it did half an hour ago! Then, as if she’s been waiting for this moment, Priya jumps up
from the table and produces a platter of sweets.

‘In honour of Mira!’ She starts tucking in.

Anjali taps her hand and tuts. ‘At least tell Mira what’s on offer before you wade in.’

Actually I know most of them, rosogolla, sandesh, jalebi, ladoo . . .

‘What’s this?’ I ask, picking up a small clay pot.

‘Mishti doi – sweet yogurt,’ Priya mumbles through a mouthful of the set creamy yogurt, the kind that Nana used to make for Grandad by straining the curd through muslin.

‘Don’t forget you have to dance in a few minutes,’ Anjali reminds her, ‘so don’t eat too much.’

‘Please, Ma! Can’t I just have
today
off!’ pleads Priya.

‘You know you can’t. It’s too close to the gala,’ says Anjali sternly.

Even though Anjali’s really kind, she’s got this bright, sharp look about her that makes me think she could be quite tough if she wanted to be. I suppose, doing the work she does at
the refuge, she has to be strong.

Priya sighs and takes her left hand in her right, as if she’s battling with herself . . . her right hand tempted to grab a sweet; her left hand holding her in check.

‘OK, OK! But save some for me!’ She laughs ‘I’ll be back in about two hours.’ She grabs a bag and dances out of the door.

I get up and start to clear away the pots, but Anjali puts her hand on mine to stop me.

‘Not today!’ She smiles. ‘You must rest now.’

I feel like I should argue with her, but I’m suddenly so tired that I know that if I don’t lie down soon, I’ll keel over.

‘We’ll Skype your ma later to tell her you’re here safe and sound,’ Anjali says, pointing towards the computer.

I nod and wander through to the bedroom. That’s something I’m not looking forward to. I don’t know if I can face Mum yet. The only person I really want to talk to right now is
Jidé.

Priya’s Room

I really love the colours of this flat: pale greens and lilac blues. Priya’s room is a sort of mint green.

If Priya was a colour she would
definitely
be peppermint. I don’t know what I was expecting of her, but it wasn’t this punchy peppermint Priya, all fresh and sparky and full
of surprises!