Jasmine Skies (9 page)

The words of Anjali’s letters scroll down and down through my mind, and somewhere in my gut I know that the answers to my questions are buried in the house in Doctor’s Lane.

Abra-Kadamba

I look over to Priya’s empty bed, with the covers thrown back. By the light coming through the window it feels quite late. The last thing I remember hearing is the dawn
chorus in the tree outside the window.

‘Get down, Bacha!’ I hear Priya shout from outside.

I stand on her bed and watch Bacha’s front legs resting on Priya’s shoulders as he dances around the garden with her!

‘Hi!’ I call from the window.

‘Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes!’ Priya pushes Bacha off her and legs it up the stairs. The way she runs at everything reminds me of my brother Krish. As she disappears up the second
flight of stairs I reach out to touch the spreading leaves of the tree.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ says Anjali, coming into the room. She places a hand on my shoulder and sits on the edge of the bed beside me. ‘You know, that was the reason we
bought this flat.’

‘What kind of tree is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s called a Kadamba – a tree of truth . . . people say it even has some health-giving properties. Every day I wake up I’m thankful to live under its shade – it
makes me feel so far away from all the chaos of the city.’

‘It’s my magic tree!’ says Priya, springing into the room and launching herself, limbs splaying in all directions, on to her bed. ‘Abra-Kadamba! Make a wish, Mira, a
secret wish.’

I wish . . . I wish that I get to see the house in Doctor’s Lane.

Anjali takes my hand and one of Priya’s. She has an effortless warmth about her that you’re just drawn towards.

‘I used to make up stories about the magic powers of the Abra-Kadamba for little Priya,’ says Anjali, ‘because I could never get her to sleep. Still can’t! What are you
organizing now?’ she asks Priya, but she’s completely zoned out as her fingers move at lightning speed over the keypad of her mobile phone. She’s the fastest texter I’ve
ever seen!

‘No, Priya’s never been much of a sleeper. Even now, she’d spend half the night texting her friends if I’d let her!’ Anjali confides in me. ‘Who are you
texting?’ she asks, tapping Priya on the shoulder to get her attention.

‘Just arranging for the others to meet us at the mall later,’ Priya says, throwing her mobile on the bed.

‘Sari shopping first, for Mira’s welcoming party, remember?’ Anjali reminds Priya as she wanders out of the bedroom.

‘Ma’s got it into her head that you’d like to go to one of those Park Street sari shops. I don’t know why. I could understand it if your ma was here, but it’s not
as if you’re going to wear a sari, is it? Just say the word and I’ll put her off,’ Priya whispers.

‘I don’t mind what I do,’ I say with a shrug. I feel like my little sister, Laila, when I take her to a toyshop! I just want to see everything. I’m actually really
looking forward to seeing all that coloured cloth in the same place. I imagine it would be like walking through Mr Bird’s art shop, which is one of my favourite things to do at home. I love
just taking in all the colours. But I don’t want Priya to think I’m weird!

‘Ma’s just desperate to show you off to Didima and Prem uncle and all the cousins. Are you sure you’re up to all the admiration?!’ Priya laughs and squeezes one of my
cheeks.

Anjali reappears in the doorway holding an old wooden case the size of a tool box. It’s covered in smears of paint.

‘Janu thought you might want to borrow these to make up for losing your case,’ she says, placing the box on the low wooden table. She undoes the rusty catch and opens the lid to
reveal pastels, charcoals, gouache and oil paints all neatly arranged in a colour-coded rainbow arc.

‘These belonged to your grandad’s brother, Shudi.’

‘The one who carved the door . . . Grandad used to talk about?’ I ask, probably a bit too keenly.

Anjali nods. ‘He made so many pieces of beautiful furniture. It’s a shame we don’t have more.’

‘Ma . . . Mira wants to see the house. I’ll take her if you want,’ offers Priya in the gentlest of voices, as if she’s afraid of upsetting her.

Two deep furrows appear between Anjali’s eyes. ‘There are so many places to take you, Mira. That old house is nothing like it used to be. It’s just a ruin now. No point going
there.’

‘It’s just . . . Grandad was always talking about it . . . and Mum does too sometimes,’ I lie.

Anjali’s expression suddenly hardens. ‘Well, it’s a very long time since your mum or grandad saw that house,’ she snaps.

Something about the way her mood has switched reminds me of Mum, the day she snatched her letters away from me. I’m not going to argue with Anjali, but the truth is, ever since Grandad
started telling me stories of living in that house I’ve wanted to see it.

Anjali takes a deep breath before she speaks, as if she’s trying to compose herself. ‘You know, Mira? My Uncle Shudi left his art box to me – in those days I was a keen artist.
Priya’s not interested and so Janu uses them now, but he says you’re welcome to use them while you’re here.’ She’s staring down at the box. ‘You can buy a
sketchbook and some paper when you go shopping later.’ Her voice sounds a bit shaky. She smoothes her hands over and over the quilt on Priya’s bed as if touching it calms her.

‘We’re not doing
that
sort of shopping, Ma!’ Priya groans.

‘There’ll be time for everything!’ Anjali says with a sigh, a sharp edge creeping back into her voice. Then she smiles and turns to me. ‘Sorry, Mira. Priya always acts as
if the world’s about to come to an end today.’

‘Fine, we’ll buy some paper, but I’m
not
having a new sari dress or anything. All I need is a new pair of skinny jeans, maybe some trainers and a few CDs.’

‘Is that
all
?’ Anjali laughs. ‘Remember you’re supposed to be shopping for Mira! I washed that orange salwar-kameez for you last night, Mira, so at least
you’ll have something of your own to wear until you get some new clothes.’

‘Thank you.’ I could put on my miniskirt, but after Creepy Guard staring at me I’ve sort of been put off wearing it.

Anjalia walks out of the room and Priya calls after her, ‘Ma, just so you know, I’m
not
buying anything trad!’ It’s weird watching the two of them locked in all
these little tug of wars that are so like Mum’s and mine.

I take out one of the paints and squeeze a tiny bit of gold on to my finger. I wonder if these were the same colours used on the door in Doctor’s Lane. What did Anjali write that the
colours were? Orange, green and gold. The same faded colours as on Priya’s trophy cupboard. They must have been Shudi’s favourites.

‘Typical of Janu.’ Priya sighs. ‘So thoughtful, but I don’t know when he thinks you’ll have time to use this stuff. Kolkata is for experience. You can take
photographs and paint them when you get home!’

I nod as I place the gold paint back in the box and close the little rusty catch. I can tell that Priya doesn’t want me to spend time painting when I could be chatting with her, but if I
had some paper or a canvas here right now, I don’t know if I would be able to resist trying out these colours. I can’t believe that these once belonged to Grandad’s brother. I
imagine that using them might feel like it does when I paint on Nana Josie’s easel. I wonder if you can inherit something like being good at art? I always thought it was because Nana Josie
painted with me from when I was little that I’m so into it. It’s never occurred to me before that I could have inherited it from someone on this side of the family.

The Sari Shop

‘No argument. I’ve already told Uma that this shopping trip is our gift to you.’ Anjali smiles as we settle into the back of Manu’s car. ‘But
I’m warning you – Priya can shop till she drops!’

‘Like I said,’ Priya complains, ‘if we didn’t have to do this whole sari-shop ritual, we’d have even longer!’ She blows an enormous bubble and pops it.
‘See that?!’

‘How could we miss it! Make sure you spit that out before we get in among all the cloth.’ Anjali sighs impatiently.

I’m snapping away at the hundreds of tiny scenes that unfold every few seconds on the street here, but if I’m honest I’m also hiding behind the camera to avoid getting involved
in the conversation.

‘Ma! Mira’s never worn a sari in her life. If we don’t wear them, why should she?’

‘We can have a sari dress or salwar-kameez made up for her, and I thought maybe Mira could help to choose a sari for Uma. She’ll know better than me what her taste is. You know, when
Uma came to visit, this was the first place my ma brought us.’

‘Did Mum buy a sari?’ I ask.

‘My ma bought your grandmother Kath a sari for Uma to take back home. It was very pretty, pale blue silk, with soft golden embroidery . . . the same colour blue as your grandmother’s
eyes, and I see from photos that your brother has inherited the same colour, but Indian almond shape, na?’

I nod. Out of all three of us I look the most Indian. Krish’s eyes are massive, but they’re Nana Kath’s forget-me-not blue colour and he got her fair skin, and Laila is
somewhere in between. Sometimes I used to ask Grandad how it all worked with the genes, and he always used to say that would be ‘a good field to go into!’ But even if I was that way
inclined, I hate the thought of experimenting on animals.

‘I think, if I remember, Uma bought a little embroidered folder from the sari shop, for letters and things.’

The letter album! Priya looks at me and raises an eyebrow. I feel terrible, as if I’ve been found out.

‘So if Mira doesn’t want to get anything for herself, you’re not going to force her!’ asks Priya, grinning.

‘No, of course not, this is supposed to be a pleasure,’ sighs Anjali. I feel a bit sorry for her. I think of Mum, and how I’ve told Anjali that I don’t want to Skype home
just yet. I can’t face that, but I think I’ll email her tonight, just to try to make things more normal between us. But being in contact with Jidé is the thing that would make me
feel so much more settled.

‘Don’t take any notice of Ma,’ whispers Priya. ‘She’s the worst shopper in the world. The minute we get into the mall she wants to know exactly what shops I’m
going into, what I want to buy and what time
exactly
we can be out again. The only kind of shopping she likes is sari shops, emporiums and markets, and then, be warned . . . you can’t
tear her away.’

Anjali doesn’t seem to be listening; she’s just staring out of the window at the crowded pavement outside. My head is full of images and words from the past floating around in my
mind. I think that the blue sari must have been the one that Nana Kath wore to Grandad’s funeral. The colour matched her eyes exactly, and she looked so beautiful, like she’d dressed up
for him.

‘Meet another of my Ambassadors, a bit older, like me – retired but still works OK. Only occasionally little creaky here and there!’ jokes Manu, peering at Priya and me in his
mirror.

In the front of the dashboard there’s a tiny incense burner with a sandalwood joystick streaming perfumed smoke. Manu’s bright white car is decorated inside with a banner dangling
with plastic figurines: Ganesha the elephant god I recognize, and bright blue Shiva. Nana Josie would have loved this taxi – she’d probably have painted a picture of it. I think I will
too.

‘My protection on the roads!’ adds Manu as he notices me looking at the little figures.

If I was going to drive in Kolkata I think I would want some protection too. We’re heading down a wide open road jammed full of every kind of traffic: rickshaws, motorbikes, bright yellow
taxis, smart estate cars, bikes loaded up with recycled rubbish, cycle rickshaws (like you get in Covent Garden), tuk-tuks, carts and even a limousine . . . all weaving in and out, in and out. A
hundred different horn blasts blare out. At first, the way I jump at every beep makes Manu smile.

‘You must learn to close your ears and even sometimes your eyes to the mayhem of the road,’ he says. ‘And when you do you’ll start to really feel at home in this
city.’

The traffic moves so slowly that I sit back and watch the strange scenes unfolding in front of me: a man’s making puri in an enormous spitting frying pan, a child runs past on the way to
school and swipes one. I wonder if little-boy Grandad ever did that! The man cuffs the boy around the ear, but I see him laughing to himself as he hands his next customer a brown paper packet. The
man’s bulging belly peeping through his shirt already looks stuffed full of puris.