Jasmine Skies (17 page)

As we step over the threshold of the temple Anjali covers her head with her chunni and I do the same. Once we get inside I can’t believe how much energy and heat can be produced by people
walking and chanting. The air smells of incense and sweat. As we wait our turn to approach the Goddess Kali I realize that this is the first time I’ve felt comfortable to be among the heat
and bustle of a crowd. In fact I actually like the feeling of disappearing into this mass of people and just becoming part of something bigger. With chunnis covering all of the women’s heads,
I stop trying to pick out people’s features and instead just walk. The atmosphere of this city sort of seeps into you.

The chanting of the puja settles on me like a trance. Now here we are face to face with the three-eyed Goddess Kali, staring down at us, sticking her tongue out as far as it will go and wearing
a garland of skulls around her neck.

‘Why does she have three eyes?’ I ask Anjali when we move on.

‘To see into the past, present and future – wouldn’t that be a gift? – but I’m not sure I would want it!’ Anjali sighs.

‘And what about the garland of skulls?’

‘One for every letter in the Sanskrit alphabet! Each one is a different kind of knowledge,’ she explains.

‘I didn’t know there were so many types of knowledge,’ I say.

‘Well, she’s the wise mother goddess; she should know!’ jokes Anjali.

‘I thought she was a bit scary!’

‘That’s the thing about our Hindu goddesses – like we mothers, they can be soft and cuddly or wild and wicked!’ Anjali says, sticking her tongue out at me! ‘I
expect your mum can do both too.’

‘That’s true.’ I half smile, trying not to imagine what will happen if Mum ever finds out that I stole her letters.

When I slip my feet back into my sandals I notice that the shiny black shoes are gone, and I feel strangely sad.

We walk back to the car and I feel a real closeness with Anjali, as if I’ve known her for much longer than just a few days. Maybe it’s because she does remind me a bit of Mum. The
truth is that I keep feeling waves of homesickness washing over me. Anjali catches me watching her and smiles.

‘Were you like Priya when you were my age?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid so! Don’t tell her though! Sometimes we’re a bit too alike . . . Uma said
you’d
had an argument before you left. Is that why you don’t want
to talk to her?’ Anjali asks me gently, taking my hand in hers.

I shrug. My tummy suddenly tightens and I feel all knotted up inside again.

Anjali frowns slightly at my silence. ‘I argue with Priya all the time, as you’ve probably heard, but I never stop loving her!’

I’m afraid that if I speak I might burst into tears. The more time goes by since I actually spoke to Mum, the more guilty I feel for stealing her letters, and even though I’ve
emailed her I know that she must know I’m avoiding speaking to her.

Anjali looks concerned but then pats my arm, as if to lift my spirits. ‘I thought we’d go to the outdoor market,’ she says. ‘Priya tells me you want to buy some presents.
And I’d still like to buy you a salwar-kameez or sari dress, while Priya’s not with us complaining! Maybe I’ll treat you to an iced tea at Dolly’s Teashop. You might want to
have a sleep on the way –it’s a bit of a journey.’

It’s weird how fast the time is going. It only feels like yesterday that we were sitting among all those beautiful saris with Sari Man unravelling cloth after cloth, and now I’m
nearly halfway through my trip.

My head hits the back of the seat with a thud.

‘Kali statues, Rajasthani wall hangings, jewellery . . . anything you want to find, it will be there!’ Manu chatters on. At first I think he must be talking to Anjali, but then I see
that she’s also asleep, head lolling against the window. Now I remember Manu was telling me that his wife has a stall in the market and I suppose I must have dozed off for a second without
him noticing.

I walk around the little stalls, wondering how it’s possible to have so many beautiful ornate things in one place: papier-mâché candle holders painted in the
most delicate colours, handwoven tablecloths, paintings on silk, bags, bedspreads, decorated pots, statues of bronze and silver, little tables and ornaments inlaid with mother-of-pearl, embroidered
Rajasthani wall hangings glinting with a thousand mirrors, (Anjali tells me she bought hers from here), puppets in the shape of every kind of person and animal, a carved family of sandalwood
elephants, a tiny stone sculpture of an owl carrying a baby inside its tummy . . . I could buy something at every stall. Anjali’s being so generous, but I wish I had my own money. For Laila I
choose the puppet, for Krish the family of elephants, for Dad I get a board game in an engraved wooden box, for Mum one of the mirrored wall hangings and for Millie I buy the owl. That just leaves
Jidé, and it’s taking me longer to find anything for him than for everyone else put together. We’re also still looking for clothes for me.

‘This boyfriend of yours must be a very special person,’ Anjali says, raising her eyebrows.

‘He is,’ I agree.

I step behind a curtain at the back of a clothes stall and try on the simple block-print salwar-kameez Anjali’s picked out. ‘I believe it’s your favourite colour!’ she
says as I inspect myself in the mirror. It’s pretty and the orange cotton’s cool against my skin and it fits. It’s a bit like my other one but I’m not in the mood to keep
trying things on. I pull back the curtain.

‘You look lovely. Why not keep it on?’ says Anjali.

We buy the salwar-kameez and then browse more stalls looking for a present for Jidé.

‘Maybe Janu could carve him something?’ Anjali suggests. I know she’s trying to be helpful, but my stomach clamps. The truth is I can’t find anything for Jidé
because I keep thinking of Janu and wondering when I’ll see him again, and that just feels so wrong. ‘Come on, let’s get some refreshment,’ says Anjali, taking me by the arm
and leading me into a homely open-air cafe, with crates for tables, gingham tablecloths and rattan chairs. Suddenly my tummy rumbles so loud that the girl sitting next to me giggles.

‘Cinnamon and orange, mango and lychee, passion fruit and lime . . .’

Anjali reads me the list of teas to choose from as we relax in the shade of an umbrella.

‘The good thing about shopping here is that everything you have in that bag is made by cooperatives, so the money goes back to the craftspeople instead of into the pockets of the big
companies,’ explains Anjali as I savour every mouthful of my mango and lychee iced tea.

‘Like the things that are made and sold at the refuge. You’ve made the shop so pretty.’

‘Well, that’s all down to Janu,’ says Anjali, handing me a tiny silk pouch that I didn’t notice her buying. There’s a miniature Kali goddess inside. Then she lifts
her teacup up to mine and we clink our rims together. ‘May the Kali force be with you, Mira!’

The House in
Doctor’s Lane

Dappled light filters through the lime-green leaves of the Kadamba tree and creeps in through the shutters. I open the wrought-iron grid and breathe in the hot, heavy air.

I wander over to Priya’s wardrobe, put on my plain navy-blue kurti and pick out one of the brightly patterned chunni scarves Priya got me to buy at the mall. I pull on some leggings and
think I’ll wear my Converse today. I haven’t worn them for a few days because actually Anjali’s right: ‘chappals’ – the little strappy sandals with the toe
loops, or leather flip flops, are the things that keep your feet the coolest, but I think Converse look better with these leggings. I wander through to the bathroom to check my hair. It’s
gone flat and shiny in the heat so I scruff it up a bit. I think for a moment about putting some eyeliner on, but then I can’t be bothered. It’s weird how I haven’t even thought
about wearing make-up since I got here. When I walk through to the front room, Janu’s at the table.

‘Janu, don’t you think Mira would look good with short hair?’ asks Priya, messing up her own pixie cut.

Janu looks up at me, and I can’t help feeling the heat rising from my belly and up towards my face.

‘She looks good like she is,’ says Janu.

‘Who do you think you are? A Bollywood hero?!’ teases Priya, slapping him on the back.

I wonder if Janu minds Priya’s constant jibes and jokes. He doesn’t seem to, because he smiles at her good-naturedly.

‘Not at the refuge today?’ Priya asks him.

‘Anjali’s asked me to take Mira sightseeing,’ Janu says, without looking at me.

Priya takes her spoon and slams it back into her bowl, making the yogurt splash on the tablecloth.

‘Great! So
you
get to take my cousin out, while I have to rehearse! I can’t wait till this gala’s over!’ She sighs and stomps off to her bedroom.

I feel I should go after her. It’s really not fair that she keeps missing out on us spending time together. But before I can, Janu’s walking out on to the communal landing.
‘Shall we go?’ he asks.

I follow him and he waits for me to lace up my trainers and then offers me a hand.

He notices me hesitate.

‘Friends,’ he says heartily, clasping his hand in mine, ‘what places do you wish to see?’

‘I would really like to find my grandfather’s old house in Doctor’s Lane,’ I tell him.

He smiles and says, ‘Of course. I understand.’

Janu runs into the road, sticks his hand out and a yellow taxi comes to a halt in front of him. Within minutes he’s chatting away to the oily-haired taxi driver. Janu is
probably the sort of person who could talk to anyone. He’s got a quiet confidence. Maybe it comes from being so good-looking, but there’s nothing showy or vain about him. I catch my own
reflection in the car window. I wish I could be so careless about the way I look. I’m glad Janu’s talking to the driver because otherwise I don’t know what I’d say, sitting
so close to him like this. What I notice is that Janu smells faintly of jasmine.

The taxi driver inspects me in his mirror. ‘English, yaar? London, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square.’ He lists the landmarks in his sing-song voice. ‘How you think, of our new road,
new airport, flyover, fly-under, metro too?’ He spreads his hands out proudly, letting go of the steering wheel. ‘See very brilliant India Museum, many, many treasures there, although
British Museum should be returning many more, but that is other story! Also, please to look left. Park Street . . . sari shopping . . .’ He points to the store Anjali took us to on my first
day here. ‘Right side New Market, also very beautiful hotels . . . Oberoi Grand . . . hotel fit for kings . . . but these old roads I will not take, one time cows kicked my car. Even if
sacred, I’m not going there any more!’

Janu laughs, hands over the fare and then opens the door, offering me his hand.

‘Better hold on to each other or you may be swallowed by crowd,’ says the driver, grinning from me to Janu before driving off.

The streets are packed full of people and we are funnelled and shunted into the maze of narrow lanes. I get out my camera and start snapping away.

‘So, this is New Market . . . built by British railway architects,’ Janu tells me, pointing up to the red brick arches that remind me of the ones at St Pancras Station in London.
It’s so strange to think that on different sides of the world the same architects were busy making this place into a ‘home from home’. I suppose they were trying to make it feel
familiar.

‘Imagine, this market was built only for the British, so that they wouldn’t have to brush shoulders with Indians,’ says Janu, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘In those
days you and I would not be walking here together!’

‘Well, with a British Jewish dad and a half-English, half-Indian mum I probably wouldn’t be walking here with myself!’ I tell him.

Janu looks at me and laughs, as if he wasn’t expecting that. ‘True! But some people think you and me should not be walking together in modern India.’

I’m not really sure what he means, so I just shrug and say, ‘I can’t really get my head around all that race/ class/caste stuff. What I think is that no one should be able to
tell anyone else who they can or can’t walk with.’ The words just slip out of my mouth. Janu looks at me for a moment and I think he’s pleased I feel that way – maybe he
wasn’t expecting me to? I know it’s vain of me, but I’m glad that he doesn’t think that I’m just a silly little girl.

‘Good job for all of us the world is changing,’ says Janu as he steers me into the market.

I remember once someone calling my mum a ‘half-caste’ and I asked her what it meant, because I’d never heard that term before. She told me it’s the description people
used for ‘mixed-heritage’ people when she was a little girl. I think ‘half-caste’ is a horrible way to describe someone, it sounds like some sort of reject pottery. Mum says
it never bothered her because Grandad Bimal and Nana Kath always made her feel like she had double the world, not half! Anyway, I suppose the fact is that me, just being me and walking here in New
Market with Janu, means that things are always moving on.