Jasmine Skies (29 page)

A tiny ancient woman with a thin white plait is sitting next to me humming the tune to my song . . . but she makes it sound different, somehow old-fashioned. She’s wearing
a white sari with golden edging and she looks so frail it feels as if, with one breath, I could blow her away, like the seeds of a dandelion clock. She unwraps the piece of green rag and takes out
a small silver key with a heart-shaped end. She peers out of the window to the busy street below, where people are wearing the brightest of saris, as if they’re going to a wedding. It seems
as though she’s searching for something and then a sad look crosses her face as she raises her tiny arm to point. I look through the window to see a woman in a shabby red-and-gold wedding
sari walking down the street, trailing the ends through the mud. As she follows my gaze the old woman begins to talk. I think she’s telling me a story; she talks on and on. I watch as tears
stream down her face. Then she turns away from the window and holds my hands in hers, pressing the little silver key into my palm. I breathe too hard and the old lady disintegrates into tiny
feathery flecks . . .

Someone’s pouring water on me, like I’m a fire they want to put out. Hands pummelling my chest, moving over my waist, pulling at me, turning me on my side, taking
something from me . . .

‘Didn’t I tell you to be careful where you place your feet? Monsoon has come early. Not to worry, I will sit with you.’ Grandad Bimal smoothes his hand over my
brow. ‘Sunil is a good boy; he will find help, you know. I am teaching him medicine.’

‘Don’t sleep, Mira, listen to Grandad’s voice.’

A low moan escapes from my mouth.

Monsoon Memory

The rain beats a constant rhythm in my head, drowning everything out. A strong-smelling chemical is dabbed on to my face. My head is held in a tightening clamp. My hand is
tugged this way and that. Strangers come and go, and sometimes the voice of someone I know enters my head. I don’t know who. But Grandad never leaves my side. Not for a second.

‘Soon I must go,’ he tells me.

‘Please don’t go, Grandad,’ I beg.

‘It is time now . . . Shhhhhhhhh,’ he sighs, stroking my forehead.

Painting Arm

‘It’s your painting arm, isn’t it?’ Priya says, as she takes a pen and writes ‘DJ Prey’ in stylish block letters on my cast. I try to forget
that this broken wrist is the one where my charm used to sit.

‘Ma’s gone crazy! It was bad enough when we told her about the party, but when she got the call from your mum to say that you were with the old couple in the hospital I’ve
never seen her go so quiet. What are the chances of that? You having Nayan’s card, and Sunil running to his address. It must have been the weight of all those people in the house that made
the place collapse. You were lucky to get out of there alive. We all were, Mira – I didn’t realize how dangerous it was. When I found out that you were still in there I felt sick . . .
I’m so sorry!’

My head’s still so foggy that I can’t take in half of what Priya’s saying.

‘It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have climbed the stairs . . .’

Priya and I are quiet for a moment, I think we both know we’ve had a lucky escape.

‘By the way,’ says Priya, ‘Ma changed your bed sheets and found the carving. Why didn’t you tell me you’d already been to the house?’

I can hear the hurt in her voice, but panic seeps into my chest. I sit up and feel under my pillow. The little block of carving isn’t there any more, or my garland, or my letter to
Jidé.

‘My letter?!’ I ask desperately.

‘Ma posted it! I told her not to, especially when I saw who it was to, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She said
I
had no right to give her advice about anything. She kept going
on and on about how
she
would never read other people’s letters. She’s angry at Janu for taking you to the house in the first place, and I think she knows something’s going
on between you two – it was pretty obvious who gave you the jasmine garland. But I think she’s most upset about some of the things you were saying in your sleep.’

I try to take everything in: the letter to Jidé, Janu . . .

‘What sort of things?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know – stuff about Boro-Dida being in the house with you, and your Grandad Bimal, and weird random stuff like moths flying and blowing dandelion seeds. Nayan says you
were concussed, but it really got to her. She just sat by your side and refused to sleep. All she did was her puja, day and night. I’ve never seen her pray like that. She said that if you
lost your memory it would be all her fault. She kept going on about history repeating itself. I don’t understand any of it. I only know that Janu and I are in big trouble . . .’

All I can think of is the jumble of words I wrote to Jidé, words that were never meant to be read.

‘When did she post the letter? How long will it take to get to London?’ I ask.

‘Not sure. There’s a slim chance it could arrive before you, but maybe not.’

I hope Jidé never has to read that letter. I so wanted to handle this in my own way, but it seems like fate, bad karma, or whatever – Notsurewho Notsurewhat – had other
plans.

‘How long was I in hospital for?’

‘Four whole days. I was so worried about you. I’m so, so sorry! If I hadn’t taken you there . . .’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I insist, grimacing. My head is throbbing.

Priya stands up on the bed and holds her hands out of the window, catching the rain in her palms. I climb up beside her slowly as I feel so dizzy. She takes my hand to steady me and wraps her
arm around my shoulders.

‘You know that Jidé’s been emailing me every day to see how you are, so I’ve emailed back. Hope that’s OK?’ says Priya gently. I nod. I don’t know what
to think about anything any more.

I have never seen rain like this in all my life. The road below has turned into a river. Water pours from the gutters as though someone’s emptying buckets from the sky. Even though my head
aches, I like the racket that the rain makes. It stops me having to think too much, and that’s a relief, because my thoughts are all tangled up like twisted vines. Janu was right – when
the rain comes the smell of jasmine’s even stronger.

‘Look!’ Priya grins as she points through the branches of the Kadamba tree to Bacha swimming along the road, his sharp little nose stuck up above the water. She laughs and I smile,
but even that is painful.

‘Can you pass me my camera?’ I ask Priya.

A look of pity crosses her face.

‘Sorry, Mira. It must be somewhere among the rubble of the old house, you didn’t have it on you when you were pulled out. I’m afraid you’ll just have to store it up
here,’ she sighs, tapping her head.

All those hundreds of pictures I’ve taken. I can’t believe that I’m going home without a single photo to show anyone, or to remind me . . . Priya takes my good hand and eases
me back down to the bed. She pulls Nili’s sari quilt over our heads.

‘And you don’t remember anything about the police?’

I shake my head. ‘You have to tell me what happened.’

Priya needs no encouragement. I get the feeling that despite everything a bit of her is caught up in the drama.

‘The police must have heard the music, and they came to chase us all out. I couldn’t find you anywhere. I was screaming for them to let me go back in to get you, but the monsoon
broke and the streets were flooding so fast. They wouldn’t let me past, so I called Janu. But then Dr Sen arrived and an ambulance. We thought . . . well, we thought—’

‘Did they find a key?’ I interrupt her.

‘What kind of key?’

‘A little silver one wrapped in green cloth?’

‘No! No key. You’ve been talking about all sorts of strange things though. You probably imagined it.’

I nod, searching through the fog of my mind trying to work out which bits were flashes of memory and which were just dreams . . . it all felt so real.

‘Weird that you had a lemon, of all things, in your pocket!’ says Priya, handing it to me.

Facing Up

Anjali seems on the verge of crying all the time. Apparently she’s only speaking ‘because I have to’ words to Priya and Janu. Mostly she’s been having
endless conversations on the phone with Priya’s dad, Nayan and my mum and dad.

‘Happy birthday, Ma,’ says Priya in a quiet voice, but Anjali ignores her.

So today is Mum’s birthday too. Priya says when Mum got the call she was so worried about me that she was going to fly out. But Nayan convinced her it wasn’t necessary. I don’t
think I could have been any better looked after. Anjali’s had poor Lal coming around to see me every day since I left the hospital. Part of me’s glad Mum’s not here, fussing over
me, but another part wants to see her more than anyone else in the world.

Now Anjali’s getting ready for me to Skype Mum and Dad. She’s pacing around the flat nervously, sorting out things that don’t really need sorting. I catch sight of my face in
the living-room mirror. The egg-shaped bruise on my forehead is turning an attractive purple colour, and my eyes are still swollen and infected from the dust. There’s a cut under my chin with
two stitches holding it together. I know it’s vain of me, but the worst thing is that they had to shave a bit of my hair to stitch up another cut, on the left side of my head. Priya says it
looks ‘street’, but I know it looks awful. Mum’s going to freak out when she sees me.

Anjali takes a soft brush and smoothes it through my hair, being careful not to go anywhere near the shaved patch above my ear. I feel so guilty. She’s done everything for me, and now
she’s blaming herself for this. I don’t even ask her about the letter to Jidé because, in a way, I feel like I deserved that. Stealing Mum’s letters was what set all this
in motion, and there’s only one person to blame for that. I just hope I get to talk to Jidé before that letter arrives.

‘That’s better,’ Anjali sighs, stroking my hair, then she checks her watch. She looks so tired and stressed.

‘I’m really sorry, Anjali . . . about everything. It’s not Priya’s fault and it’s not Janu’s either. It’s just mine.’

Anjali shakes her head but doesn’t answer me. She walks over to the computer and clicks on Dial. The call is picked up in an instant and Mum and Dad’s faces flicker on to the
screen.