Jasmine Skies (2 page)

The old man is still watching me as I turn back to the carousel and pretend to be interested in the same parcels, cases and rucksacks I’ve been watching for what seems like forever, going
round and round on the dull grey belt. Some of them are so well sealed, their surfaces plastered with Tipp-Ex addresses, I get the feeling that whoever packed them didn’t really believe that
they would arrive. Then the dreaded ‘what if’ thoughts start to bombard me. What if my case doesn’t turn up? What if I’ve waited here for so long that Aunt Anjali and Priya
have given up on me and aren’t there on the other side of that wall? What if Priya and me don’t get on? I mean, I hardly know her – all we’ve done is Facebooked and Skyped
and the odd phone conversation. What if . . . ?

I take my mobile out of my bag to call Anjali, but I can’t seem to find a network. What if they’ve left and I can’t get in touch with them? Suddenly my heart’s racing. I
know I need to keep calm, but this is exactly why I exploded at Mum. Since Grandad died she’s been getting Nana Kath to teach her how to cook Indian food, and the day before I left she made
this unbelievable feast all by herself. Not as good as Nana Kath’s curry, as my little brother Krish couldn’t help pointing out, but still tasty. The thing that got on my nerves though
is that she kept trying to use the meal as a sort of rehearsal for me.

‘How do you say . . . that was delicious?’ Mum drilled me for the hundredth time. But all the words she thought she was teaching me I’d heard Grandad say anyway, and I remember
them.

‘Khub bhalo,’ I said, just to get her off my case.

I don’t know what her problem was, but for the last few days before I left she was so stressed and uptight. Dad said she was just worried about me flying alone, but it wasn’t just
that. She kept telling me what I had to wear, what I had to pack, what presents I had to give to who, and what I should say to Anjali. It was as if she was trying to make up for lost time and give
me a crash course in all things Indian or something. She just went on and on at me about stuff that wasn’t that important . . . and the things that would have been really useful, like sorting
out my phone, she didn’t get around to doing. I just got more and more wound up until we had a huge row. In the end I didn’t even hug her at the airport or say goodbye properly. We
don’t really argue that much, me and Mum, not compared to most people I know, and when we do we always make up really quickly – usually by sending each other ‘sorry texts’,
even if we’re both in the house, so it feels even more wrong to have left things the way we did.

I shove my mobile into the little pouch in my bag, but something’s stopping it sitting snugly inside. I feel around and pull out a tiny parcel of white tissue paper, sealed with a red
ribbon and a tag . . .

A lump forms in my throat and a wave of tiredness washes over me. I feel mean and guilty and wish I could ‘sorry text’ her back, but my stupid phone won’t
work. I wish I could text Jidé too. Just a silly, nothing text like we ping-pong back and forward all the time. It just feels so weird not to be in contact with anyone. I take a deep breath
to stop the tears welling up, walk over to a bench and sit down. The argument wasn’t really about anything much and now it feels stupid to have gotten so angry. After Mum’s over-the-top
supper I wandered into her bedroom to ask her if I could borrow her earrings –
these
earrings – she never wears them anyway. She was sitting on her bed looking at some old
letters. I didn’t think anything of it so I just sat by her side and peered over her shoulder . . .

I quickly scanned to the bottom of the page and read . . .

I thought she was about to give this, and all the other letters and photos, to me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. As soon as she realized I was reading over her
shoulder she jumped up off the bed, gathered everything up and bundled it into a faded cloth-covered album that I’d never seen before. Then she placed it inside her old wooden chest, at the
end of her bed, where she keeps all her precious,
not-to-be-messed-with
things. She gave me no explanation. Nothing! So all I did was ask her a few questions, about when she went to India at
my age and what she and Anjali got up to. She’s told me bits and pieces before, so I wasn’t expecting her to go off into a rant – telling me it was none of my business and to stop
digging up the past, whatever that’s supposed to mean. What’s weird is, normally she loves sharing stories about when she was growing up.

It felt like she was shutting me out, when I just wanted to understand more about Kolkata. I don’t think it was that outrageous of me to ask a few questions, considering I was about to fly
half way round the world on my own to meet my family for the first time.

That’s why, just before we left for the airport, I snuck back into Mum’s room and took her letter album. Jidé was right to tell me to put it back. I should never have taken
it, because ever since then it feels like Mum’s letters are burning a great big guilty hole in my conscience.

Maybe, just maybe, I can do something to put things right. So here’s my deal: if there’s such a thing as what I call Notsurewho Notsurewhat, what some people call God, good karma,
bad karma . . . whatever forces are out there operating in the universe . . .

I’m going to go to the loos to freshen up and
if
, when I come out, my case is on that carousel I’ll put Mum’s letters away and never read them. When I get home
I’ll place them back in her old wooden chest and hopefully she’ll never know I took them. No harm done. Bad karma reversed. Maybe . . .

I stand up as a tall moustached man wearing a military-looking uniform walks past me. I take a deep breath from my belly like I’ve learned to do in singing lessons, so my voice
doesn’t come out all weak and wonky.

‘Excuse me, my case hasn’t arrived . . .’

His eyes travel down my bare legs and I find myself tugging at the bottom of my denim miniskirt. He glances upward again but doesn’t look me in the eye. Instead he swipes something off his
shoulder, as if I’m an insignificant insect that’s been bothering him.

‘Wait, little longer. Takes time,’ he finally mutters, before wandering off.

Now I wish I hadn’t bothered asking ‘Creepy Guard’ anything. I scan the carousel again. There are only a few bags left, but none of them are mine.

Another wave of tiredness hits me and my stomach is well and truly tied in knots. I have got to get myself together before I meet Priya and Anjali. I walk over to the loos and lock myself into
one of the cubicles. It’s like an oven in here! I start to undress and I take out the lemon wipes Mum packed for me. I wash the staleness of a night’s travelling off my skin. I spray on
some deodorant and begin to feel less grim. I fold my miniskirt and T-shirt into my bag and take out the soft cotton salwar-kameez, the one Grandad’s sister, Lila, sent for me, the one I said
I wouldn’t be seen dead in . . . because Mum was going on and on about how important it was that I wear ‘appropriate clothing’. The fine cotton is paper thin and a rich autumn
orange, with a paisley black and red block print all over it. Orange is my favourite colour and the cloth feels soft and cool against my skin. I can’t believe I was so mean to Mum about it
now.

I come out of the cubicle and look in the mirror. I take out my eyeliner and draw a black sweep over the top lid, arching slightly upward, and a thin line on the bottom lid, like I always do. I
comb my hair and then bend forward and throw it back again so it doesn’t look too tidy.

As I open the door the old lady I saw earlier brushes past me and a wave of her grey hair sweeps across my shoulder, wafting along with it the sweet smell of lily of the valley perfume.

Because I’m looking backwards and walking forwards, I fall straight over a trolley that’s neatly stacked up with cases. I just about manage to save myself from falling flat on my
face, but I drop my bag and
everything
spills out across the floor. I grab my new camera (it seems to be OK) and my passport. The old man, who was pushing the trolley, is bending down now,
helping to pick my things up and chuntering his apology in Bengali. I look at him blankly and he suddenly gets it that I don’t understand. Now he’s this close to me I realize he’s
wearing the same Old Spice aftershave that we used to buy Grandad Bimal for Christmas and birthdays. It makes me shiver how that smell brings me to feeling close to Grandad.

‘Sorry!’ He smiles at me as I try to collect myself together, along with all the ‘just in case’ stuff I slung into my shoulder bag before I left. I’m so busy
picking up tweezers, eyeliner, period stuff, mobile, iPod,
Wuthering Heights
, a photo of Jidé . . . that I completely forget about Mum’s letter album until the old man hands me
one of her postcards. I check around the floor to make sure nothing else has gone astray and then I hold out my hand for the old man to pass the card back to me, but he’s busy inspecting the
stamp.

He reaches in his pocket for his thick-rimmed spectacles and holds the postcard up closer to his eyes. The image is of a sculpture of a mother feeding her baby, the umbilical cord wrapped around
their bodies like a vine.

‘This takes me back . . . I thought so, yes, this is it,’ he says, tapping the card excitedly with his finger. ‘1966 . . . Now that was a great gathering.’ The old man
seems to have forgotten I’m even standing here.

I glance over to the empty luggage carousel and my heart sinks as I watch it slowly grinding to a halt. I suppose that’s decided it. No case, and a stranger is holding one of my
mum’s precious cards in his hands. My stomach coils into an even tighter knot.

The old man is looking up at me as if he’s waiting for an answer to a question.

‘Dr Nayan Sen,’ he’s saying, handing me back the postcard and shaking my hand. ‘You know, I went to this very conference.’

‘My grandad was a doctor,’ I blurt out. Why am I always so awkward with strangers?

He looks at me with new interest.

‘His name?’

‘Dr Bimal Chatterjee,’ I answer automatically.

‘I don’t believe it!’ he says, his eyes bulging in surprise. Suddenly he laughs so hard that he starts to cough and splutter. He’s wheezing as his wife comes out of the
loos smelling even more strongly of perfume. She leads him over to a seat.

‘Iris, Iris . . . this is
Bimal
’s granddaughter. Can you believe? Such a shame we lost touch. Remember Bimal and Kath?’ he asks, shaking her plump arm and making her
whole body wobble.

‘Of course I do,’ Iris smiles. She has a matter-of-fact Yorkshire accent. ‘Kath and I were practically best friends, but that was a very long time ago. Are you . . .
Uma’s daughter?’

I nod, feeling a bit weird that these strangers seem to know my family so well.

‘Never! Seems like yesterday your mother was born. You do look a little like your grandad, something here about the eyes . . .’ Iris says.

A bit of me wonders if this is actually happening. I feel like I’ve entered some sort of weird no-man’s-land. The faster I get out of here the better . . . I don’t want to have
to tell them about Grandad, and Anjali and Priya will be starting to worry, and I’ve still got to report my case missing . . . but I can’t think of a way to cut this short.

‘And how is my old friend Bimal? Taking a well-earned break, I hope.’

It’s too late now.

‘Grandad died last year,’ I almost whisper. Even though this old couple are strangers to me, it still feels awful having to tell them . . . almost cruel to bump into someone by
chance and then have to give them bad news.

Tears fill Nayan’s eyes. Iris takes the handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to him.

Although I haven’t cried about Grandad for ages, Nayan’s tears make my throat tighten and there’s nothing I can do about it, my eyes well up too, again.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Nayan sighs and pats my knee. ‘Just so many memories. Happy memories really, and it feels like yesterday that your grandad and I were sailing to England
together. Isn’t that so, Iris? Time just goes like that.’ He clicks his fingers and his wife smiles fondly at him as he trumpet-blows his nose to pull himself together.

‘Here . . . take my card. Kolkata and London address,’ he says, rummaging in his pocket. ‘Tell Kath you met us. We would very much like to reunite with her one day, catch up
with news for old time’s sake and . . . Here, you can write your home number and address in my book! Maybe we’ll send Uma and Kath a card from Kolkata.’ He hands me a small green
leather address book with a matching mini biro tucked in the side. It’s the sort of ‘quality item’ Grandad used to have. ‘Put it under B for Bimal and then I’ll know
where to look!’ says Nayan, smiling at me.

I write my home address and phone number and swap the book for his card, which I place in my purse.

‘Would you like us to wait with you?’ asks Iris, glancing over at the luggage carousel.

‘No, thanks, I’m fine!’

I’ve rehearsed the moment when I meet Priya and Anjali so many times, and walking through to Arrivals with old friends of Grandad Bimal and Nana Kath’s is not part of my plan, no
matter how nice they are.

‘What a strange twist of fate to bump into you like this! A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Bimal’s granddaughter . . .’ Nayan raises his eyebrows in a question and holds
out his hand for me to shake again.

‘My name’s Mira,’ I say.