Tamarind and the Star of Ishta

by Jasbinder Bilan

  Message failed to send

  Oh, what?! No mobile signal. I fling the phone into my bag, a lonely feeling creeping into my whole body.

  We skirt around a vast green lake with houseboats bobbing along its surface. A long-legged white bird swoops low across the water and dives in, reappearing a few moments later with a bright silver fish held tight in its beak.

  We leave the busy streets and begin to climb away from the chaos of the city on hushed winding roads that wrap around the mountains, the car hugging close to the curves.

  Small villages with houses perched at steep angles appear now and then, and bearded brown goats wander randomly along the road. It’s getting cooler and quieter the further we drive, the sky turning the darkest pink I’ve ever seen.

  We drive on and on until daylight begins to fade and each twist of the rough mountainous road takes us higher and higher towards the sharp snow-covered peaks. Eventually Arjun stops playing his game, his head sagging against the window as his eyes flutter shut.

  A scattering of lone houses form a line along a dirt track, their silhouettes black against the last of the sun’s rays. ‘Final stretch,’ says Kamaal, yawning.

  We turn off the road and carry on driving along a stony track, climbing higher still, leaving the houses way behind. Owl calls screech through the open windows as we bump deeper into the darkness of the countryside.

  ‘How much longer?’ asks Arjun, waking up and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Nearly there,’ replies Kamaal, finally slowing the people carrier down.

  ‘You must be so tired, Tamarind,’ says Aunt Simran. ‘But you’re here now, that’s the important thing.’

  Here. In the middle of the biggest nowhere I’ve ever seen, with a bunch of strangers. I grip the edge of my seat as a wave of panic surges through me. Where’s Dad when I need him most?

  We grind to a halt.

  ‘Alakapuri,’ I murmur, reading the carved wooden sign fixed to the old iron gates.

  Kamaal leaps out of the car and creaks the gates open.

  ‘Welcome,’ says Aunt Simran, catching me staring at the sign. ‘The house is named after the mythical Himalayan city of Alakapuri.’

  ‘Oh.’ What sort of house gets named after a mythical city?

  We carry on in the car up a cobbled sweeping driveway, towards a large yellow moon hanging in the dark sky. We follow the tiny white lights lining the drive and finally come to a stop below a house . . . it’s the house, the one in the photo, although it’s huge, much bigger than it seemed in the tiny picture. I can’t stop staring at the impressive building perched high on a grassy mound.

  The car doors whoosh open and a cold wind rushes in, blowing damp leaves into the car. Arjun sprints away, up the steps to the house, Kamaal following close behind.

  But something makes me hesitate.

  I hear music nearby, like a faint tune hummed on the wind, and I think I hear a word . . . Tamarind. I glance around into the shadowy garden, swallowing the cool night air. Who sang my name? Or was it just the wind? My heart begins to beat against my ribs.

  Aunt Simran cradles my arm as she guides me down from the car. ‘Big jump, Tamarind,’ she says. ‘You’re shaking! Poor beta. It’s been such a long journey, we need to get you inside. Come on.’

  We walk slowly across crunching gravel, Aunt Simran still holding my arm. It’s dark but the moon is bright and sheds its yellow light over the house. The domed turrets make it look almost like a palace. It sits high up on its mound, with the verandah running all around it and shutters pulled firmly across the windows.

  ‘Can we stop a minute, please?’ I ask.

  ‘What is it?’ Aunt Simran asks, pausing at my side.

  I strain my eyes towards the gardens that drop away steeply and surround the house. The huge mountains loom in the distance, like a barrier against the world beyond and I can’t shift that lonely feeling. The air is heavy with the strange smells of flowers and other plants I don’t recognize, sharp, bitter and floral all at once.

  I search the semi-darkness for the tree, the tree with the swing on it – Mum’s tree.

  But I can’t see it anywhere.

  A high-pitched scream rattles through the dark velvet night. ‘W-what’s that?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ says Aunt Simran. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

  I stumble up the sweeping stone steps, Aunt Simran leading the way. At the top the front door is open and we step into a big hallway with a mosaicked floor. Large table lamps give off a cosy glow, lighting up paintings of tigers and deer on the walls.

  I had no idea Mum lived in such a grand house and I feel even more out of place. It’s a bit of a change from our little house back in Bristol. I close my eyes and conjure up its views over the park, the treehouse Dad made for me when I was six, where Rafi and I still have sleepovers in summer.

  Arjun and Kamaal have already disappeared somewhere – I can hear footsteps and low voices upstairs. Further along the corridor there’s the echoing sound of pans clanking.

  ‘I’ve put you in your mum’s old room,’ smiles Aunt Simran. ‘I thought you’d like that.’

  A shadow shoots across the floor, shapes flit in the corners of my eyes and disappear. Aunt Simran doesn’t seem to notice, so I pretend not to either. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper. I should be excited to see Mum’s room, but my feelings are fluttering all over the place.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Aunt Simran bustles off, leaving me staring dreamily at everything.

  ‘You’ve come home at last.’ A soft voice wakes me from my daydream. An old woman, wearing a white salwaar kameez with a grey woollen shawl draped over her shoulders, comes down the staircase, stretches out her arms and draws me to her, wraps me in the warmth of her shawl. She smells of cinnamon and hot milk.

  I don’t know what to say. This must be Nani . . . Mum’s mum.

  I start to put my hands together to repeat the greeting Dad taught me. ‘Sat—’ I begin, but the words stay knotted and won’t come out.

  She squeezes me so hard I think I might pass out. ‘Look at you,’ she says, her eyes watery. ‘So big now, but still the same eyes, same smile. You look just like . . .’ She trails off, unable to say the name we both know is on her lips. Chinty. Mum’s name.

  I think of how evasive Aunt Simran was when I asked about Mum in the car. What happened here? Why won’t they talk about her?

  Nani releases me, wrings her hands and looks away down the corridor. Aunt Simran stands at the top of the stairs and beckons to me. I lug my case up, resting it on each step, trying to be as careful as I can, before Aunt Simran takes it and shows me to a room on the right of the staircase. It’s dark inside, but a small lamp on the bedside table sends out a cheerful light.

  ‘It’s too late to eat anything big now,’ says Aunt Simran kindly. ‘But try the warm milk and pastry, sleep well and I’ll see you in the morning.’ She closes the door gently and leaves me standing in the middle of the room, my head swimming. I feel light-headed and hold on to the table where the pastry and milk Aunt Simran mentioned are waiting. I take a tiny nibble but can’t swallow it and the milk has a weird creamy smell. I spit the bite of pastry into a tissue and throw it in the bin.

  Something taps against the window and that same piercing scream sounds again; this time it’s closer, as if it’s right outside. Shivers shoot up my spine as I kick my trainers off and jump into bed fully clothed. With my eyes shut tight I lie stiff, listening to the strange new sounds, wishing for morning to come soon. Slipping slowly into sleep I hear that song again – someone singing my name . . .

  Tamarind.

  The sun filters through the shutters, casting patterned light across the room, like golden dust floating in the air. A dream clings to my mind – a familiar tune and white blossom . . . but it’s already slipping away. I expected it to be warm in India, but it’s cold and I shiver, pulling the soft duvet tighter and snuggling further down the bed. Outside I can hear the clinking of plates and the hum o
f low voices, chairs being scraped against the floor and a shushing of leaves making sounds like the sea.

  The thought that I’m in Mum’s room relaxes me for a moment and I fall into a doze. I forget where I am and listen for the blare of the rush hour. But outside there are no trucks or buses; it’s quiet except for an unfamiliar bird cry that reminds me I’m so far from home.

  My throat begins to tighten again as I remember how everything is different now. It was Dad and me, the dream team, for so long, but life has changed so much since Chloe moved in. And I know I have to try harder but I miss it just being us. No more lazy Sundays, eating home-made pancakes in bed, watching TV together. We haven’t done that in ages. Like Dad said, Chloe is part of the family now. But sometimes it feels like it isn’t my family any more.

  I get out of bed and look around. I don’t see anything that could belong to Mum in here, but of course they probably put all her things away a long time ago. There are a few books up on the shelf above the bed and some of the titles are in English, but I’m too weary to think of reading right now.

  There’s another bed opposite mine and it’s made up in the same flowery linen as the one I slept in last night. Tucked under the duvet is a battered teddy bear with one eye missing. On the bedside table are some tiny green bootees.

  I pick them up, peering closely. They’re slightly faded but look as if they’ve been treasured. Maybe they were mine when I was a baby, or Mum’s.

  I put the bootees back and go to the window, grab hold of the handles and try pulling it up. It’s stiff, like it hasn’t been opened for a while. After some tugging it flies up and the wind whistles through the slats. I part the shutters and they slide away either side of the window.

  I gasp and take it all in.

  The garden is in full sun. Mist rises from lawns bordered by short clipped hedges and roses droopy with raindrops. I can’t tell where the garden ends, but I can see the top branches of a tree a way off, its base hidden by the garden, its feathery leaves shaking in the breeze as if they’re whispering secrets. I wonder if that’s Mum’s tree, the one in the photo with the swing. ‘I’m here, Mum,’ I whisper.

  I let the sun warm my face, amazed by the mountains beyond the garden, snow-peaked and majestic, rising into the morning sky. High up, birds with wide-stretched wings spiral slowly on the currents, calling as they fly.

  I peer down at the mound that the house sits on, with its narrow terraces covered in blue dancing poppies. To one side of the house there’s a walled orchard of fruit trees, dark plums pulling laden branches to the ground, rosy apples and even peaches, I think. Straining my eyes further round the orchard, I spy chickens scratching at the earth and a plump black cow grazing alongside them.

  My eyes swivel back to the main garden and are drawn to its edges where the neat borders, with their swirls of rose bushes in deep shades of pink and crimson, end – to where the grass has been allowed to grow longer. The sloped roof of a little summer house peeks through the sunlight. I think I might explore this morning, get to know the place where Mum grew up, and see if I can find out for myself the things nobody will tell me.

  There’s the scream again, the same as last night. High-pitched, sharp. Fear spikes through me and I slam the window down.

  It can’t be anything dangerous, I tell myself, not so near to the house. Aunt Simran said it was nothing.

  Even so, I sit on the bed, try to stop my heart racing, count to five and focus on the room instead. It’s really sweet, the sort of room you read about in stories. It’s got golden monkeys painted in a line around the walls, and shelves crammed with books of all sizes. The stripped wooden floor has a thick red rug across it.

  I walk over to a door and give it a gentle push – it’s even got its own small bathroom! There’s a cute little bath with fluffy towels piled on a shelf and blocks of lemon-scented soap.

  I study the family photos sitting on a bright blue chest of drawers, some of them from long enough ago to be black and white. In one of them, the house is covered in snow, its balconies and verandah totally white. I gaze at the picture; it’s the first time I’ve seen one of the whole building from the outside. I didn’t have a clue from that corner on Mum’s photo that it was going to be so big. Why didn’t Dad tell me? It feels like he’s been lying to me all my life . . . I don’t know who he is or who I am any more.

  There’s a knock on the door and it suddenly flies open, bringing noises from the rest of the house bouncing into the room, someone running down the stairs, a voice that sounds like Aunt Simran getting things organized. I’m not sure why but I spring back into bed – oddly guilty about exploring the room. I can’t help feeling like an intruder.

  ‘You’ve been asleep ages.’ It’s Arjun. He struggles into the room carrying a wooden tray piled with tea things, which he practically drops on the table next to my bed – along with the doorknob. He catches me looking at it and sighs. ‘This house is so old – things are always falling apart. Chacha Dev will fix it later.’

  I pull a face. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Should I have got up early?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. We’re allowed to lie in when we’re here. It doesn’t matter, we’re on holiday.’

  ‘So you don’t usually live here?’

  He pours me a cup of tea from the pot and pulls up a chair. ‘No. We usually live in Rinigaar – you know, where the airport is. We’ve got a modern house there, that’s where I go to school. This is the house that’s been in our family for ever. Nanijee lives here all the time with Uma and Chacha Dev to help . . . it’s where my papa grew up.’ He coughs. ‘And your mum.’

  I begin to get excited but try to control my voice. ‘What else do you know about my mum?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tamarind.’ He gives me a sad look. ‘I don’t know anything else.’

  My heart falls with a crash.

  ‘Oh, and I made this for you.’ Arjun places a small, neatly folded origami bird on the bedcovers.

  I try to hide my disappointment that he’s changed the subject so quickly. ‘It’s amazing!’ I admire the carefully made little bird, then peer at Arjun over the cup. He’s got a friendly face and brown wavy hair that’s a bit long and messy. I blow at the tea, the steam rising and warming my cheeks.

  ‘I thought you’d be on that gamer thing,’ I say, ‘not bringing me breakfast in bed.’

  ‘It doesn’t work up here – no signal or wifi. That’s how I got into origami – you have to find your own things to do. I can show you how to make one later if you want. And everyone has to help out here. Except Princess Sufia who only helps herself out.’

  ‘Who’s Princess Sufia?’ I wonder if maybe she’s a real princess. Living in this house, it wouldn’t be too strange.

  ‘My older sister. She’s seventeen, four years younger than Kamaal – she’ll be arriving later.’ Arjun rolls his eyes. Then he pauses. ‘When you’d gone to bed Nanijee kept crying.’ He bites his lip. ‘She said she couldn’t believe you were here at last.’

  ‘I don’t know why Dad never brought me before,’ I say, looking around the room. ‘I wanted us to come. But he’s always been quiet about Mum.’ Just like everyone here, I think.

  Arjun looks away at the window and doesn’t say anything.

  I take a small sip of the tea. ‘Oh!’ I cry. ‘It’s spicy. I didn’t expect that. We just have plain old English tea at home.’

  Arjun smiles, obviously relieved I’m not going to ask him about Mum again. ‘So was that your new ma, I mean mum, at the airport?’

  ‘I just call her Chloe.’ I try to sound like I don’t care. ‘She’s been desperate for Dad to bring her to India.’

  Arjun appears to sense how uncomfortable I am because he stands up awkwardly. ‘Once you’re ready, I’ll show you around if you like.’ He picks up the doorknob. ‘And I’ll get this sorted. See you downstairs.’

  ‘Arjun,’ I say, rubbing at the sleep still clinging to my eyes. ‘Thank you for the tea.’

  ‘That’s OK. Nanij
ee said to tell you there’s breakfast on the verandah. And by the way, my room’s at the end of the corridor, just in case.’ He pushes the door behind him, leaving it slightly open.

  I check my phone but there are no messages: only Rafi’s last one and my reply that pinged back – and, just as Arjun promised, there’s no signal either. Once again that lonely feeling falls like ice under my skin.

  I dress slowly, throwing aside all the shorts I brought, certain it was going to be hot despite Dad’s warnings, and choose jeans and a thick sweatshirt. As I open the door on to the landing, my stomach tightens and I begin to feel all alone again.

  The sound of chattering voices tinkles up the wide stairs that smell of old-fashioned polish. If Rafi was here, we’d slide down the banisters together and end up in a bundle of laughter at the bottom. But she’s not, so I walk carefully down each creaking step until I’m in the hallway with its vast paintings of bewildered-looking animals.

  ‘Out here,’ calls Aunt Simran.

  I follow the chatter through a large dining room where French doors lead on to the verandah. Arjun is already there, tucking into a square of crispy flatbread, smothered in butter.

  It’s sunny but a chill wind lifts the tablecloth. Nani looks out across the borders of pink and crimson roses and bushes of wide purple flowers towards the mountains beyond. ‘Morning, Tamarind. Sorry for the weather. It looks like it’s changing, storms coming – mountain storms. I hope it holds for a while so you can enjoy being outdoors, though.’

  Kamaal is wearing headphones and tapping his fork in time to the music only he can hear. He looks up, slides the headphones off his right ear as he sees me. ‘Hey, cuz,’ he smiles. ‘How was your first night in the mountains?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘Cool.’ He pops the headphones on, already back in his own world and tapping his fork again.

  I shuffle round the table and find an empty seat beside Arjun, laid ready for breakfast. But when I begin to sit down, Nani frowns and Aunt Simran brings me towards her.