Tamarind and the Star of Ishta

by Jasbinder Bilan

  ‘Not there.’

  The chair looks special, different to the rest, covered with turquoise blue velvet and sequins stitched to the fabric. I look at Arjun, but he stares at his plate and carries on stuffing bread into his mouth.

  Aunt Simran clears her throat and looks at Nani. ‘We . . . don’t sit there.’ She pats the bench beside her. ‘Come. We want to know all about you, no need to be shy with family. What’s your house like? And what do you like doing?’

  I breathe out slowly, feel the heat rise. ‘It’s a bit boring compared to all this,’ I begin, staring at the garden bursting with so many flowers and clipped bushes it looks more like a park. ‘Not much to tell really. I’ve lived in Bristol with Dad in the same small house’ – I want to say a normal house – ‘since I was little. Just me and him until . . .’ I trail off, start again. ‘Until they got married and Chloe moved in too . . . Granny and Grandpa, Dad’s parents, live round the corner but I don’t have any other family. I started secondary school this year, I like playing football and drawing.’ I really want to tell them that I usually only eat plain food and definitely no chilli, but how can I tell them that? Ever since I mistook a green chilli for a French bean I’m totally paranoid.

  My mouth has gone dry with all the attention. I notice a small woman with crinkled skin, wearing a green sari and carrying a huge tray of crispy white pancakes, has appeared in the doorway.

  The pancakes are folded in half and stuffed with yellow cubes of something. A strong smell of fried ginger wafts towards me and I squint to check for the red-hot slices of chilli that I fear are hidden inside. Dad said he warned them, didn’t he? If this is breakfast, I know I won’t be able to eat it; my stomach is stabbing already.

  Suddenly I notice the woman carrying the tray is staring at me as though I’ve got two heads. Wedging the tray on to the table, she rushes over and grasps hold of my hands, stares into my eyes. I’m a bit freaked out because she’s got a really firm grip and she’s not letting go. ‘Just like her ma,’ she says, pressing my hands more tightly.

  ‘Thank you, Uma,’ says Aunt Simran firmly. ‘Uma is our cook, Tamarind. She’s been with the family for decades.’

  Uma drops my hands and starts to leave the room. ‘Come to see me in the kitchen, I’ll make you some gulab jaman . . . Chinty loved my gulab jaman.’

  Chinty? I’m longing to follow Uma into the kitchen, maybe even try the food she mentioned and ask her about my mum, but she’s disappeared back into the house and Nani is coming round to my side of the table.

  ‘Tamarind, beta, come,’ says Nani. She clasps her soft hands around my face and lifts it towards her, kissing my cheeks. ‘Did we make enough food for you? It is a celebration . . . at last you are here.’ She pours an iced white drink into a steel tumbler. ‘Lassi . . . fresh from the cows.’

  I stare at the shining tumbler, my throat tightening. It’s only milk, Tamarind – stop being so silly about it, how bad can it be? All eyes are on me as I put the cold tumbler to my lips and take a sip of the iced drink. ‘Yeuch.’ I spit it out, without meaning to. ‘It’s salty!’ I wipe my mouth and feel myself turn scarlet.

  Both Arjun and Kamaal stare at their plates, their lips curling into small smiles.

  Nani grabs a napkin and dabs at my mouth. Aunt Simran rushes to mop up the mess on the table.

  ‘Sorry, Tamarind,’ says Aunt Simran. ‘I should have told you it was not a sweet smoothie like you are probably used to. Lassi is salty, darling. Don’t worry – your papa sent us a little list in his letter so we won’t let you starve. Uma can make you something you like.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Nani, continuing to dab the tablecloth even though she doesn’t need to. ‘Different place, different tastes . . . you’ll get used to it.’

  After some plain buttered toast and a mug of warm hot chocolate, me and Arjun head outside to kick a football about while all the grown-ups are busy. Kamaal is driving Aunt Simran to the village for supplies, Nani is settling down for a nap and Chacha Dev is fixing the doorknob on my bedroom door. In the enormous garden, we feel completely alone.

  I dribble the ball on to the short grass and run circles around Arjun before passing to him. It’s a relief to be doing something familiar.

  ‘I play a bit of football,’ he says. ‘Only in the playground, though. Not like you. You are fast.’ He chases after the ball – which has bounced off towards the house – and when he comes back, he slumps down on the grass to catch his breath, holding the ball between his feet. ‘How did you get so good?’

  I sit down beside him. ‘I got into it because my best friend Rafi was mad for it. And then Mrs Wallis, our teacher at Primary, said it wasn’t only boys that could play football and she persuaded us all to train, really hard. We set up a girls’ team and got good, me and Rafi went to County level. That’s quite high up.’

  ‘You look like the professionals.’ Arjun stops and suddenly bursts into giggles. ‘I’m sorry, no offence but it was quite funny when you spat the lassi out everywhere.’

  I don’t know what to think at first but then I start to laugh too, all the tight coils of stress bursting out of me. ‘Let’s hope we don’t get lassi for dinner too,’ I say when we’ve both finally stopped laughing. ‘To be honest, I usually just like plain food. Dad teases me about it.’

  Arjun raises his eyebrows. ‘Plain food . . . like what? Rice?’

  ‘Rice is OK. Bread. Fish fingers.’ I shrug.

  ‘So you won’t be up for the chilli challenge?’

  ‘What’s the chilli challenge?’

  ‘It’s when you get a plate of chillies and you don’t know which ones are hot, really hot or basically going to kill you, and then you choose one and take a bite.’

  My face must be turning pale because Arjun quickly adds, ‘It’s only for fun and it’s only usually me, Dad and Kamaal that do it.’

  The thought of it makes my stomach clench with nerves. ‘Maybe not just yet,’ I say, meaning definitely NEVER!

  There’s a small silence, then Arjun scrambles up, says ‘Watch this!’ and kicks the ball – but instead of sliding between the terracotta pots we marked as goalposts, it’s completely mis-aimed. Arjun groans as the ball rolls off to the edge of the neat garden.

  I take pity. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll get it!’ I say, running after it. I peer through the long grass . . . we must be near the summer house I spotted from the bedroom window earlier. I spy the ball a metre or so in front of me and take a step into the tall grass. The world feels silent and still and some instinct compels me to stop – it’s like a spell. I shut my eyes, feel the grass tickling my legs. Can I hear music on the wind?

  ‘Tamarind,’ I hear. A sing-song voice, soft as a whisper.

  I turn round but Arjun is still way off, closer to the house. Besides, the voice emerged from beyond the long grass, as if someone out there was singing my name.

  I’m about to go further but Arjun catches up with me.

  ‘Is there a summer house?’ I ask him, glancing through the sunlit grass in the direction of the voice.

  ‘Yeah, it’s in the wild bit of the garden over there. It’s not really a summer house, just a sort of small hut. We don’t have a gardener like we used to, only Chacha Dev, Uma’s husband, so that part’s like a jungle.’

  ‘Could someone be in there?’ I’m on the point of asking him about the singing.

  But he’s shaking his head. ‘No way. It’s out of bounds. Definitely don’t go there. Nanijee will be really cross and get all upset again.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I do know that Nanijee is sensitive about some things and the hut is one of them.’

  I frown. ‘I really thought I heard something.’

  Arjun shrugs. ‘Probably an animal. We have all sorts living here. Deer, wildcats, snakes, all sorts of birds and sometimes bigger animals come down from the mountains, like bears, tigers and wolves. But don’t worry, they tend to come at night if at all – when it’s q
uiet.’

  My eyes widen – and I listen more sharply, because whatever I heard through there, it definitely wasn’t an animal.

  ‘Come on – let’s go. Nani will be anxious if she sees us so close to the hut.’

  I want to ignore Arjun and go through the long grass towards the small building. It feels like it’s calling me. A tingle shoots up my spine as I see a movement flash through the long grass nearby, a swish of a golden tail . . . a wildcat maybe?

  ‘Come on,’ says Arjun, picking up the ball. ‘Let’s go back.’

  When I wake up from the nap Nani insisted I had, I sleepily check my watch. I can’t believe it’s four o’clock and I still feel tired. I prop myself up against the headboard. I frown at my duvet: there are white petals scattered across the bed.

  Has someone been in here while I’ve been asleep? I can’t imagine Arjun doing that, or even Nani or Aunt Simran, and they couldn’t have blown in; the windows and shutters are closed.

  As I get out my clothes, I feel like there are hidden eyes watching me. Fear creeps from my toes to my stomach where it sits like a tiger, ready to pounce.

  The red rug is sprinkled with something like glitter, but when I touch it with my fingertips it’s more like dust, fine sandy dust. In a panic I hurry to dress and push the door open, flying down the stairs to the comfort of the family.

  Along the dining table, sunbeams glint against the glasses, sending rainbows dancing across the green tiles of the verandah floor. The table is decorated with tea lights ready to be lit and fresh food is laid out along the centre.

  I slide on to the bench beside Arjun, avoiding the mystery chair completely, the one no one is meant to sit at. It’s carved from dark wood and looks almost like a throne with sturdy armrests; the turquoise velvet shines with tiny sequins. It looks like a special chair. Maybe this is where Princess Sufia sits.

  Nani settles on the other side and takes my hand, stroking it softly, then starts singing to me. I’m not sure what to do so I let her carry on.

  ‘All these years, Tamarind,’ she says, when the song is finished, ‘all these years you don’t come home but now you’re here.’ She drapes the shawl over her shoulder, dabbing at her eyes with a corner. She lifts a plate, piling it with yellow rice, almonds and yoghurt. ‘You like lamb kofta?’

  ‘I don’t eat meat, Nani. I’m a vegetarian, so no thank you.’

  ‘Oh dear . . . yes, I remember.’ She gets up and calls into the kitchen. ‘Uma, please bring the dahl dumplings for Tamarind.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine with the rice.’ I spoon a tiny mouthful. ‘It’s really yummy.’

  Nani sits back down and begins feeding me the rice. I feel stupid, like I’m about two, but she seems really happy so I open my mouth like a baby bird and let her carry on. I must have been tiny when Nani last saw me – maybe she fed me my milk just like this?

  I hear the faint sound of a car scrunching along gravel and wonder if they have someone coming for dinner.

  A tall girl appears from the garden, followed by Kamaal. She calls out before I can see her properly, ‘I’m home!’ Her high ponytail swings from side to side as she strides on to the verandah and throws her bag down. ‘I didn’t know we were having guests,’ she says, staring at me. ‘And why is Nanijee feeding her like a baby?’ she snorts.

  The girl carries on staring at me but I focus on my plate instead, sneak a look at her from under my lashes. The sides of her hair are shaved short and now that she’s standing in the light I can see that the tip of her ponytail is dyed pink. She looks really cool, and I think she knows it.

  Kamaal sits down noisily and begins helping himself to food.

  ‘Sufia,’ says Nani, continuing to feed me. ‘This is not a guest, this is cousin Tamarind – she’s come home. Remember?’

  ‘Oh!’ She sounds annoyed. ‘You know I don’t always bother to read the whole of Mum’s letters.’ She darts me a shrivelling look. ‘I hope you’re not staying too long?’

  My chest tightens and I feel the food rising back up. Just as I was starting to feel at home I’m slammed right back to being the outsider again.

  ‘Shh . . .’ says Aunt Simran. ‘She stays as long as she wishes.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice,’ says Arjun to me, under his breath. ‘Sufia’s been away at school and she’s always like this when she gets back.’

  Sufia folds her arms.

  ‘I put Tamarind in your room,’ says Aunt Simran, ‘so you can catch up and make friends. Now take your bags up and then come and eat.’

  Sufia scowls at me. ‘Make friends? I’d rather sleep in the attic room.’

  ‘In.’ Aunt Simran pushes her towards the house and follows her inside.

  ‘She is silly,’ says Nani, patting my back. ‘In this house there’s plenty of rooms for everyone but Simran’s right – it’s nice for you girls to share. Here, have more rice.’

  I can barely get my words out. ‘No more, please.’ I wish I hadn’t come and I really don’t want to cry.

  Inside, Aunt Simran and Sufia are arguing. ‘But I thought Nanijee said she never wanted to see him again.’ Sufia’s making no effort to keep her voice down. Her words shoot on to the verandah like poisonous arrows. ‘He ruined this whole family! And she—’ Aunt Simran cuts her off.

  ‘That’s enough, Sufia.’

  He . . . was she talking about Dad? Why do they all hate him so much? Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on?

  I grip the edge of the table and think I might throw up. I feel totally homesick and if only I could get a signal on that stupid phone Dad gave me, I’d ring him right now and tell him to come back and get me . . . except I’d be in the way there as well.

  ‘It’s not Tamarind’s fault.’ It’s Aunt Simran’s voice now. ‘You will make her welcome, Sufia, despite everything that’s happened. Now go to your room.’

  Nani’s staring into the garden and Arjun’s squirming in his seat, looking everywhere except at me.

  Uma comes out with a steaming bowl of lentil dumplings. She puts it in front of me. ‘Chinty loved these. I hope you will too.’

  But I stand up and push past Arjun, not caring if I’m being rude, and run away from the house into the garden, stumbling down the steps.

  Nani’s voice trails after me. ‘Tamarind, beta . . . come back.’

  I keep running, not knowing where I’m headed, everything blurry, feeling more out of place than I’ve ever felt before. I sprint across the lawns, scraping past bushes prickly with thorns, desperate to get as far away from her as possible.

  I’m not going back to the house and I’m never speaking to Sufia. Does she think I wanted to come here in the first place?

  My heart keeps thumping, my chest aching, and confused, angry tears steam down my cheeks. How could Dad do this to me? He’s left me with people I don’t know, who seem to hate him, and he didn’t even tell me why.

  I storm away, even further into the garden, where it turns wilder and overgrown, where no one will find me and I can hide from them all. Blood drums loudly in my ears as I push through tall grasses and stinging nettles as high as my waist and stumble out the other side.

  The light is fading and I can’t see the ground clearly in the long shadows. My foot catches on a rock, sending me tumbling and I let out a cry as I land heavily on the grass with a smack, my palms stinging.

  Arjun said there were snakes in this wild part of the garden and I quickly lift my head, standing up shakily. Before me looms a row of slender trees, a copse. I brush the mud from my clothes and step closer; their bark is papery white, the dark leaves rustling in the wind, making a ghostly shushing sound.

  Peering between the spaces in the trees where the evening shadows are beginning to appear, I notice the outline of an old wooden hut, its sloped roof covered in tangles of dense ivy. It’s the summer house that I spied from my bedroom window, the one Arjun told me is forbidden – but what do I care now? I feel a strong pull towards the hut, remembering the strange song I heard
earlier.

  The small square windows are strung with cobwebs and the panels of the shed bleached silver from wind and rain. I rub at a dirty pane of glass and put my eye close. There are things inside but I can’t make them out. I find the door and rattle the handle but it’s locked and won’t open.

  I hunt around the doorway; perhaps there’s a key somewhere, but I don’t find anything. Around the side of the hut there’s a big plant pot with an overgrown bush in it. That’s just the sort of place you’d find a hidden key. I stick my hand into the soil and fish about, but there’s nothing there.

  As I kick at the ground in frustration, my eyes catch a patch of loose grass, piled into a pyramid shape. When I knock the grass away with my foot, the soil underneath looks like it’s been recently raked. I bend low on hands and knees, easily dig my fingers into the ground and feel cold metal buried about a fist-length in the earth. I wrap my fingers around it and bring out an old brass key.

  My heart pumps as I hurriedly slot it into the lock and twist to the left. It turns easily, like it’s used to being opened. Placing my palms flat against the door I push slowly and step inside the hut.

  It’s dark and gloomy and smells musty and resinous, as if I’m right inside the heart of a tree.

  Once my eyes get used to the lack of light, I see a set of bunks on either side carved from old knotted wood. Each bed is made up with pretty patterned duvets, piles of cushions carefully placed on top. Although it looked abandoned on the outside, someone’s clearly been looking after the inside of the hut. A brass candle-holder is screwed to the wall beside each bed with a half-burnt candle in one of them.

  I sit down on one of the beds and notice that there are some faint letters scratched on to the headboard. I run my finger over them: C-h-i-n-t-y – Chinty! Mum must have played in here . . . she must have slept in this little bed. My head spins and I lean back on the headboard, bright colours swirling across my eyelids. I hear that song again, calling me with its soft, lilting voice – Tamarind.

  I shake myself back and open my eyes, search the drawer of the bedside table and find a box of matches to light the candle on the wall. The yellow flame sends long black shadows flitting around the hut. I sit down on the bed again – my mum’s bed.