Tamarind and the Star of Ishta

by Jasbinder Bilan

  I feel my face flush.

  ‘It fits perfectly.’ She smiles. ‘It suits you, just like it suited her.’

  ‘Where did the ring come from?’ Ishta’s comments earlier intrigued me and I’m sure Uma can tell me more.

  ‘Now there’s a happy story.’ She smiles. ‘Chinty’s papa – your babajee – found the stone. He was an archaeologist and he used to take her into the mountains on his explorations. One day they found a special emerald. It was made into this ring in Jaipur by an expert jeweller. And because she loved the goddess Ishtar she asked for it to have this silver star around it. Like the star of Ishtar – you know? The evening star.’

  I blink. Why does it feel like that name is everywhere at the moment? ‘Is Ishtar or Ishta a common name around here?’

  ‘Not really . . . Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It was just a book I read. It seemed like an unusual name,’ I say quickly. I don’t want another grown-up to suspect I’m making things up. ‘I love the ring so much,’ I say, touching the star on my finger. ‘But I know I mustn’t let Nani see it. I’ve been keeping it safe in my pocket during the daytime.’

  Uma smiles. ‘We thought it had been lost. No one could find it. Until you came. Since you arrived there’s something different about the house, the gardens, like it’s waking up again. I can feel . . .’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘N-nothing,’ says Uma. ‘I’m sorry . . . I’ve already said too much.’ Her mouth is pinched shut and I know I won’t find out any more about Mum now.

  ‘Come on, help me collect the pickles. Chinty used to like that. And if you’re not too tired we could make something I think you’ll like.’

  There’s a door to one side of the kitchen with a couple of rickety steps down into a cellar filled with the shadowy shapes of boxes stacked up in neat piles. Old books dotted with bird-droppings are pushed against the walls and an ancient rocking horse with a scary-looking carved head stands in the middle of the room.

  Uma presses the switch, lighting up the room, which smells of deep earth and the sharp scent of vinegar. Jars of ruby-red jellies and jams line a row of pristine shelves.

  ‘I have to start cooking, making food for Sunday.’ She smiles. ‘I like to cook late at night, when it’s quiet and cool.’

  My heart taps against my chest. Sunday. My birthday and the day Dad and Chloe come to collect me. How is it already so soon? It’s Thursday tomorrow and I haven’t found out half as much about Mum as I wanted to.

  ‘This one.’ She lifts a large jar filled with a rich brown chutney. ‘Can you hold it?’

  I take the jar in both hands, my ring flashing against the glass.

  Uma lifts a squat jar with yellow pear-shaped fruits submerged in an amber liquid. ‘Quince.’ She’s beaming now. ‘For the birthday party . . . your birthday.’

  ‘There’s going to be a party?’ I say, feeling warm and tingly.

  ‘Of course!’

  We take the jars back into the kitchen and Uma rolls up her sleeves. ‘Would you like to make your own samosa? You can choose whatever you want to fill it with.’ She plonks a silver basin brimming with freshly kneaded dough on to the big kitchen table. ‘Sit.’ She pulls up a stool. ‘Take a little piece of dough like this.’ She pinches the size of a golf ball and claps it about in her palm until it’s a tight little mound and hands it to me. ‘Now with the rolling pin make it thin and round – don’t worry, maybe yours will be not so round.’

  I set about rolling out the dough until it’s sort of circular and grows to the size of a large jam-jar lid.

  Uma puts it into the crook of my hand and folds it into a cone shape. ‘Now you can choose.’ She points to the bowls lined up on the table. ‘Potato, peas, onion and any of these spices.’

  I choose potato and peas and scoop them into the dough.

  ‘Any spice? Maybe just a little?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t think so.’

  ‘Not the cardamom you liked in the rice?’

  ‘Er . . . maybe, that was nice.’

  Uma takes a tiny pinch from a tray and sprinkles it on to the filling. ‘And now with a little water close the top of the dough.’

  She shuffles over to the stove where a pot of yellow oil is simmering. ‘Bring your samosa over.’

  I carry it proudly and give it to Uma, who drops it into the hot oil which crackles and bubbles, turning the pale pastry crisp and golden in a few minutes.

  She fishes it out and pops it on to a plate with a square of white kitchen paper, and once the oil has been soaked up she puts it on a clean plate with a dollop of the dark chutney we brought up from the cellar.

  I pull a face and Uma laughs. ‘I’ve got a feeling that you might like this chutney. Don’t take too much – it’s just a sauce, just a little dip. It’s sour though, so try a small bit first – only if you want.’

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, wrinkling my nose.

  ‘It’s called imilie.’

  As I break open the samosa, steam puffs out and the cardamom-scented potato and peas smell strangely appetizing. After all the running about in the garden, I’m feeling weak with hunger. I dunk it into the imilie chutney and stuff it into my mouth.

  ‘Yum.’ I actually like it, and even the chutney is strangely delicious.

  I grab a spoon and eat it straight from the plate.

  Uma’s eyebrows make two high arches. ‘Well well. You’re not as fussy as you think!’

  ‘I know it’s sour,’ I laugh, ‘and I’ve no idea why, but I love it!’

  Uma gives a mysterious smile. ‘I think it’s time for your bed. And remember, make sure you keep the ring hidden.’

  I’m woken by the flapping shutters and fierce draught billowing under the bedroom door. There’s a din of noise, the scraping of furniture outside on the verandah and raised voices calling out instructions as if something is going on.

  Hazy light cracks into the room, spooling on to the bedclothes, and I bundle the duvet round me. The lights on my watch read two in the afternoon and I panic when I realize I’ve missed half the day! The family will start thinking I’m trying to avoid them.

  I spring up and scan the room, in case there’s some other new thing left for me to find, like the petals that appeared on my bed, but I don’t see anything, just feel that sensation again, as if I’m being watched.

  I hurry from the warm bed and head to the bathroom, quickly scrub the garden dirt off and glance at the face in the mirror that looks like it belongs to a different girl. I briefly touch the worry frowns between my eyebrows that seem to be getting deeper, notice the dark lines under my eyes.

  It’s strange what Uma was saying last night about everything being different since I arrived, but why did she stop and what did she mean?

  Something flits in the mirror, a swift movement behind me, and that tickle again travelling up my spine.

  Tamarind . . .

  I shake off the dream that’s still twirling around my head and pull on leggings and a big jumper, and get ready to face the table downstairs. I remember what Sufia whispered to me outside her room yesterday morning, how it wasn’t over between us, and my heart begins to thump.

  On the red rug, there’s more glittery dust, imprints of small feet scampering across it. I press my hands against the shapes and when I look again there’s nothing, only the rug, as clean and dust-free as ever. Did I imagine it?

  My insides have turned jittery and when I get downstairs everyone is rushing about, bringing chairs in off the lawn.

  Arjun runs up to me, beaming. ‘You’re up at last! I’ve been waiting to show you how to make the origami animals.’

  ‘Sorry, Arjun,’ I say, smiling a thank-you as Uma pops the ever-present plate of toast in front of me.

  ‘There’s going to be a storm,’ he adds excitedly, ‘so we’re eating inside later.’ And then in a low whisper, he says, ‘I told Mum what Sufia said and Nanijee knows as well. They’re not happy with her at all.’

  Sufia darts me a
shrivelling look as she carries in one of the chairs.

  The wind is madly shaking at the trees, and way above the mountains dark clouds are hovering, joining together to make bigger storm clouds.

  It’s dinner time, and I feel useless as I stand in the darkened dining room and watch Uma’s husband, Dev, wind down the shutters on the verandah, while leaves blow in from the garden and scatter on the floor. ‘Make sure the windows and shutters are closed in your room.’ He winks at me. ‘Monsoon storms are the worst, but so long as we batten down the hatches all will be good.’

  Aunt Simran walks over and I murmur an apology for sleeping so long, causing extra work for Uma, and not having helped bring in the chairs.

  ‘Don’t be silly! I’m pleased you’re catching up on sleep. It’s normal, just your body still getting used to a different time zone. Nothing to worry about,’ says Aunt Simran. ‘Now, Tamarind, will you light the candles please? And Arjun can you help too? Best not to put the lights on, just in case everything blows.’

  ‘Here,’ calls Arjun, throwing me a box of matches from the ornate wooden sideboard. ‘We can start at the ends and meet in the middle.’

  The table is long and covered in a red tablecloth, two tall vases with flowers from the garden at either end. We light the candles that are dotted along the length and it feels like Christmas, with the scent of cinnamon wafting through the open doors.

  Uma brings a big plate loaded with more toast plus scrambled eggs and puts it down alongside a smaller plate with a samosa and the sour chutney I tried in the kitchen last night. ‘Here’s your special dinner, Tamarind. The samosa is your recipe.’

  The eggs look amazing, nearly as much as Dad makes for both of us at the weekend, and I’m looking forward to the samosa, feeling proud of myself for trying and liking something new.

  Nani steps inside and shoos everyone to their places. ‘Thank you, Dev,’ she says, surveying the closed and shuttered windows. ‘What would we do without you?’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he smiles, bringing in the velvet chair from the verandah – the chair that no one ever sits on – and tucking it in at the end before leaving the room.

  ‘Come on, let’s eat,’ says Aunt Simran as Uma brings in more and more dishes. ‘I think it’s going to be a long night.’

  The smells from the food rise and stir my appetite, and I peer at the serving plates Uma brought in: dahl, and bowls of rice, samosa, tandoori chicken with a red sauce showered with pomegranate seeds.

  I tuck in to the hot scrambled eggs. They are heavenly and slip down easily. Uma stands by my chair, hand on hip, watching as I devour the toast and slurp the lovely spiced tea.

  I’m just about to fork the final bit of egg when I notice Nani looking my way. She’s frowning, and when I follow her gaze it lands right on the ring.

  Oh no! I forgot to take it off. I wriggle in my seat and clasp my fingers to hide the emerald, blood searing my cheeks.

  ‘Who gave you that ring?’ she asks, her voice sounding all fragile.

  I open my mouth to answer but Sufia gets there first. ‘She’s been poking about in places she shouldn’t,’ she declares triumphantly. ‘I found her in the old hut. She was literally lifting up the floorboards searching for stuff. That’s where she found it.’ Sufia looks so pleased with herself sitting there, arms crossed. She gives me another one of her shrivelling looks and bats her lashes.

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you not to go there?’ Nani’s eyes spark and she sounds angry.

  My stomach folds in on itself and I don’t know what to do, so I stare at my plate and hide my hands under the table. I feel my lip tremble.

  ‘And exactly what were you doing there, madam?’ Aunt Simran asks Sufia, putting her fork down. ‘You know you’re not allowed. I expect Tamarind just stumbled on it.’

  ‘That’s just typical,’ cries Sufia, banging a fist on the table.

  Nani has tears in her eyes. ‘And if you were nice to Tamarind, maybe you would have told her that we don’t go there any more, because after all, she didn’t know.’ She pauses and twists her hands together.

  Arjun and me share a swift look. We can both sense where this is going.

  ‘You’re grounded,’ says Aunt Simran.

  ‘Again,’ says Arjun under his breath.

  Sufia’s face is like a stone statue. She juts her chin and scrapes her chair across the wooden floor. ‘Well, I might as well go to my room right now then . . . but no, I can’t go to my room because the lovely Tamarind is in there.’

  ‘Upstairs, now!’ Aunt Simran begins to stand up.

  ‘I’m going, I’m going. Anyway, it’s clear you prefer Tamarind and would rather have her as your daughter.’ She gathers her bruised anger and hurls her final blow. ‘I . . . I bet you wish you could get rid of me.’

  ‘Stop. That’s enough now,’ continues Aunt Simran, her cheeks turning bright. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘And when your papa gets home,’ adds Nani, ‘he will speak to you as well.’

  Sufia rushes out of the room and thunders up the stairs, thumping each step loudly with her feet.

  Everyone returns to their food, but it’s so quiet you can hear the spoons tapping the sides of the bowls as they carry on eating.

  When the meal is finished and Aunt Simran starts clearing the dishes, Nani walks slowly round the table and holds my hand. ‘We gave this ring to Chinty for her twelfth birthday. It’s a very rare emerald that your babajee and Chinty found and he had it set into the silver star. I never saw it after she died, though. I thought it was lost for ever. Chinty used to love pretending she was the goddess Ishtar, pretending that the ring had magical powers. She imagined it could lead the way to treasure and secrets, glowing like a torch in the night.’

  I take the ring off and hold it out to Nani. ‘I’m sorry.’ The clutch of tears slide down my cheeks. ‘I shouldn’t have gone in the hut.’ The scrunched-up feelings cry themselves free, and I can’t stop them now. ‘I know I shouldn’t have gone – Arjun warned me, but I was upset, and I ran into the wild garden and found it. There was a little monkey who came and he showed me the loose floorboard and the box inside the gap. There were other things too.’

  Nani’s face shadows with emotion again.

  ‘A golden arrow with a white glittery feather on the end, some dried-up face paints – and the ring.’ The tears fall even faster. ‘It’s the only proper thing I’ve ever had of Mum’s a . . . and I’m so happy I found it. Sorry, Nani. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘I remember helping Chinty to decorate the box with pretty paper. It’s where she kept all her special things.’ Nani puts the ring back on my finger. ‘Look how it fits you . . . I wish we could keep you for ever, Tamarind.’ Her face begins to crumple. ‘But your papa will be taking you away again, before we’ve even got to know you.’ Later in bed I’m tossing and turning. Outside, the rain is pulsing right under the shutters and lashing against the window panes. I’m desperate to see Ishta again, but there’s no chance tonight. Thunder cracks, shaking the house as if it’s wrapping monster arms around us.

  My heart is racing and I yank the covers over my head, burying deep under the bedclothes, but even in here I can see the room light up as the lightning flashes, serpent-like, lashing the walls with its electric tongue. Even though the storm is terrifying, I peel back the covers, sit up in bed and check my watch. It’s only one thirty in the morning, there’s still time to go into the garden if the storm finally breaks. How much longer is it going to go on?

  A light appears under the door gap and careful footsteps tap-tap across the landing. It must be Arjun. The storm’s probably frightened him.

  I jump on to the cold floor and twist open the door, ready to invite him in, but it’s not Arjun.

  Sufia is creeping through the landing, a bulging rucksack on her back. Another flash of lightning startles her and she spots me in the doorway.

  She steps into my room, and pulls the door closed behind her. ‘Shhh!!’

&
nbsp; ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it matter to you?’ she spits. Her eyes are red and I can tell she’s been crying. ‘Ever since Auntie Chinty died, nothing’s been the same for me here. They sent me away to school to get rid of me when all I wanted to do was stay where all the memories were.’

  I think she’s going to soften and I start to feel sorry for her but then she starts her attack again. ‘And now that you’re here, everyone can’t stop fussing over you. Tamarind this, Tamarind that! And I have to give up my room, Auntie Chinty’s room . . . So anyway, since everyone prefers you, I’m leaving.’

  ‘Where will you go? There’s nowhere for miles.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I know the mountains around here, I’ll be just fine. And don’t you dare tell anyone where I’ve gone!’

  She swivels round and carries on down the stairs, the storm still whirling furiously around the house. I run after her but she’s already disappeared through the hall, clicking the front door closed.

  I stand in the sombre hallway, the pale flames on the candles lining the sideboard wavering in the draughts. I hurry back to my room, heart thumping, and throw myself on the bed. I shut my eyes and bury myself deep under the covers. Let her go, what do I care! Even when I think she’s going to be a bit kinder she just bites back. Outside, the wind is as wild and frantic as a pack of hungry wolves, lashing at the trees and hurling itself against the shutters. Instead of calming down, the storm is getting worse.

  I imagine the family waking up to find Sufia missing, lost in the storm. As well as being angry with her they’ll be so scared. The shutters bang furiously and thunder crashes so loudly I can feel its vibrations through my whole body. Even though I don’t like Sufia, this family is still so broken even years after Mum’s death. I can’t let them lose Sufia as well.