Tamarind and the Star of Ishta

by Jasbinder Bilan

  We sit side by side on the bed, the duvet over our legs, as Sufia shows me her locket. The locket is scratched and tarnished with age. The metal edge closest to the opening is worn from being held. ‘Your parents look really kind and lovely.’

  Sufia smiles. ‘When I was little, Auntie Chinty made such a fuss over me. She painted my nursery, read me stories – made me feel safe. You see, Mum told me it was Auntie Chinty’s idea to adopt me, after the news of the earthquake. It wasn’t so far from here, she saw my photo in the papers and Mum said she fell in love with me.’

  Before today I would have felt a pang of jealousy that Sufia got to do all those things with Mum, but I push the feelings away.

  ‘She would have done the same for you,’ says Sufia. ‘She adored you. I know the family think she was a bit wild, but for me she was the best.’

  ‘And that’s what we have in common, we both loved Chinty,’ I say.

  Sufia gives me a big hug. ‘And love is stronger than blood.’ She looks at Mum’s ring in a strange way and I think maybe she’s going to ask if she can try it. ‘Tamarind.’ She’s starting to sound agitated and keeps staring at the ring. ‘I started to tell you last night . . . you thought I was imagining things because of the fright and being in the storm. You know the girl you saw?’

  ‘You mean Ishta? I already told you.’ I’m feeling a little frustrated now. I know what I saw! ‘You have to believe me that she’s real!’

  Sufia holds me by the shoulders. ‘Tamarind, I believe you. But please . . . tell me everything about her. What did you do together? You said you . . . played?’

  And so I tell her. About Hanu the monkey and the swing. About how we could meet only at night and even then, only when the sky was clear. How she gave me the seed pod – I slip it out of my pocket to show her – and I gave her my badge in return. How she told me, once, that she longed to explore but couldn’t leave. How despite this, she said that one day she wouldn’t be there and that I should remember she was always my friend.

  At last Sufia sighs. ‘Listen to me. If you’re so sure you saw a girl, dressed like that and calling herself Ishta . . . a girl who disappeared . . . I think it could have been Auntie Chinty.’

  ‘How can that be possible?’ I ask, my heart pumping. ‘Are . . . are you saying that you think the girl Ishta is really my mum?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m saying,’ says Sufia; her cheeks look hot. ‘I’m just as confused as you, but the description matches, and Ishta is what Chinty always used to call herself when she played. And nobody else lives around here. She even had a little monkey friend – she would slip him bits of food when I was little. But after she died, he returned to the wild.’ She sniffs, a tear wobbling down her cheek. ‘All the things she said to you, about this being her home and not being able to leave . . . all of it makes sense.’ She sits up and lifts the long seed pod from the table. ‘And this . . . this is a tamarind seed. From the tree with the swing.’

  I blink and sit up next to her. ‘That’s a tamarind tree?’

  ‘Yes. It was your mum’s favourite tree,’ says Sufia, pressing the seed into my palm. ‘You were named after it, Tam. Now do you see why I think Ishta is Chinty?’

  Just when things were settling down, the questions are getting even bigger and I don’t know what to think any more. I try to get my thoughts in order but they keep fluttering off in all directions. ‘So . . . so you think she’s – like a ghost?’

  ‘People’s spirits sometimes stay around,’ says Sufia. ‘At least that’s what Uma says.’

  ‘She didn’t seem like a ghost.’ I wipe my slippery palms on the covers. ‘We played together. On the swing. She felt real.’

  ‘Maybe . . . maybe she wanted to meet you. Just like you were trying to get close to her, she was trying to get close to you too. And perhaps, all this time, she’s been waiting for you to come home.’

  A tingle spreads through my body, like something from a dream or memory is trying to knock at my mind, make me take notice, and I wish I’d paid more attention in the garden when me and Ishta first met.

  ‘Maybe she couldn’t leave,’ says Sufia, ‘until you came back.’

  ‘If it was Mum, why didn’t she tell me? She could have told me everything.’ It’s my turn to get agitated now, and I feel my stomach tying into knots. ‘Why did she pretend her name was Ishta?’

  Sufia shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want to frighten you. She wanted to get to know you for real – that wouldn’t have happened if you realized the truth. And as for the name Ishta . . .’ She looks thoughtful. ‘Like I said, she loved to act out scenes from the goddess Ishtar’s life when she was a child – so there’s that. And then there’s the idea of Ishta – it means “favourite” or “cherished”. I wonder if she was hoping you would cherish her.’

  ‘None of this makes sense, Sufia.’ My head is full of bizarre thoughts and I don’t know what’s real any more. I shake my head. ‘As soon as I can, I’m going back to the garden to find her. I’ll prove to you that she does live around here somewhere and she can tell you herself.’

  I fling open the bedroom door and lead Sufia downstairs, desperate to get to the garden, but everyone is milling about and Aunt Simran won’t let us out of her sight. Disappointment hammers my chest as I realize I can’t get past Chacha Dev, who is all over the garden with Kamaal clearing up the debris and the falling branches.

  Every time Sufia or I look like we’re heading off somewhere, Aunt Simran seems to find some small task for us to do – it’s just not going to be possible today.

  Once dinner is over, Nani insists we go to bed early, after last night’s excitement, and even I know that sneaking out after dark tonight would be really stupid – and they’d worry so much if they found me missing again. Lying in bed, my mind is alight with a plan – I only have one day left . . .

  It’s Saturday. My last chance. After breakfast, I throw on some clothes, fish clean trainers from my case, tie the laces as quickly as I can and sneak out of the room, Sufia following me.

  Through the dining room I spy Chacha Dev on the verandah lifting the shutters. The storm is finally over, but out in the garden branches and leaves are still all over the lawn.

  Sufia catches me and tugs at my arm before I reach the verandah. She leads me through a door. ‘I think they’ll go really crazy if they see us going out again – this is a sly way out.’

  We wind past the kitchen, through the other end of the house and make our way hurriedly out of a side entrance, along the brick wall of the orchard where the unsettled clucking of the chickens rises into the morning air.

  As we sneak over the nettles to the wild garden, I glance up at the statue above the arch. My heart won’t stop banging and butterflies whir around my stomach, bringing the rushed breakfast up to my mouth, but I race forward, desperate to see Ishta, hoping she’ll be there swinging high through the branches of the beautiful tree. The tamarind tree.

  My fists are tight balls as we hurry to the right of the garden, picking our way over fallen branches and long strands of leaves until the tree appears ahead of us, and my heart feels like it’s stopped.

  ‘It’s been struck by lightning,’ I cry, my chest tightening. I’m racing towards it, ahead of Sufia, my legs pumping hard.

  The branches of the tree are charred, the trunk a blackened pillar – at its base a pile of ghostly ashes, leaves strewn under its spiky canopy, destroyed. The swing is broken and twisted on the ground nearby.

  ‘Ishta!’ I cry. ‘Where are you?’

  I hunt further into the garden, searching between the tangled trees for signs of her, calling her name. But there’s nothing, only my strangled voice. The storm has torn everything to pieces.

  Sufia’s hand curls into mine.

  I place my palms flat against the charred trunk of the tamarind tree, all its beauty burned away, and feel a knot flaming my throat. This was my tree – mine and Mum’s tree – and I didn’t even know it.

  The smell
of charcoal and dampness rests on the branches instead of the scents of the leaves that unfurled into the wind before. I feel the loss deep inside, in the small heart-shaped space under my rib.

  ‘If I’d known this was my special tree I would have been down here all the time,’ I say softly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Sufia, staring at the ground. ‘We’re all so used to not talking about Auntie Chinty. It’s stupid.’ She lifts her chin. ‘All of us need to figure out how to start remembering.’ She kicks at the fallen branches under the tree.

  Sadness settles like a dull ache in my chest. I search the ground for flecks of gold dust, peer into the distance for a sign of Hanu’s glitter trail, but there’s nothing.

  ‘You have to decide what you believe for yourself,’ Sufia adds.

  I remember what Uma said before about how the house and gardens were different since I arrived, how I’d woken something up. Or someone. I peer at my ring, the emerald sparkling in the sunshine. ‘I’m just not sure. How can it be possible?’

  Sufia has deep circles around her eyes and still looks shaken from the night before. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It sounds crazy to me too.’

  ‘Let’s go back,’ I say, taking her by the arm. Even though she’s way older than me and taller, she lets me guide her back through the garden.

  When we arrive at the hut, I spy Chacha Dev cutting back the nettles. The door is wide open and Nani has a broom and is sweeping up the leaves and twigs that scooted under the gap. She smiles at us. ‘We’re going to freshen things up, maybe even paint it, so you can all enjoy it, like Chinty did. I brought some old family albums down. I thought you’d like to see some photos, Tamarind.’

  Sufia’s eyes are wide. ‘Really?’ she says breathlessly.

  ‘I think I’m ready now – it’s time,’ says Nani, heaving a sigh. ‘Now come and sit on the bed and we’ll look at them together.’

  My heart lurches and I steady myself as I sit between Nani and Sufia on one of the freshly made beds, the blank spaces in my memory ready to be filled at last.

  The first few pages are baby shots that look a bit like the ones of me that Dad has on the shelves at home.

  ‘That’s Chinty as a baby,’ says Nani. ‘See how similar you look?’

  I feel a swell of pride to think that I look like Mum.

  Sufia shuffles closer. ‘She was really cute.’

  ‘And look at this one.’

  I freeze. Mum’s wearing an embroidered flowery dress, a sheepskin waistcoat, baggy trousers, and has a bow slung across her chest. She’s holding up an arrow as if she’s getting ready to fire, and her hair is twisted over the top of her head.

  It’s Ishta. I feel my eyes sting with tears as I stare at the photo, trying to work out what I believe. Now there’s no doubt in my mind: Ishta and Mum are one and the same. Sufia was right. I glance up, catch her eye and nod.

  Nani laughs. ‘I think we’ve got that outfit somewhere in the house, in the playroom in the tower, I expect. She loved her book about Ishtar, and after that she wanted to dress like this all the time.’

  My heart is racing and I want to ask Nani if she believes in ghosts and if she thinks that everything has changed since I arrived, like Uma said: if she thinks that I’ve woken Mum’s spirit . . . But I stay quiet because I’m sure it would be too much for her to take, just as she’s letting go of the past and moving forward.

  We stay a while longer in the hut, looking through the album, Nani and Sufia chatting about the happy times in the past while I listen. Finally I’m gaining a sense of who Mum was and how I’m like her, and listening to the stories brings a big smile to my face.

  Nani shows me photos of Mum when she was fat with her baby bump, sitting on the verandah looking happy, and it makes me feel like I belong here – like

  I always belonged here. I have two homes now.

  Nani looks more relaxed than I’ve seen her, as if she can enjoy the memories at last without feeling sad.

  Later, once everyone is asleep and the house is quiet, I get dressed. Dad will be here tomorrow and I have to go on my own to the garden one final time to find Ishta – I need to tell her I know who she really is, that I love her and miss her. My insides are knotted with desperation – if only I’d realized sooner that Ishta was my mum, I would have asked her so many questions and told her everything about me.

  Sufia doesn’t stir as I tiptoe past her bed – she’s sleeping in Chinty’s old room with me now – click the door open and leave the room. The route through the house is familiar and I speed silently down the stairs, across the hallway and into the indigo softness of the Himalayan night.

  The bright yellow moon sits high above the towering mountains and I touch my sparkling ring, holding it ahead of me like I did before, hoping it will bring me to Mum. But the ring doesn’t shine as clear as it did before – the light is dispersed, scattered all around me. My chest tightens with worry.

  As I approach the statue and hurry under the arch, there’s still no sign of Ishta. I feel a patter of nerves rattle through my chest and I fix on the ring, the star of Ishta, spreading its light into the darkness.

  I head straight for the tamarind tree, tramping through the damp wilderness until I see it ahead of me. In the night it looks even more desolate, its jagged branches sharp against the moonlight.

  ‘Ishta,’ I cry. ‘Ishta, it’s me – Tamarind.’ I search everywhere. ‘Mum! Where are you?’

  But there’s no answer, only the gentle wind rustling the grasses, cooling my red cheeks.

  I throw myself on to the hard ground. ‘Why won’t you come, Mum? Now that I know it’s you. I could tell you all about myself, and we could be friends, real friends.’ My breath shudders from deep inside me and I let the damp earth muffle the sobs, the night air ruffling at my hair. I bang the ground with my fists, as if Mum will hear me knocking and come running. But nothing.

  Until a soft patter of feet makes me sit up and listen.

  ‘Hanu,’ I pant, trying to control my sobs. ‘It’s you.’

  He uncurls my fists with his slender fingers, opens my palm and slips a soft hand in. Then he flicks his tail and gold dust lights up the dark night as he lets go of my hand and races under the tree, climbs the charred branches and howls, beating his chest like a drum.

  ‘Where is she, Hanu?’ Tears slide from the corners of my eyes.

  He rushes back down, leaps on to my hip and I just manage to catch him. He rests his head in the nook of my shoulder and chin, wiping at my cheeks. I feel the pulse of his tiny heartbeat.

  I let the scrunched-up feelings free, swallow hard.

  ‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’

  ‘We’ll call you Tamarind,’ she sings. ‘Tamarind, like my beautiful tree . . . I’ll rock you in the tamarind tree . . .’

  ‘Tam, Tamarind! Wake up.’

  ‘Mum?’ I blink open my eyes. The familiar tune clinging to my dreams, like it’s always been there, just a heartbeat away.

  Sufia is shaking me. ‘Happy birthday!’ She’s holding a small tray with a cupcake in the centre and tea lights all around it.

  I rub my eyes and sit up slowly.

  ‘They’re already cooking downstairs, sweeping, cleaning. It’s mayhem.’

  I touch my ring. ‘I was dreaming of Mum. It was almost daylight and the tree was in blossom and Mum was there, swinging in the tree and she said she loved me.’

  ‘Of course she loved you.’ Sufia squeezes in next to me. ‘You don’t have to worry about anything now. Relax and enjoy your birthday.’ She holds the cupcake towards me. ‘Blow out the candles.’

  ‘OK, bossy,’ I laugh, taking a bite of the cake.

  She leans on to the floor and picks up a rectangular package. ‘This is for you.’

  I tear the patterned paper, and carefully untie the ribbon. ‘I put an album together for you. It’s got lots of old family photos, ones of your mum when she was little and Babajee too.’

  I hold the album to my chest. ‘Thank you,
Sufia. This is the best present ever.’ I open the first page, see a photo of Mum as a baby, and underneath a photo of me laying on the same patterned blanket.

  It’s like a jigsaw puzzle coming together; the more I find out, the clearer everything feels.

  ‘Why didn’t I realize that Ishta was my mum?’ I don’t want to cry on my birthday, but I just can’t help it and I let the tears plop on to my lap.

  ‘Look, don’t cry,’ Sufia says gently. ‘It’s incredible what happened, so special. You actually got to meet her.’ Sufia puts an arm around my shoulder. ‘It’s not something that happens every day. Just think how lucky you are! You’ll have those memories of meeting her and playing with her for ever.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I sniff. ‘Even though I didn’t know she was my mum, I still got to spend time with her, right? And she was such fun.’

  ‘Amazing, I’d say,’ smiles Sufia. ‘The way she saved me from the wolves, like she was keeping watch over us.’ She looks down at my ring. ‘Maybe she still is.’

  Remembering my time in the magical wild garden and doing all those fun things together like real friends makes me feel better.

  ‘And I know you’ve only got today but there’s still time to ask Nanijee whatever you want, and you did get to sleep in her room, and in the hut where she used to play. And it’s your birthday!’ Sufia stands up. ‘Come on, you’d better get up! Your dad and Chloe will be here soon and there’s loads to do.’

  ‘OK.’ I tuck the album under the bed covers and quickly change.

  ‘And just as we made friends,’ Sufia twiddles her ponytail, ‘you’re leaving.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to stop, does it? I’ll come back next summer and maybe you can come to England. I don’t think we’ll find a secret garden but there are fun things to do. I can show you round Bristol – that’s cool. And Sufia’ – I look her in the eye – ‘thank you for sharing your story with me.’

  ‘Tamarind,’ calls Nani, as we run through the hallway and into the dining room. The doors are wide open and it’s a beautiful day. ‘Come here.’ She clasps my face between her palms and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘We have hardly seen you this week, running wild in the garden at all hours of the day and night.’ She looks over to Uma who is tidying up. ‘Now, I had a special outfit made for your birthday party. Try it on later – surprise your papa.’