Tender Earth

by Sita Brahmachari

  I never thought of that. I suppose I think of Mira and Krish both knowing the same things. But even when you’re in the same family, each person knows different stories – and even when they are part of the same story, they probably wouldn’t tell it in the same way.

  I am just about to take the Protest Book out from under Mira’s bed and come clean about going to pick it up from Simon when Dad says something that stops me.

  ‘Thinking about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever played that to anyone since I recorded it. I think I wanted to keep it for myself. It was just a father-and-son chat . . . until now.’ Dad squeezes my shoulder. ‘When I was your age I was looking for something too, and that interview with my dad – well, it was just what I needed at the time. I suppose it was me saying, I want to understand what’s going on in the world, I’m not a kid any more.’

  So he did hear what I was saying about Kez’s bat mitzvah.

  Dad unplugs the CD player and heads for the door. I don’t even know why I do it, but I run at him and nearly knock him over I hug him so tight.

  ‘Steady!’ He laughs. ‘Don’t knock the old boy off his feet!’

  ‘You sounded just like Grandad Kit then.’

  In the morning, on our doorstep, I find a hand-delivered card addressed to me. It’s an invitation to Kez’s bat mitzvah. There’s a little note with it too, asking us all over for ‘Sunday supper’ at the end of half-term ‘to round off Janu’s stay’. He isn’t even here yet! If this had arrived yesterday it would have annoyed me, but something about listening to those tapes with Dad feels like it’s changed something.

  ‘He’s landed – shouldn’t be too long now!’ Dad says, checking the arrivals board.

  A group of businessmen and women walk out of the Executive Exit, carrying briefcases. They look like they’ve been at some sort of conference. They’re followed by a short bald man accompanied by a woman in an airline uniform who’s wheeling his suitcase for him. On either side of them are two enormous bodyguards. The bald man looks around smiling at people, like everyone should know who he is.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask Dad.

  ‘I think he might be a politician. Or maybe a businessman . . . actually, maybe an actor? I think I might have seen him on TV.’ Dad shrugs, like it’s all the same thing.

  After a while, crumpled-looking people start to stream through the main exit. A little boy who’s just woken up is crying and snotting into his mum’s shoulder. An old man’s struggling to manoeuvre his suitcase because one wheel is broken. Then there’s a rush of people meeting each other and hugging. But even after waiting for another ten minutes, there’s still no sign of Janu. Dad starts to pace.

  ‘Just a moment!’ He goes over to a desk to talk to an official, who telephones someone else. Then he comes back over to me, sits down and sighs.

  ‘Where is he?’ I ask.

  ‘They say they’re going through some final checks in customs.’

  Dad’s phone rings.

  ‘Yes. I can confirm that he’s staying with us. Yes and after that he goes to visit his relative in New York. We’re waiting for him in Arrivals now.’

  Dad pulls a face at the person on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Yes, I understand. Thank you . . . What a weird thing to say!’ Dad shrugs as he ends the call.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She suggested I buy him a pair of shoes!’

  I had completely forgotten about the barefoot blog thing Janu’s doing. I wonder if Mum’s forgotten to tell Dad too. There’s a shout and then this tall, shaven-headed man comes running towards us.

  ‘Sam! Lai Lai!’ he calls. ‘Sorry for delaying you!’

  As he runs through the crowd, people turn and stare at him . . . and I suddenly feel really embarrassed. I can’t believe he’s actually come on the aeroplane barefoot, but I suppose he did say that’s what he was going to do, so he has to stick to it. He looks different from the way he looked when we went to India. Definitely older than he seemed even a few weeks ago on Skype. Maybe it’s his shaved head. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a thick navy blue salwar top with a baggy jumper over it . . . and no shoes. He looks like a model on a photo shoot at the seaside, not like someone who’s just got off an international flight.

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? If you wear shoes, they make you take them off to go through the scanner. If you have no shoes, they want you to put some on!’ He laughs.

  ‘Did they give you a hard time?’ Dad asks.

  ‘No, not so hard!’ Janu smiles. ‘After I explained –’ he points to his feet – ‘and showed them my website. While I was waiting I was planning my first blog post: “Barefoot in Heathrow Airport”! The security woman who pulled me over says she’s going to pledge my first ten pounds on British soil!’

  Dad looks down at Janu’s feet and shakes his head, like he can’t quite put this thing together.

  ‘Didn’t Anjali say? I’m going barefoot from Kolkata to London then on to New York and back again!’

  ‘I didn’t think you would actually go through with it!’ I say.

  ‘I think she did mention it a while back,’ Dad says. ‘It would have been easier in the summer.’

  Dad looks at me and away to a few people staring at Janu’s feet, then grins and shakes his head as if to say, This is going to be fun!

  It’s weird how you can go the whole day without noticing what kind of shoes anyone’s wearing, but the moment someone doesn’t have any on, especially in an official place like an airport, people really notice. I suppose barefoot people don’t usually travel by plane.

  Dad pays for the parking. ‘Come on then, let’s get you home! It’s good to see you, Janu – shoes or no shoes!’

  Dad drives out of the airport. Once someone lets him into the right lane of traffic he starts chatting again.

  ‘What happened to the hair? You haven’t turned into a holy man or something, have you?’ Dad asks.

  ‘When I had long hair you thought I looked like a holy man. Now I have no hair I am accused of the same!’

  ‘True!’ Dad admits.

  ‘It’s the same as Krish’s,’ I say.

  ‘Yours too, Sam!’ says Janu, pointing to the back of Dad’s head.

  ‘Nothing to do with fashion in my case, I’m afraid!’ Dad shakes his head, but I can tell he’s amused. ‘I don’t know – you and Krish could have a full mop. Hair is so wasted on the young!’ He laughs and pulls on to the motorway.

  ‘So, what’s new, Lai Lai?’ Janu asks.

  ‘For a start I’m not Lai Lai any more . . .’

  ‘Sorry, yes, Anjali told me of your reincarnation!’

  ‘Where’s this wild weather come from?’ Dad asks as he attempts to heave Janu’s rucksack out of the boot. Janu takes it off him and lifts it out as if it’s not that heavy. The wind’s whipping under the boot now making it difficult for Dad to close.

  I look up at the tree outside our house with the snake sign still pasted on it. The few leaves that were still clinging on have been blown off, leaving the branches bare. Mum opens the front door. The wind blasts so strongly that the door bashes back against the wall. A cascade of leaves races into the hallway ahead of us.

  There are lamps and candles lit everywhere – I didn’t even know we had this many candles. To be honest it’s a bit over the top. Mum’s even lit the sandalwood joysticks that Dad always says remind him of Nana Josie, the same ones that Aunt Anjali burns in her flat in Kolkata. I suppose she’s only trying to make Janu feel at home. There’s a feast laid out on the table, with a cloth and proper napkins Mum only gets out for visitors. Can houses have feelings? Before Janu walked in, this house felt a bit sad and empty and decrepit to me, and now it’s like everything’s suddenly got brighter . . . It’s not just the candles either . . .

  After Janu’s washed and changed, we all tuck into Mum’s spread of food.

  ‘Delicious paneer, Uma,’ Janu tells her as he scoops some into his mouth. ‘At least as good as Anjali’s!’

 
‘Well, she taught me how to make it!’ Mum shrugs off the compliment, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  ‘Cheers, Janu, welcome!’ Dad says, and everyone raises their glasses. Mum’s poured a bit of red wine and water into mine. I clink glasses and go to take a sip, but it smells gross so I don’t bother.

  ‘So this barefoot thing is a kind of fundraising experiment . . . ?’ Dad says.

  ‘Not so much an experiment – it’s already started working. How to explain?’ Janu takes a sip of water. ‘I’ve been on a few barefoot protests, mostly about treatment of the poor in the villages. It got me thinking maybe I could do it as a final fundraising push for the new refuge. I have a target of one hundred thousand rupees by the time I get home.’

  ‘How much is that in pounds?’ I ask.

  ‘Around ten thousand pounds.’

  Dad whistles. ‘And how much have you raised so far?’

  ‘The equivalent of about three thousand pounds. Thanks to Anjali I’ve already had support from some businesses in India and sponsorship for my blog from one of Priya’s music-producer friends. She’s putting on a concert when I’m in New York. The blog side was actually her idea. I can’t believe how many followers I’m getting, from all over the world too! They seem to like the idea . . .’

  ‘Well, I know I wouldn’t fancy walking round London barefoot,’ Dad says. ‘No one would blame you if you changed your mind!’

  ‘It will be OK; I think I have survived worse!’ Janu laughs. ‘You know Chameli, my ma, was worried about me travelling here. She has never moved outside the village, so she went to consult her sadhu to see if it was an auspicious time for me to make the trip. You know how important it is to consult the stars! I think she was hoping the holy man would tell me to forget about my barefoot travels. But no!’ Janu closes his eyes, nods wisely, points up to the ceiling and speaks really slowly in a solemn whisper. ‘No, Chameli – your boy must travel barefoot so he takes his orphan brothers and sisters with him. He has been fortunate, so he must always remember to keep his purpose on track. After all, Gandhiji showed us: it is hard for a barefoot man to become arrogant.’ Janu opens his eyes and beams at us. ‘I tell you the stars are with him, Chameli. Let him go!’ He shakes his head and laughs.

  ‘So thanks to the alignment of the constellations, I come with her blessing.’

  ‘Well, you can tell the sadhu when you get back that immigration weren’t too impressed!’ Dad jokes. ‘And I wouldn’t try it on the next leg of your journey! If you’ll forgive the pun.’

  I think maybe Dad’s getting a bit merry!

  After we’ve eaten, Mum and Dad clear the table and Janu unpacks the presents he’s brought. As he takes out the gifts in the top of his rucksack, a jasmine smell that reminds me of Anjali’s balcony spreads around the room. I don’t remember us taking this many presents with us when we went to India.

  There’s a cotton salwar and kurta for Mum and Dad from Aunt Anjali, and a beautiful notebook with handmade paper covered in green-and-turquoise sari silk for me.

  There’s a weird-looking musical instrument for Krish, and a tiny square-shaped leather box . . . Janu sees me looking and quickly tucks it in his pocket.

  ‘Just a small gift for Mira. I’ll give it to her when I see her.’ He smiles. ‘Do you think she’s going to be able to come back from college?’

  ‘Hasn’t she been in touch?’

  Janu shakes his head.

  ‘She’s going to try,’ Mum says.

  ‘Good, good. I would like to see her after so long.’

  I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but I think Janu looks a bit emotional. He digs further into his rucksack, hiding his face.

  ‘I could hardly carry any clothes because of all this weight, but my ma insisted I bring this . . . I showed her your snake in the kitchen on Facebook, and afterwards when I asked her what I should bring as a gift for you, nothing would do except this statue. She kept telling me, “Can’t you see it’s obvious they’ve entered the cycle of change?” I told her, “Ma, that may be, but if I take this statue I will not have room for my clothes and I’ll have to pay excess!” “You can get clothes anywhere!” she told me.’

  Janu lifts out the statue with both hands and inspects it.

  ‘So that’s why your bag weighs a ton!’

  Janu smiles. ‘You know about Shiva? Too much the priest or too much the party guy until he finds his Parvathi to keep him in balance.’

  ‘So, have you found your Parvathi?’ Dad asks.

  Why do parents have to be so embarrassing?

  Janu laughs, but doesn’t answer.

  After dinner Mum takes Janu off to Krish’s bedroom to settle in, and I go into Mira’s room, close the door and phone her. It rings and rings. Krish and Mira promised they would call me all the time, but they hardly ever do. So I text them both the same message.

  Janu’s here. He says he really wants to see you both.

  He’s got presents for you.

  I really want to see you too.

  Come home soon.

  There’s only Mum and Dad left to argue with!

  Love, Laila X

  ‘Laila has told me of this grounding, Uma,’ says Janu the next morning. ‘I don’t know what naughtiness she has done, but make one exception for me! I’m going to have a lot of planning work and travelling around to do with Hannah over the next two weeks. There may not be another whole day to spend together, if not today.’

  ‘I suppose . . .’ Mum laughs. ‘Has Laila put you up to this?’

  I shrug. It was actually my idea to take Janu up Parliament Hill and show him the view of London.

  I’m in my trainers on the concrete path and Janu’s walking on the grass barefoot.

  ‘Aren’t your feet freezing?’ I ask.

  ‘A little, but I’ll get accustomed. My soles are hardened from walking barefoot at home.’

  ‘Careful!’ I push Janu’s arm as I spot the splinters of a broken bottle on the path, but he’s already seen it and takes a wide circle around it.

  ‘Apparently Ma’s sadhu told her I have to find green parks on my path. He has this theory that when you walk barefoot it sends a charge from the earth through you.’

  ‘Well, I’d watch out for the dog poo if I were you!’ I point to a sausage-shaped turd on the grass.

  Janu throws his head back and laughs.

  ‘Come on, little cynic . . . I’ll race you!’

  Before I can argue, Janu’s sprinting up Parliament Hill. There’s no contest. His legs are twice as long as mine.

  ‘Unfair advantage!’ I manage to splutter out between puffs as he reaches the top of the hill, way ahead of me, and sits on the bench.

  ‘That’s life!’ Janu laughs. ‘Fantastic views from here!’ He takes out his iPhone and scans from left to right and then down to his feet.

  ‘It’s for a competition thing on my blog. I’m trying out different ideas to get some traction. For this one, people must guess the location of where I’m standing barefoot!’

  We look over the city and Janu points out the landmarks. He names some of them: St Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament – and I fill him in on the ones he doesn’t know: Canary Wharf, the Gherkin . . .

  ‘The Gherkin! Like a pickle? In Kolkata maybe they will build a shiny glass chilli!’

  I start laughing, and I don’t know if it’s the relief of having someone more Mira’s age to talk to, but I can’t stop giggling.

  ‘What’s so funny, Laila?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . You being here.’

  Janu nods. ‘Do I seem so out of place?’

  I look down at his feet and pull a ‘what-do-you-think?’ face.

  ‘I suppose I do . . . But I hear you like to do things your own way too.’

  I don’t know how to answer him.

  ‘You know we sat up talking a bit after you went to bed last night. Your ma and pa are worried. They told me that you’ve been quite unsettled these last few weeks.’
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  Janu doesn’t look at me, but I feel my face and neck heat up. How dare they talk to him about me! If Mira and Krish were here too, they probably would have called another full-blown what’s-happening-with-Laila conference.

  ‘And what’s that one?’ he asks, pointing at a glistening peak.

  ‘The Shard,’ I say.

  ‘All that glistens is not gold!’

  ‘It’s more silver, I think!’

  Janu laughs and turns to me, waiting for an answer. It’s hard to escape those dark eyes that look right into you.

  ‘You know, my sister Priya used to get grounded all the time for sneaking out to her music gigs. Perhaps you are a little rebellious like Priya? But look at her now, building her musical kingdom in New York! Tell me, how is Mira? I haven’t managed to speak to her yet.’

  ‘Fine, I think.’ I tap the bench. ‘This is her favourite place.’

  ‘In that case, thanks for bringing me here,’ Janu says.

  An old lady with a rainbow-striped cardigan walks up the hill slightly out of breath.

  Janu stands up to give her his place, but she pats the air for him to sit again. Instead she places her hand on the back of the bench and admires the view. She looks down at Janu’s bare feet and smiles.

  ‘I used to walk around barefoot all the time when I was young. Still do sometimes – not at this time of year though! Feels good, doesn’t it?’ she says.

  Janu gets into a conversation with her about the refuge he’s raising money for in his village. It turns out that when the old lady was young she travelled all over India and she worked with some disabled children from a place called Bhopal that Janu seems to know all about.

  ‘Ah!’ the old lady says. ‘And still no proper compensation for those families.’

  Janu says he’ll include her story on his blog post if she signs in. Fifteen minutes later he’s given her a tiny card that has a picture of bare feet on it and says:

  Barefoot Blogger

  Donating with ‘heart ’n’ sole!’

  www.barefootblogger.com

  On the way down the hill we watch the old woman pause at a bench, take her shoes off and carry them in her hand, swinging her arms as she goes.