During our ‘discussion’, Janu comes in.
‘If anyone has to take me, Janu can!’
‘Laila! Don’t be so rude.’ Mum looks really shocked. ‘Sorry about this, Janu.’
He quietly sits down at the table drinking tea and writing what looks like a letter, but I can’t exactly see because his arm shields the paper. Whatever it is he’s writing, he has to start it over a lot of times. He keeps crumpling up the pages.
‘No! Don’t worry at all, Uma; I’m happy to take her. She did ask me earlier.’ Janu folds the piece of paper over and puts it in his pocket, then collects up the rubbish, scrunches it up and puts that in his pocket too. ‘What day is your sleepover?’
‘Saturday,’ Mum and me both say together.
‘Perfect! I’m going that way anyway with some student friends I met. I’ve been invited to my own sleepover party!’ Janu jokes. Don’t worry, Uma, I’ll drop Laila there and pick her up on Sunday morning.’
Mum looks like she wants to put up an argument but can’t think of a reason to object.
I call Pari and tell her the plan. She asks what I like to eat. I don’t want her mum to go to too much trouble, so I say pizza – I think that’s pretty safe. As we’re talking my feet kick against something on the floor. I peer under the table. There’s a ball of paper. I can’t drag it closer towards me with my foot so I crawl under the table and pick it up.
The front door’s open and Mum and Janu are standing by the wall chatting on the street. I turn my back to them and un-scrunch the paper . . .
Dear Mira,
Sorry we haven’t spoken. I have tried calling you and emailing without any luck, so now I am writing this letter. It feels unnatural to write when I am finally in the same country as you and we’re only a few hours away from each other! I think you know how much I want to see you . . . Over every other reason, I am here to see you . . .
You will never guess . . .
I feel terrible for him. It looks like I’m not the only one to keep secrets. Does he love her? I think I can guess what’s in that little square box that Janu’s brought over for Mira. Poor Janu . . . I wish I hadn’t see that kiss in the hallway between Jidé and Mira.
I go into Mira’s room, close the door and call her. It rings for a while before she picks up.
Me: Hi, Mira.
Mira: Why are you whispering, Laila?
Me: Mira, you’ve got to come home and see Janu. I think he loves—
Mira: Listen, Laila, I can’t come. One day I’ll try to explain. Don’t ask me again. I’m really busy with this exhibition.
Me: Have you heard from Jidé again?
Mira: Yes, he’s . . . Look, Laila, there are things you don’t understand, and one day . . . Well, anyway, I can’t talk about it now, but I can’t come back. I’ve got to go . . . I’ll call you soon . . .
Me: What if he’s going to ask you to—
Mira: I have to go, Laila. Speak soon.
I know when Mira’s crying. I can hear it in her voice. I’m sorry I’ve called and upset her, but I feel like I’m in the middle of something and no one’s thought to tell me what it is – as usual. What would little Lai Lai understand anyway?
Outside the tube station a man about Janu’s age sits on the pavement next to a sleeping bag that’s all curled up like a shiny grey slug. Tucked inside it are bin liners and beer cans. The homeless man looks down at Janu’s feet.
‘What happened to your shoes, mate?’
‘I’m not wearing them.’
‘I can see that!’
‘Want a cup of tea?’ Janu asks.
‘Wouldn’t say no!’
‘How do you take it – milk and sugar?’
‘Milk, four sugars,’ the man says, grinning. Half of his teeth are gone and the rest are black.
Janu walks off to buy tea from the little kiosk in the station, leaving me wondering whether to follow him or not. The homeless man smells of stale beer and cigarettes and his clothes are all stained. Maybe he’s older than Janu.
‘Is he a Hari Krishna or something?’ the man asks me, pointing over to Janu.
I suppose he is wearing an orange jumper today. I stand a bit away from the homeless man. I don’t really want to talk to him, but as Janu’s left me standing here I don’t feel like I’ve got much choice.
I try to explain a bit about Janu’s Barefoot Blog and the refuge. I didn’t think he would be interested but it seems like he is.
‘I’d like to see him get through the whole winter living on the streets like that!’
I’m relieved to see Janu come out of the station.
‘Your tea!’ Janu says as he hands it to the man.
The homeless man struggles a bit to take the lid off the tea because his hands are trembling so much. Finally he manages it and takes a sip. He looks Janu straight in the eye and says:
‘This is the worst brew I’ve had in a long time!’
‘Thanks!’ Janu laughs and holds out his hand for the homeless man to shake.
The man hesitates for a moment and then takes Janu’s hand and holds on to it while they carry on talking.
‘Not your fault, mate. You didn’t make it!’
‘Can I do anything to help? Have you got numbers for any shelters around here?’
The man nods. ‘You’re not one of them that’s gonna give me a cup of tea then want my life story?’
Janu shakes his head.
‘Thanks for this though,’ the homeless man says, breaking his handshake with Janu. ‘No one’s offered me a hand in a while!’
Janu nods and goes to walk away but the man calls after him.
‘Want my advice?’
Janu raises his chin in the air and waits for it.
‘Put some shoes on! Take it from me, there’s too much filth on these streets.’
The homeless man was right. Janu’s feet are disgustingly grimy just from walking from our house to the tube. His soles are already black with dirt. People can’t help glancing at them and then quickly away, like they’re embarrassed. It feels just like the carriage felt when the tissue family got on . . . only now, because I’m with Janu with his bare feet, I’m part of what’s embarrassing. I reach behind me and pick up a free paper. Janu reads it over my shoulder. I’m not that interested, but I don’t want to have to sit here and look at people staring at us. Every time the tube doors open I half expect the girl and her family to get on, selling their tissues, but they don’t. People notice Janu’s feet and look away, like they’re disturbed by him. This woman opposite me looks like she’s monitoring us . . . Like me and Janu shouldn’t know each other. I want to tell everyone that Janu’s my sort-of cousin. Why do people have to judge others just because they’re different? What is that look on people’s faces? It’s something like a mixture of pity and disgust, I think. I can see the girl’s eyes in my mind right now, as if she’s standing in front of me and waiting. ‘See how it feels to be judged,’ she’s saying to me.
‘Are you OK?’ Janu asks.
I wipe my eyes.
‘Yes, I’ve just got something in my eye.’
Pari’s flat is in the opposite direction to the Caring Community. There’s not much green where we’re walking, and Janu’s having to pick his way carefully up the street. There are smears of dirt and liquid all over the concrete. It makes me feel sick.
‘That homeless man was right about the pavement. It’s disgusting. Are you OK? You’re so quiet,’ Janu asks me.
I nod.
We pass a derelict house with a few smashed windows and a giant graffiti tag on the outside.
‘I really was not expecting to find this here; it’s just like back home. Perhaps I was naive.’ Janu’s talking, mostly to himself I think.
We’re walking along a noisy road with two lanes of traffic on either side. Janu says something to me, but I don’t hear because his voice is muffled by the roar of traffic and he’s holding his hand over his mouth. I do the same . . . I can taste the tinny pollution o
n my tongue. Janu takes his hand away from his mouth for a moment and shouts over the din of the buses, lorries and cars. As I walk along the road my ears are bombarded with all the sounds that Pari wanted to put into our composition – the clanging, screeching noises that I had thought were a bit over the top. I can see it now. She was doing her whole journey from school to home. No wonder she wanted the music to get louder and more clashing.
‘Which block is it?’ Janu shouts.
The high walls of three solid tower blocks built side by side cast everything below into shadow, including us.
‘Lighthouse Block Two.’
‘These super-high-rises are going up all over Kolkata too. They don’t look like this when they’re new though. Some of them are so smart, but I don’t fancy them myself. You know how I like to keep my feet on the ground.’ Janu tries to joke but neither of us are smiling.
Maybe these tower blocks did once look light, but not any more with half their windows boarded up. My mind keeps flashing back to the first day Pari came to our house. ‘Doesn’t anyone try and break in?’
I understand her question about the stained glass now. It doesn’t seem so weird any more.
We make our way along the shadow path, past Lighthouse Block One to an identical Block Two, which is more in shadow than the first tower. We walk up a narrow path to the side of the building. Janu has to pick his way slowly along. There are a few empty parking bays with oversized bins lying on their sides and foul-smelling rubbish spilling out everywhere. In another bay there’s the shell of a car parked sideways, as if the driver’s screeched to a halt and done a runner. It has one back tyre, one front tyre and no doors. I know that if Mum had driven me here she would never let me stay.
We walk through a rusted yellow metal door into a kind of foyer – although that makes it sound a bit like a hotel, and this is definitely nothing like a hotel. It’s not even as nice as that youth hostel we went to in Paris once – at least that was clean-ish. In front of us there are grey concrete stairs and a lift. I can hear Pari’s music screaming through my head. Janu slows down, watching where he places his feet. He peers around the staircase, walking up the first few steps, then quickly changes his mind and comes back down.
‘Let’s try the lift. Twenty floors is a long way to walk on cold concrete,’ he says.
I press the button and the overhead light counts down from twenty to one. Pari must live right at the top. The metal doors crank open and we step into the lift. It smells of incense.
‘I wasn’t expecting a sweet-smelling lift after what I saw on the stairs!’ Janu says.
‘What did you see?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.’
But as we go up through the building the smell underneath the incense is of pee and aerosol. I feel like I’m going to be sick. Janu lifts up one foot and pulls off a piece of chewing gum stuck to his heel. He takes some wipes from his bag, squats down and does his best to clean his feet and hands. As he kneels I see that the walls of the lift are sprayed over . . . to cover up what’s written there. It hasn’t worked. The messages still show through.
REFUGEE SCROUNGERS
GO HOME
Now I can hear the high-pitched drone Pari wanted to have running all the way through our music. I couldn’t really understand why she was so keen on it before, but now I think I know what she was trying to put into the music: FEAR and ANGER. If I had to face this lift every single day on my own, I would have that desperate sound in my head too. I can’t wait to get away from the reek in here.
‘Janu . . . you won’t tell Mum what it’s like here, will you? If you do, she won’t let me come again.’
‘No guarantees, Laila. First I need to make sure you are safe; then I will decide.’
I actually feel like asking Janu to take me home, but I can’t let Pari down now. What’s looking at this every day going to do to her? Janu keeps checking on me as if he’s asking if I want to carry on, but he doesn’t say anything more.
Flat twenty is a thick metal door like all the others on the floor. Janu rings the bell and someone starts to fiddle with the lock on the other side. It opens slightly. I see wrinkles around worried dark eyes and long grey hair. This must be Pari’s mum. She catches sight of Janu and quickly pushes the door closed again.
I hear Pari’s voice now. She’s speaking to her mum in Arabic and repeating what she’s said in English.
‘It’s all right, Mum, that’s Laila’s cousin from India . . . I told you about him. Don’t you remember?’
Her mum sounds nervous.
‘Just hang on a minute!’ Pari calls.
The door opens a slit as Pari’s mum takes another long look at Janu through the tiny gap, but she keeps the chain across. Pari is talking to her like she’s trying to hurry her along. After a while Pari’s mum finally unlatches the chain. Her head is covered now.
‘Sorry about that!’ Pari mumbles.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan, welcome, welcome.’ Leyla claps her hands, says something to Pari and touches my shoulder. ‘Pretty friend, looking like sisters!’
I suppose we do look quite alike.
Pari’s wearing skinny jeans and a thick jumper with some silver sparkle thread through it. Her hair is silky straight and dyed the same colour as Kez’s!
‘It’s not permanent! When I saw Kez’s hair I thought I’d have a go too.’ She laughs.
‘It’s . . .’
‘You don’t need to pretend,’ Pari says. ‘I don’t like it either. It’ll be washed out soon.’
I’ve never seen her hair uncovered. I didn’t think it would be so long – it reaches all the way down her back. I wish I’d dressed up a bit more now, instead of wearing my old leggings and sweatshirt.
‘Find the flat all right? Did you take the lift? Was it OK? It’s better than the stairs.’ Pari fires questions at me.
‘Yeah, it was fine.’
Pari’s chewing on her bottom lip. She looks like she’s worried I’m not going to stay.
‘I’m sorry, if my husband is here I can invite you in – but I am alone. Sorry,’ Pari’s mum says to Janu. Then she stares at his feet.
‘Oh! Bismillah. Why so you walk in dirt with no shoes?’
‘It’s a long story! Laila will tell you,’ Janu says, peering into the hallway. ‘Delicious smells!’
‘Mum’s been cooking for days,’ Pari explains, rolling her eyes.
‘I’ll pick you up in the morning then, Laila. About ten, OK? I’ll call Uma to let her know I’ve dropped you here.’
‘OK, thanks!’
‘Pari, don’t leave your friend to stand in hall. Take your shoes, put there . . .’
I unlace my trainers. There are three pairs of shoes in the hallway: some small, flat, sensible lace-ups, which look like they belong to Pari’s mum; Pari’s school shoes; and a pair of trainers in Pari’s size. She points to some slipper-like pumps on the floor and I put them on.
‘How many people live in this house?’
‘I know where I’ll come if I need shoes.’
‘I’m not a charity case.’
Pari’s words echo back to me. I can see now exactly what she saw when she came to mine.
‘You girls go and wash first,’ Pari’s mum says, pointing to a door.
I follow Pari into the bathroom. She has to stand behind the door while I edge in, and then we just about have room to close the door if we both stand on tiptoe and squeeze our bodies around towards the sink. The bathroom has a shower, a sink and a toilet, all shiny clean except for where the enamel is chipped away. There’s a pile of clean towels by the sink.
Pari and I stand together and wash our hands with soap that smells of medical disinfectant. I would have finished and dried my hands ages ago, but Pari is still washing hers over and over, so I do the same. She must have the most germ-free hands in the world.
Pari’s mum is standing in the doorway opposite the bathroom waiting for us. She’s smaller than Pari and plump with a round face
nothing like Pari’s oval high-cheekboned one. She’s taken her scarf off now. She has long grey hair tied in a thick plait and she’s wearing an ankle-length blue towelling housecoat like the one Nana Kath sometimes wears at bedtime, but Pari’s mum looks like she’s got more clothes underneath hers. On her feet she has sandals with socks.
‘My name is Leyla and your name is Laila?’
‘Mum! You promised – no jokes!’
‘Pari told me of you, Laila . . . and I am playing joke with classic song you know it? I say tom-ay-to and you say tom-ah-to . . . ?’
I nod and try to stop myself laughing at the mortified faces Pari’s pulling!
‘I say I’m Leyla and you say you Laila!’ Leyla takes my hand and starts to dance with it. ‘You know this song?’
‘We get it, Mum!’ Pari groans. ‘Can we come through now?’
I nod and can’t stop myself from bursting out laughing.
‘See! She has understanding of good joke!’
Now I get that happy, playful music Pari was so keen to end our composition with. I think it was the music of being with her Mum when she’s finally safe in her flat behind the closed, locked door.
‘Mum! She’s my friend!’ Pari laughs.
‘Yes, yes, I know, but mine also. We are near-to-same-name friends! Now we are all friends, so . . .’
‘Mum, you promised me . . .’
Leyla stands aside. There’s a cake with thirteen lit candles on the table.
‘Happy birthday to you,’ Leyla sings . . . and after a moment, when it sinks in that this is why she’s invited me, I join in. I feel terrible.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I only brought chocolates. I didn’t know you were thirteen!’
‘I missed a lot of school in year three, when my Mum wasn’t very well, so they let me repeat,’ Pari explains, leaning up close to me so her mum can’t hear.
‘Kez did too. I feel like the baby!’
Pari smiles at me shyly, and shrugs. ‘I didn’t want to make a thing of my birthday. I just wanted you to come for a sleepover. That’s the best!’
Tender Earth Page 20