Tender Earth

by Sita Brahmachari

  SILENCE ABOUT RACISM IS NEVER GOLDEN.

  I look at Pari, and her huge eyes are filled with tears. That’s what she remembered, being carried on her dad’s shoulders – but now it sounds like she hardly knows him.

  ‘Mum! You promised me we wouldn’t have to watch the news . . .’ Pari reaches over in front of her mum and switches off the TV.

  ‘You are right, my Pari,’ Leyla says, rubbing her daughter’s spine where the sun hits her back. ‘Sun kiss here!’ she says.

  Leyla talks to Pari in Arabic and then Pari grabs hold of her mum and the two of them sit on the end of the bed hugging each other tight and rocking back and forth.

  ‘What did your mum just tell you?’ I ask. ‘She looked so happy.’ I get out of the sleeping bag and stand by the crate-shelves, shivering.

  ‘She thinks you and the new moon coming for my birthday is a new beginning. We’re going to the mosque this morning before we visit my dad. She feels peaceful. Last night she slept all through the night for the first time since I was born!’

  ‘Throw open curtains, girls!’ Pari’s mum calls out to us. ‘Our home will be sunshine today, no need for heating – Bismillah.’

  Leyla hangs back by the kitchen door when Janu comes to pick me up. She hands me an envelope. ‘Give this with your cousin.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Janu asks, as I hand it to him.

  ‘Please take,’ Leyla calls to him. ‘If you refuse, you insult me. You sign it in your website. You say Leyla Pashaei from Iraq, refugee in London, she gives to your children refuge school in India.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No but . . . it is not much, but every pound is helping. There is poor and there is poor. I have seen all in my life, I have lived all . . . So, what about me? No foot photo? I painted!’ She laughs and points at her shocking-pink varnished toenails.

  Janu stands in the doorway and hands me his phone, and I take a picture of Leyla’s feet.

  ‘I am proud my feet in your story.’

  ‘Mum!’ Pari groans.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pashaei,’ Janu says, and lowers his head in a respectful little bow.

  ‘Thank you for bring Laila to here – this is best birthday present for Pari!’

  As she closes the door we both hear her say . . . ‘Very handsome boy. I am thinking he looks little like Bollywood star!’

  Janu laughs and poses as if looking into a camera lens.

  ‘In your dreams!’ I joke.

  Just as we approach the station, a boy on the other side of the road waves at me.

  ‘Hey, Mira!’ he calls, more than once.

  I pretend I don’t know him, but it’s definitely the the same boy who showed me the way to the Caring Community the first time I came to see Simon. The one I pretended I couldn’t speak English to. I want to disappear. I just walk faster, but Janu stops.

  The boy runs across the road and catches sight of Janu’s feet. Now he’s smiling at me.

  ‘Hi, Mira!’ he says.

  ‘Hi!’

  Janu is looking confused.

  I am so embarrassed I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Are you going to introduce us, Laila?’ Janu asks.

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry! This is Janu, my cousin . . . from India,’ I mumble in a quiet voice.

  ‘Your English has improved a bit.’ The boy laughs. ‘Good to meet you. I’m Tomek . . . most people call me Tom.’

  ‘My name’s actually Laila,’ I explain. ‘Mira’s my sister . . .’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ He shrugs. ‘Been to see your friend again?’

  I nod. Janu gives me a sideways look.

  There’s another awkward silence.

  ‘Well, see you again, Laila . . . I hope.’ Tom heads off to the tube ahead of us.

  We walk further up the road and Janu starts chuckling to himself.

  ‘Why did he think you were Mira?’ he asks. ‘And what was that about your English?’

  I shrug. It seems easier not to even start to explain. Janu carries on laughing to himself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.

  ‘You . . . so full of surprises! You forget I grew up with Priya. You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.’

  ‘I do not!’

  I bash Janu on the arm and he yelps.

  ‘He looked happy to see you anyway!’

  I roll my eyes, but I do see how it looks.

  The train’s just pulling in as we arrive on the platform, so we step straight on to the carriage. As soon as we do I regret it, because at the far end I spot Tom. I turn my back and lean against the glass so that even if he sees me I can pretend I don’t know he’s there. We go one stop. People get off and a group of men get on. They’re rowdy and drunk. The space around them grows as people move to the edges of the carriage. One of them’s eating a burger that’s stinking out the place with stale grease. The way he chews and gulps it down makes me feel sick. Another man takes a beer out of his bag, pulls the tag, throws it on the floor and starts swigging from the can, letting beer dribble down his mouth and on to his neck. The train jolts and the beer spills out over the floor and on to Janu’s feet. Janu steps backwards. The man looks at him, squashes his can and drops it on the floor, just missing Janu’s toes.

  Janu bends down, picks up the can and hands it back to the man, who refuses to take it.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ the man with the burger asks.

  Janu gestures for me to move away from him, further up the carriage. The men all shuffle right up close to Janu, so close that they’re whispering straight into his ears. He flinches away as drops of spit settle on his face.

  ‘Lost your shoes in the jungle?’

  I look down at their feet. They’re wearing huge, heavy boots. There are three other men in the group who move in front of Janu now, blocking him in. This strange noise starts up – they’re all making it, and it’s loud enough for people around us in the carriage to know what’s going on. I think it’s supposed to be a monkey noise. I feel sick and frozen, like my feet are stuck to the floor.

  At the next stop people get off and move into the carriage further up. I want to grab hold of someone and ask them to help us but everyone’s moving away. I turn around. Tom hasn’t moved. He must read the panic in my eyes. He walks up the carriage to the far end, away from us. I don’t know why I thought he would help. Janu’s face is set in this stern mask that I haven’t seen before. Now that the carriage is empty the men switch up the volume on their monkey noises and they stand either side of Janu and start to march on the spot, every so often stamping hard on both of his feet. Janu winces in pain. The man with the beer is eyeballing Janu, but he looks somewhere past him and doesn’t step back or move or react at all.

  I look for Tom in panic. Please let him do something to help us.

  Tom nods at me and pushes the red ‘alarm’ button.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  I can’t believe how quiet Janu’s being. One of the men cuffs the back of his head where his tattoo still shows under the stubble of his hair.

  ‘What’s with the tat?’

  They start up their monkey-chanting again.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ I shout.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘He’s my cousin!’ I say.

  ‘Are you one too then? That’s the problem – you can’t tell now.’ The man with the beer starts up the monkey sounds again and spits on my shoes.

  ‘That’s what they do!’ The man with a mouth full of burger says, spitting bits out as he speaks: ‘Breed.’

  ‘At least this one’s got the sense to wear shoes!’ One of the other men laughs and shoves me out of the way. I stumble back and my head bashes into the glass.

  Tom runs up the carriage towards me and holds my arm. He’s been so quiet that I don’t think the men knew he was there.

  ‘I would give it a rest if I were you! The police will be on at the next stop,’ he says.

  ‘Just having a bit of fun, mate!’

  The do
ors open and the men step out into the arms of security police.

  ‘I’m not your mate,’ Tom says.

  An announcement blares out across the station.

  ‘Due to an ongoing incident, this train will be delayed. We request that any witnesses please report to the transport police on this platform.’

  I look through into the next carriage, and a few people walk towards the police. Janu collapses on to a seat and Tom sits down next to me. The police get on and start interviewing the three of us.

  I can’t stop crying. I’m so angry and sad for Janu. Tom sits by me. I take out a tissue from the pack the little girl gave me and I try to wipe away my tears, but they just won’t stop coming. I use up the whole packet.

  ‘And you’re a friend of Laila’s?’ a policewoman asks Tom.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he says, as if we’ve known each other for ages. He takes my hand and holds it tight.

  ‘My dad’s had abuse,’ he says softly. ‘I never get it because they don’t know I’m Polish – not till I tell them my name. That’s why I’m Tom to most people.’

  The police tell us that they’re taking this kind of racial abuse seriously and they want to take it further, but Janu explains that he’s only visiting and he doesn’t want a legal case. I’m holding my phone and Tomek gently takes it out of my hands and keys in his number.

  ‘If you ever want to talk, Laila.’

  ‘Thank you, Tomek,’ I say.

  My head’s so foggy I don’t even remember him going. The police officers drive me and Janu back home. In the car they try to make conversation with Janu. They want to know why he’s going barefoot. He tells them a bit about his blog, but he’s so quiet it’s worrying. He hands them his card when he gets out of the car.

  At home there’s a message on the table.

  I’ll be back by 3 p.m. Mum x

  I go through to the kitchen to make some tea for Janu.

  He’s taken himself upstairs and he’s slumped on my perch when I hand him the mug.

  ‘Thank you, Laila. I think I’ll take my bath now and sleep a little.’

  ‘Are you OK, Janu?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Laila. But it takes time to wash away that sort of hatred. How’s your head? Did you get a knock?’

  He puts his hand up to my forehead where I can feel an egg-shaped bruise growing.

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m fine,’ I say, and I walk back down the stairs. I stand at the bottom, not knowing what to do or say to make Janu feel any better.

  ‘I’ll be OK, Laila. You know, reality is I have met so many friendly people here. I won’t let this spoil my visit. We’re both a little bruised, that’s all!’

  He leans on the banister as if he needs to hold himself up.

  ‘It would be better not to mention this to Uma and Sam or anyone else –’ I think he means Mira – ‘no need to upset them . . . not necessary.’

  Janu’s mobile rings.

  ‘Oh, hi, Krish!’ Janu smiles, limps into the bathroom and starts running the tap.

  I listen to Janu speaking through the running water.

  ‘So you managed to get away from work? . . . Ah, that’s a shame, but you’ve got to promise me you’ll come and see me for the opening of my new refuge . . . OK, OK, that’s a deal . . .

  ‘Don’t put the blame on me! I only sent you a photo! What will Uma say?’

  It’s so annoying when I can’t work out what the other person’s saying.

  ‘. . . Yeah, yeah, all good, man! Love this city!’

  I feel so ashamed this has happened to Janu in my city, and it doesn’t even look like Krish or Mira are going to come and see him. But now something Krish has said has got him laughing and choking at the same time.

  ‘Yes, I know that song . . .’ He’s humming and singing something I’ve heard Krish play before. I think Krish must be singing it. ‘And we live in different worlds . . . forsake me . . . brothers in arms.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’ He listens to Krish for a bit longer, then bursts out laughing. ‘I hope Uma and Sam won’t blame me! I’ll show it to Laila.’

  I sit on my perch listening to Janu humming along to the song as he bathes. He only seems to know a few words, so he hums along and sings when he gets to the lines he knows: ‘I will not forsake you, my brother in aums . . .’ And then he starts laughing all over again. I have no idea what the joke is.

  Janu comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped over his shoulders, still laughing. He hands me his phone.

  ‘Your brother!’ he says, shaking his head.

  There’s a photo of the back of Krish’s head with an Aum tattoo in exactly the same place as Janu’s. Underneath the photo he’s written: ‘Brothers in Aums.’

  ‘Mum’s going to kill him!’ I say.

  ‘Hope not!’ Janu laughs. ‘It’s supposed to be the symbol of peace!’

  ‘Laila’s not that bothered about going either,’ Dad argues.

  ‘Well, she’s not getting much encouragement from you, is she? It’s only a Sunday-night supper. The girls have school tomorrow so it won’t be a late one.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Come on, Sam. Hannah and Maurice have been so helpful to Janu – and Kez is fundraising for his charity at her bat mitzvah.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, Uma. I just think things are settling down a bit with Laila. I don’t want her feeling all left out again because of the bat mitzvah. Shouldn’t we be doing supper for them?’

  ‘Probably! But they invited us first, and I think this might be Bubbe’s way of getting the girls together. Anyway, Janu’s raring to go. He’s gone out to buy sparklers.’

  We’re sitting around Kez’s family’s table, eating and chatting under their sparkly chandelier that shoots star shapes all over the ceiling and walls.

  Janu’s talking to Kez about the Durga Puja festival that’s going on in Kolkata now, and they’re comparing ceremonies for that and Hanukkah, which has just finished. I should have sent Kez a card. I always used to. I think it’s strange that all these festivals come at more or less the same time. Pari says she’ll be able to come back to mine after Eid in a few days’ time. I have this thought that millions of people must have had before, and it sounds too obvious to even say it, but why don’t all the religions get together at this time of year and do one big light celebration, no matter what the differences are between them?

  Then Janu says exactly what I’m thinking – and it makes me feel like it’s not such a stupid idea after all:

  ‘Basically the same principle. Expel the darkness, let the light rise, and after all that have a feast! You should come to my village at this time. Why not plan your trip to come at Durga Puja next year? We will be having a very special celebration then. Why not all come? Go to Kolkata, visit Reena in her school, stay with Anjali, then come to see the new Vimana refuge. It’ll give me a deadline to work towards! One year to the day we should try to open. You can come for the opening ceremony! Krish has promised me he’ll come too. Chameli and Anjali will welcome you like you’ve never been welcomed before!’

  It actually feels a lot less awkward here than when me and Kez meet on our own. I miss that hum of lots of people talking over each other at mealtimes, scrambling for a place in the conversation.

  Mum’s chatting away to Kez’s parents about how much she’s starting to enjoy her new work now she’s getting to know the students she’s working with. I feel a bit bad that I haven’t even thought to ask her much about it.

  Bubbe’s sitting next to Dad and they’re deep in conversation.

  ‘No, Sam! I can’t believe this!’ Bubbe hardly ever raises her voice. ‘How long have we known each other? But I used to go to that bookshop. I didn’t know his surname! Isn’t that incredible? It can’t be we’re only just discovering this now . . . Fancy you being Kit’s son!’

  ‘Can you fathom this, girls? Laila! Your grandad’s shop was one of my Stan’s favourite haunts in London. He dealt in those
books that got saved by Jewish refugees in the war. He called them his Kinderbooks . . . That’s how Stan and I got talking to him.’

  ‘Sounds like my dad!’

  ‘We spent hours in his shop looking through all those precious books. Stan used to say it was like “holding a bit of history in your hand”. I was always under the impression your father didn’t want to sell them – I suppose, like he said, they were his Kinder!’ Bubbe laughs. ‘Definitely more of a bookkeeper than a bookseller . . .’

  I’m so happy Dad played me that tape now, because I can hear Grandad’s voice in my head while they’re talking about him. I think I understand why Bubbe tells Kez so many stories about her Grandad Stan, because it does make you feel like you’re part of this big web that you haven’t even started finding out about yet. I suppose that’s what Mrs Latif’s getting at.

  ‘This is far too much excitement. I think I’ll put my feet up!’ Bubbe gets up from the table and walks over to the sofa.

  Kez is chatting to Janu about her idea to blog about her journeys to different places in London.

  ‘Even though it’s better on the buses and some of the new stations, it’s still really hard. There’s loads of stations on the underground I still can’t go to,’ she tells him. Thinking about the day of the march, I don’t know how Kez would have got there if some of the stations don’t even have working lifts. She’s right . . . how can it be that she doesn’t even have the right to protest? Bubbe looks in her handbag and gets something out. I can see it from here. It’s the photo of her and Stan. She’s switched on the TV news with the sound turned down. I see her eyes fill with tears so I go over to sit with her. She’s watching pictures on the news of refugee children being carried on to a beach from a kind of dinghy. Bubbe has subtitles on all the time because of her hearing. I read the words as they scroll across the screen.