The cheering and chanting started as Jezmeen and Rajni advanced toward the stands. It was like a football game, and it was exactly as Rajni remembered. She could feel Jezmeen’s excitement radiating off her. “Look at all these people,” she gushed. She nudged Rajni. “I know you’ve seen it before, but don’t you think it’s exciting?”
“It’s fine if you like a spectacle,” Rajni said. She didn’t even enjoy school assemblies—those skits the senior students created, always with some vague innuendo and inside-jokey reference to the teachers they didn’t like. She hated the raucous applause, the way everything felt like it was going out of control, and when she saw the faces of the other teachers—especially the young ones who didn’t mind, who joined in sometimes—she thought: You’re not in charge, that’s why. Moving toward the towering stands with Jezmeen, Rajni realized that this was the motto of her entire life as the eldest sister. She was in charge. Nobody else had that responsibility, and—at least according to Mum—nobody else had managed to screw it up as much as she had. Jezmeen and Shirina had no idea what Rajni had sacrificed.
Jezmeen led the way up the concrete steps. An usher pointed out a spot and urged people to move in. Rajni and Jezmeen scooted along the row and ended up on the far end of the bleachers, overlooking the Pakistan side. The boundary had puzzled Rajni the first time she saw it—she had expected a river, or a deep, cavernous valley separating both countries but it was a track of dirt, only a few meters wide. Along the border, tall iron fences and storm clouds of barbed wire sent a clear message.
The music on the India side was a deafening boom, so loud that the speakers’ static drowned out the lyrics. The show of patriotism began shortly after Rajni and Jezmeen sat down, schoolchildren racing along the bleachers and to the stage area with Indian flags. When they reached the stage, they danced and clapped in a circle, waving to the audience, who cheered them on. People began to leave the stands to join them and soon the stage was crowded with spectators cheering for their country. A woman who was sitting one row ahead turned to her husband and said, “Come on, then, we’re only here once.” She had a crisp British accent but she pumped her fist in the air and chanted slogans along with the crowd.
On the Pakistan side, no dancing. There was some faint music, subdued and drowned out by the bass on the Indian side. The bleachers were only half full. Rajni remembered the uncles so smugly commenting on Pakistan’s lackluster turnout back then too. “Look at them. No pride,” he said. “And they have all these restrictions against women. They can’t even dance in front of the men like our women can.” And then he nodded appreciatively at the women half his age who were shaking their hips for the love of India.
Rajni turned to say something to Jezmeen and noticed the space next to her was empty. She spotted her sister running down the steps to join the dancers. “Raj!” she called, tossing a look over her shoulder. “Take a picture.”
Rajni waited for Jezmeen to reach the stage area and then she pointed the phone and shot. All the pictures were slightly blurry because Jezmeen was in motion. She tried for a video. Jezmeen sashayed across the screen in miniature, throwing her hands into the air. Two little girls took her hands and she fell in step with them, laughing and mouthing the chorus that she had only just heard moments ago.
A similar video existed in their family’s history. It was long gone now, tossed out with all the other VHS tapes that had more or less disintegrated. Nobody had been organized enough to salvage the tapes and convert them to DVDs when some electronics shops were offering this service, and so they gathered dust and mold and became obsolete. Rajni had only seen it once after that childhood trip. Mum was the star of the video. She was dancing just like Jezmeen. There was that same abandon in her moves—hips shaking, palms open as if she was trying to grasp a piece of the sky. Years later, in the lead-up to her wedding, Rajni anticipated seeing Mum dancing like that again but she didn’t. She stayed in the background during Rajni’s wedding, still hurting from the fact that Dad’s older brother chose not to come. Rajni hadn’t wanted to invite him, but Mum felt that it was the proper custom for him to stand in for Dad. It was an important gesture too, to show people that all had been forgiven.
Rajni pressed the stop button on the phone and put it back into her purse. Once the changing-of-the-guards ceremony started, she knew she’d take it out again and record the whole thing—the marching, the high kicks, the theatrics of guards flinging open the gates to protect their land.
Jezmeen’s cheeks glistened with sweat when she returned. “You looked great,” Rajni said. “Just like Mum. She danced here too.”
“She did?”
Rajni nodded. “She was sitting right next to me, and when the music started, she started bobbing her shoulders like this.” Rajni did an impression of Mum, shutting her eyes and letting the music course through her.
Jezmeen laughed. “Mum couldn’t resist a good song. Remember how she kept on going at Shirina’s wedding? The women on Sehaj’s side couldn’t keep up.”
Rajni remembered how pleased she had been to see Mum celebrating, but also the twinge of envy she felt toward Shirina. Shirina got to have Mum dancing at her wedding because so much time had passed since that falling-out with Dad’s family, and Mum had moved on.
“Like one of those battery-operated bunnies in the advertisements,” Rajni agreed. “That’s how she was here too, except twenty-five years younger and in the best health. Dad had died and she hadn’t danced or celebrated anything in ages.” Rajni felt a lump growing in her throat. She could feel the warmth of Jezmeen’s attention on her face and she swallowed hard, pushed the memory down into her chest and the pit of her stomach, where all of these old fears resided. “She danced exactly like a woman at her peak,” Rajni said. “It was one of those moments where you’re sitting in a crowd and so much is going on around you—the drinks sellers are calling, the music is throbbing, everybody’s cheering and chattering, and it feels like it all stops because there’s this woman dancing her heart out and just rejoicing.”
“I can picture it,” Jezmeen said with a wistful smile.
Rajni smiled back. It was a nice memory to leave her sister with, and one that she didn’t have to embellish, unlike so many others. She knew Jezmeen was becoming curious about their roots—her mention of Auntie Roopi had startled Rajni yesterday because until now, Rajni wasn’t aware that her sisters even remembered being sent to live there while she and Mum took that last trip to India. There was no reason to tell Jezmeen about the fight that happened, and all the events that led up to it. There was no need to tell anybody about the guilt Rajni couldn’t help feeling, even though it had been so many years since they came back from that trip. “I can never go back there again,” Mum had said to Rajni. “You realize that? You understand what you’ve done? Because of you, I can never return to India again.”
Chapter Twelve
The messages sign was blinking on Jezmeen’s phone. “YOUR CREDIT IS VERY LOW—PLEASE CALL 8801 TO TOP-UP NOW.”
That made no sense. Jezmeen had hardly even used her phone here, besides that recent conversation with Cameron and the call she made to Rajni from the police station. The hotel’s wireless internet was a bit patchy and she had been in the middle of downloading her emails when she lost her connection. There was an email from Cameron, the subject line reading: “Have another potential role for you . . .” But when she clicked on it, a notice popped up reminding her that she was no longer connected.
She dialed the number and fished her credit card out from her purse, tapping it against the dresser as she sat through the recorded options. Her heart thrummed in her chest. Cameron’s email could mean something, or it could be another dead end. It was the hope that kept her going. The slightest flicker of interest from a producer, or a role that might just be the one—this was why Jezmeen hadn’t quit yet.
“For recharge, please wait while we connect you to an operator.” Jezmeen sighed and picked up the remote control. She flipped through the c
hannels on the television, settling finally on BBC Lifestyle. A woman wearing a yellow-and-green caftan strolled across a pebbled path cut through a sprawling garden lit with tiki torches before the camera zoomed in on a table that looked as if it had been carved out of a felled tree. The host picked up a glass of white wine. Jezmeen’s throat felt parched—the wine looked so deliciously refreshing. The host nodded at the camera, her brilliant smile flashing at Jezmeen before she took a small sip and closed her eyes in appreciation.
“I hate you,” Jezmeen muttered.
“Ma’am?”
“Oh sorry,” Jezmeen said to the operator. “Not you. The woman on the telly.”
“You are calling for a recharge, ma’am?”
“Yes—but I also want to know why my credit has run out so quickly?”
There was some typing in the background. “Ma’am, you’ve used up all your data in four days.”
“Yes, I know that. I’m wondering how? Is there a breakdown of how much I’ve used?”
“For that, I have to connect you to our usage specialists. Please hold—”
“Ugh, never mind. Can I just get a recharge?”
It was too late. She was placed on hold. A recorded advertisement in Hindi blared into her ears, followed by an upbeat chorus singing about upgrading to a family package.
“Hello, this is Krishna, how can I assist you?”
“Hi. I’m curious as to why my phone data has run out so quickly,” Jezmeen said. “I’ve only had it for four days.”
“Let me check. Your name, please?”
“Jezmeen Shergill. Father’s name is Devinder Singh Shergill.”
“Your identification number?”
“What would that be? My passport number?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jezmeen reached for her passport and flipped open the case. A small card flipped out and fell to her feet. She recited the numbers to the man on the phone.
“I will check for you, ma’am, please give me one minute.”
The recorded chorus burst into life again. “Save more time with family time,” they sang. Jezmeen picked up the card. It was folded neatly in the center and when she opened it, she had a distinct feeling that she was infringing on somebody’s privacy, even though the card contained just a name and an address.
Tejpal “Lucky” Singh, ACC Car Hire
Dr. Wadhwa, Restoration Road Clinic
S.CO. 01-36, Sector 9-C, Madhya Marg, Chandigarh
It was written in a careful hand, each letter round and deliberate. Jezmeen flipped it over. It was blank. She looked at the words again. Clearly, this was important to someone.
“Madam Jezmeen Shergill?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I’m looking at your records and it appears that your internet usage is very high.”
“I don’t think it is,” Jezmeen said. “I’m only checking emails and surfing the internet . . .” Her voice trailed off when she remembered downloading the first three episodes of The Boathouse during her drunken evening in the hotel in Delhi. She had fallen asleep with the crushing realization that Polly Mishra was indeed a fine actress.
“Okay, never mind. I think I know where it’s gone.”
“Anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes. Can you recharge my credit, please?”
“Ma’am, please hold while I reconnect you to the recharge department.”
Jezmeen sighed and sat through another string of recorded advertisements. She looked at the card again and decided there was no point in trying to find its owner—she didn’t know how it had got into her passport case in the first place but it seemed this whole trip was about things going missing and reappearing. After returning from the border, she had taken a foamy, luxurious shower only to realize that her hair dryer wasn’t in the depths of her suitcase. Good thing it was just a cheap travel hair dryer. Her salon dryer with seven settings and possibly the same horsepower as a small car remained in London.
After the loop of recorded ads timed out, the line disconnected. “Thanks for the service,” Jezmeen said sarcastically. She took out her frustration on the card and ripped it up. Just as she tossed the pieces into the bin, her phone rang and Cameron’s name appeared on her screen. Jezmeen wasn’t sure if she had the energy to hear about another Asian cliché that Cameron thought she’d be perfect for, so she let the phone ring while she took a deep breath. She was channeling the wine lady on BBC Lifestyle, who was now carrying a wicker basket and wandering down a cobblestoned path somewhere in France.
“Hello, Cameron.”
“Hi there, Jezmeen, how are things?”
He sounded very upbeat, a good sign. “I’m well,” Jezmeen said.
“I’m glad,” Cameron said. “Not Googling yourself too much, then?” He laughed a bit too hard at his own comment while Jezmeen stayed silent. He cleared his throat. “Actually, you’ll be happy to know that the backlash is dying down now.”
“Really.” Jezmeen said. Cameron probably considered it good news that the online Jezmeen-bashing had tempered down to only a few “off-with-her-head” comments a day.
“Oh yes. There’s that scandal in America right now about that singing contest finalist searching for Simpsons pornography. Did you hear about this? The internet’s ablaze.”
“No,” Jezmeen said.
“Presumably he was drunk while searching, because he put all the search terms—raunchy fantasies about Marge Simpson in particular—into Twitter, and just kept on pressing enter. There were about seventeen tweets before he realized what he was doing.”
Jezmeen wanted to feel sorry for this man, but she was too relieved that the internet’s focus had shifted away from her. She was even just the tiniest bit offended to be forgotten so quickly. If Polly Mishra kicked a fish to death, I bet people would hate her for weeks! she thought, before turning her attention back to the conversation with Cameron. “So you might have something for me?” she asked hopefully.
“I think you’ll be pleased with this one. It’s not a definite role, it’s a meeting with a casting director for a film he’s shooting in India.”
“A meeting?” Jezmeen asked. “Not an audition?” This could suggest that the director was so certain about Jezmeen’s potential casting that he was willing to bypass auditions altogether. The meeting could just be a formality to check that she wasn’t insane. Or it could be nothing, a noncommittal chat over coffee: let’s think about working together in the future, and then she’d never hear from him again.
“A meeting,” Cameron confirmed. “But he’s very keen to have you in his next project. The director’s name is HC Kumar. Not sure if you’ve heard of him but his next project is a bilingual Hindi and English series set in Mumbai. A noir crime thriller with a strong female lead—I thought it would be right up your alley and he’s very interested in you as well.”
Jezmeen barely heard anything after “HC Kumar.” She wanted to toss the phone into the air and scream. Had she heard of him? She’d only seen all of his films growing up. “When does he want to meet?” Jezmeen asked.
“I told him you’re in India at the moment, and willing to meet. Can you make it back to Delhi on Tuesday?”
“Tuesday,” Jezmeen said. Her mind raced. She and Rajni would be in the mountains on Tuesday. “Can he do Wednesday instead?” She squeezed her eyes shut, aware that she had just asked if her dream director could wait a day to meet her.
“I’m not sure, Jezmeen. He’s got quite a busy schedule. I’ve got Tuesday at four P.M. written down here.”
Jezmeen Shergill in HC Kumar’s latest film. She allowed a moment’s indulgence in the fantasy and in a flash, she was transported to a bright and exciting future. Her face printed on glossy posters, audiences wondering where she came from and why they hadn’t noticed her before. Move over, Polly Mishra, the critics would declare.
“You still there?” Cameron asked. “I’ll need to let him know quickly. If you can’t make it, then—”
“I’ll be there,” Jezmeen said quickly. She didn’t want Cameron to finish that thought.
Somebody was knocking on the door. “Coming,” Shirina called. Room service was very prompt at this hotel. She had only placed her order five minutes ago. She scrambled to find clothes to put on. Since returning to the hotel after her fight with Rajni in McDonald’s, Shirina had moped about the room in various states of undress, wishing the heat would seep away from her body. Anything against her skin, even a cotton nightie, felt oppressive.
“It’s me.”
Shirina found a T-shirt and threw it on. She opened the door to see Jezmeen standing in the hallway. “Can I come in?” she asked.
“Sure,” Shirina said, stepping aside. Jezmeen came in and stood awkwardly near the bathroom door. “You can sit over here,” Shirina said. She pushed aside the pile of clothes that she’d rejected earlier when she returned to the hotel. Nothing fitted the way it used to and it bothered her even more after ordering two ice creams and watching Rajni’s eyes widen as she ate them.
“You wouldn’t believe who wants to meet me,” Jezmeen said.
“Who?” Shirina asked.
“Movie director. I’ll give you three guesses.”
Shirina was too tired to guess. She just wanted answers. “Umm . . .” she said, pretending to think about it. Jezmeen bounced impatiently on her feet.
“HC Kumar!” The name burst from Jezmeen’s lips.
“Wow. Really? That’s wonderful.”
“I know, I know. I just got off the phone with my agent and he wants to schedule a meeting. No guarantees, of course, but it’s still a huge step in the right direction.”
“He’s not the one involved in that actress scandal, is he? The guy who was caught on tape bragging to a production assistant about promising roles to young actresses if they slept with him?”
Jezmeen’s face fell for a moment. “Where did you hear about that?”
“It was all over the news. The guy who directed that blockbuster that came out recently.”
“Oh no, no. That’s HR Sharma. Different director.” Jezmeen laughed. “Phew, Shirina, you were starting to make me nervous. So anyway, he thinks I might be suitable for his next film, and he wants to meet me. Isn’t that amazing?”
The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters Page 21