‘Come on, Asha.’
The doors slam shut as the whistle blows and the train snakes away from us, towards the snowy mountains of Galapoor, while we’re left behind on the platform with the guard.
‘Please let us go. We’re not thieves,’ I say again.
He looks at us, eyes even more narrowed, but must decide to believe me – or maybe we’re just not worth the trouble. ‘Get out of here,’ he says, ‘before I call the police.’ He stands with his arms folded, watching as we walk away from the lonely station.
‘What shall we do now?’ asks Jeevan.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, trying hard not to cry, my ankle throbbing with each step. The evening is strangely still, the eerie call of a single hunting owl piercing the silence.
‘How far do you think it is to Galapoor?’ asks Jeevan.
‘Maybe it’s not too far.’ My voice is small. ‘Let’s look at your map. A boy in the market made me drop mine in a huge puddle before I’d even left Sonahaar, and anyway yours is way better.’
‘The sign at the station said “Lahan”,’ says Jeevan, cheering up a little.
After a moment’s searching, I put my finger on the small town where we’ve been thrown off. ‘We’re here.’ I can’t bring myself to say it but we’re miles away from Galapoor, from the mountains and from Zandapur on the other side.
Jeevan looks at the map and then at me. ‘So we’re not very close.’
As we speak, dusk spreads its dark cloak around us and we know that night-time with all its terrors will soon follow. ‘No,’ I say, wishing we could sprout wings to fly. ‘We’re not very close at all.’
We trudge away from the station, along the rough dirt-packed road, shivering against the cooling mountain air, our hopes of making it to Galapoor by nightfall in tatters.
Jeevan won’t meet my gaze, keeps his eyes fixed to the ground. ‘I didn’t mean to sneeze . . . I tried, but I couldn’t hold it in.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say. I’m annoyed at what happened, but I know we have to put it behind us.
He gives a deep sigh. ‘Papa will be back home by now and he’ll have to tell my ma what I’ve done.’
I’ve never spent a single night away from home and imagine my empty bed opposite Rohan and Roopa’s. I’m always the first to hear them if they wake in the night and I know they’ll be missing me already.
‘Let’s send them a postcard when we get a chance, then at least they’ll know we’re safe.’
He shrugs his shoulders, like he’s exasperated with himself and can’t shake it off. I know he feels bad about us getting thrown off the train, but I don’t want him to feel any worse. I swallow my disappointment. ‘We have to toughen up. We’re bound to meet more people like the guard.’
‘That man had no right to treat us like thieves when he knows nothing about us,’ he says, swiping at a tall plant of chickweed growing along the side of the road.
‘ We know we’re on an important journey,’ I say, hobbling alongside. ‘Whatever he said doesn’t matter.’
Like someone blowing out candles, the light is disappearing before our eyes. ‘Let’s look for somewhere to sleep. We might find an old farm building or something.’ I spot a tall pistachio tree a little way off the road. ‘What about sleeping under there? It’ll be just like those nights when we camped out late in the mango tree.’
‘Yeah . . . we can shelter right under the branches,’ says Jeevan. ‘And it’ll keep the rain off as well.’
We tramp across the muddy field towards the tree, its branches, laden with nuts, almost touching the ground.
‘We’ll be safe in here,’ I say, flopping down beside the canopy. ‘And look, we can even have a feast.’ I pick a handful of pale pistachios off the ground and begin to prise them open, laying the empty shells in patterns on the ground. I take a dry twig and dig it into the soil, strike one of the matches from my bag and light it. ‘I missed not lighting the deeva tonight.’ I press my palms together. ‘Bless our journey, Lord Shiva, and watch over our families, keep them safe until we return.’
Jeevan puts his hands behind his head and lies down. ‘Not bad at all. Food, shelter and prayers.’
I let the makeshift deeva burn itself out. ‘I put eggs and mango in my bag this morning, but let’s save those for tomorrow and manage on the nuts for now.’
‘Really?’ Jeevan looks disappointed.
‘We have to be careful with supplies and there are loads of nuts. Even enough for you!’
I take out Papa’s scarf, almost as big as a shawl, and lay it on the hard ground. ‘Come here . . . it makes a great bed.’
We lie in the shelter of the tree, darkness swooping down on us like a wide-winged bird. Stars begin to pierce the sky just like they do in Moormanali but I can’t believe that these are the same stars that shine on our grazing pastures and farm. I think of Ma, miles away, having to do all the jobs by herself, and I steel my heart to stop it wandering back there.
‘So, you thinking about home?’ asks Jeevan.
‘Yes.’
‘And me.’
I prop myself up on my elbow. ‘OK, Jeevan . . . here’s the plan. Tomorrow we’ll carry on walking towards Galapoor, go to the temple at Kasare and before we know it we’ll be in Zandapur. We’ll find Papa and head straight back home and everyone will be amazed.’
‘And they’ll be so proud of what we’ve done,’ says Jeevan excitedly. ‘We’re not going to let this setback get us down!’
We eat our supper of soft green pistachios and watch the sky getting starrier.
‘It’s like someone’s hurled deevay into the sky,’ I say.
‘Well, you know that a star is just a luminous ball of gas, mostly hydrogen and helium and it’s only held together by its own gravity.’
‘Is that what Mr Dhalia told you in Physics?’ I ask. ‘Has he ever been up in space, though? It’s much nicer to think of them as deevay . . . can you find Orion?’ We love playing hunting stars back home and I want to cheer us both up with one of our games.
‘There’s his belt,’ he says, staring into the sky. ‘Have you found it yet?’
‘Yes.’ I look up at the neat line of stars. ‘Can you see his bow?’
‘Got it,’ he says. ‘And his little dog?’
‘Down by his foot.’ I feel myself relaxing a little.
The sky flashes as stars shoot across the darkness, zipping over Orion’s shoulders.
‘That means we’re going to be lucky,’ I say.
Jeevan smiles, shuffling into the canopy of the tree, and stretches. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’
In the far distance some creature gives a soulful bark and I imagine a wolf baring its teeth before the full moon. I crawl under the branches and shuffle closer to Jeevan.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s only a dog,’ he says, yawning.
‘Are you sure it’s not something more dangerous? We’re out in the wild now . . . and do you remember the stories of the half man half beast they say haunts the High Himalayas?’
‘I’ve told you before they’re just stories . . . The Musketeers sleep anywhere and aren’t afraid of anything,’ says Jeevan.
The full moon rises, like a huge silver paisa, shedding its pale light into the tree. It’s six weeks to Divali and we’ll have found Papa way before then, and he’ll pay Ma’s debt and write to Uncle Neel and tell him we’re not coming to England after all.
‘I’m on my way,’ I whisper, listening to the howling night sounds, like hungry spirits on the wind. The warm metal of Nanijee’s pendant presses against my skin and I clench my fingers around it.
I wake up from a dream, confused to find myself curled into a frozen ball with Jeevan snoring next to me, and then I remember how we ended up here.
My body aches from lying on the hard ground and my neck is stiff but I sit up in the darkness and peer out of the tree, rubbing my eyes. The first rays of sun crack out of the steely clouds and spool on to the distant snowy
mountains.
We must get to Galapoor today, so we can get to Zandapur as soon as possible and find Papa.
I shake Jeevan. ‘Wake up, it’s dawn already.’
A little black and white bird flies into the tree and begins scratching at the ground. I crumble a purple-streaked pistachio on my palm and hold it out. ‘You’ll like this.’
It takes a small beakful and flies off through the branches.
‘Come on, sleepyhead!’ I take the lamagaia feather and brush it across Jeevan’s eyes.
‘Where am I?’ he asks, sitting up abruptly.
‘We’re on our journey, remember? The Two Musketeers?’
‘Slow down, Asha,’ says Jeevan, yawning. ‘I need a minute or two to come round . . . shall we have the mango?’ He shoves his hand in my bag, finds the mango and begins peeling it with the penknife.
‘The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll find Papa.’
He carries on peeling the fruit. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘What for?’
‘That I didn’t come with you straight away.’ He hands me a slice of mango. ‘You’ve hardly been out of Moormanali. It took real courage to come all by yourself.’
‘And I’m sorry too – you had good reasons for not coming. I wanted to say goodbye properly, I wanted to call you back and give you a hug, but I just couldn’t.’
I pull Nanijee’s gold pendant from under the hoodie and stare at its teardrop shape. ‘It sounds strange,’ I say, letting myself trust Jeevan more now, knowing that he won’t make fun of me like he used to – even if he isn’t quite convinced. ‘As soon as Ma gave this to me, I knew I could do it. Whenever I hold it I feel something . . . like a force connecting me with my nanijee.’
‘I really want to believe you,’ he says, deep in thought.
We finish the rest of the mango in silence.
‘Pass me the mango stone.’ I twist the banana leaf around it, tucking the end to make its own little plant pot, and scoop some dark-red earth into it. I cradle it between my palms and close my eyes. ‘Grow grow sweet mango,’ I sing, ‘carried all the way from Moormanali, push out your greenest shoots for Papa to remind him of home.’
I press the soil firmly and drip water on to it. ‘I’m going to anoint it with the Holy Ganges when we get to the temple,’ I say, cocooning it in Papa’s scarf and placing it in my bag.
We walk along a steep road fringed with tall deodar pines and wild rose bushes, which have shed their white petals and left behind fat orange hips. A tuneful whistling thrush, its deep blue feathers speckled with white, lands on a branch and looks at us.
The sun is almost overhead before we spot any signs for Galapoor, and then a truck comes blasting down the road, sounding its horn, shattering the peace, flicking a dusty trail of dirt and stones into my eyes.
‘How long have we been walking?’ I ask, slowing down. ‘I’m really thirsty.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Jeevan, looking back the way we’ve come. ‘But I’m sure we’ll come across a stream now that we’re going higher.’
I’m trying not to think about it, but my throat is parched and my ankle is starting to ache again.
‘Look at that massive bird,’ says Jeevan in wonder, pointing down the road. ‘I think it’s following us!’
I shade my eyes and spot the bird; it stays just ahead of us, stopping every time we do, and my heart gives a little skip. It’s a lamagaia. ‘Do you believe the spirits of our ancestors live through animals, Jeevan?’
‘Mmm . . . I’m not sure . . . it doesn’t sound very likely.’
I ignore his doubts. ‘I think it’s true. I think this bird is keeping an eye on us.’ Could it be my nanijee’s spirit?
It perches on a roadside rock and carries on watching us. I wave it farewell as we pass by and I catch sight of its dark eyes, just before it takes off. ‘Come back soon, spirit bird!’ I cry, as it swoops over our heads.
I take out the feather I found the very first time I saw the bird, and wish I still had my long plait to weave it into. Instead, I stroke it against my cheek before putting it back for safe keeping. Jeevan walks beside me, a slight frown on his face, as if he’s trying to work out what he really believes.
We climb further uphill on the road, which sweeps away towards lines of steep terraces planted with row after row of small shiny tea plants. People are hunched over them with baskets on their backs filled with bright green leaves.
The ankle I twisted yesterday is throbbing, sharp shooting pains crawling up my leg every time I take a step. I stop and rest against a post, turning away as more trucks blast along the road, loaded up with crates of fresh tea.
‘Do you think any of these drivers would give us a lift? I really need to rest my ankle.’
Jeevan sticks his arm out. ‘Let’s try, the next one might.’
But not a single truck stops. I don’t know how much further I can walk and my ankle begins to howl more than ever. I collapse on to the edge of the road.
Jeevan rushes to my side. ‘Are you OK?’
I lift my jeans and rub my swollen ankle. ‘It’s really sore,’ I say, gritting my teeth. ‘But I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
He pulls me up. ‘Let’s keep going then.’
Jeevan seems so full of energy, and he’s right.
‘Every step counts,’ he continues. ‘Come on, grab hold of my arm.’
We shuffle along together, Jeevan dragging me with him each time I fall back. A long time passes before we hear another engine rumble.
‘This one might stop.’ Jeevan sticks out his arm again, full of enthusiasm.
My heart gives a leap as the truck begins to slow down.
‘We can say we’re going to stay with our auntie in Galapoor,’ he says, grinning. ‘People will wonder why two kids are travelling alone.’
The truck stops and a man with a thick curly moustache sticks his head out of the window.
‘Want a lift?’
Relief washes over me. ‘Yes,’ I shout, trying to get my voice heard over the roar of the truck.
The man swings the door open and we scramble up.
‘Oooh,’ says the man, laughing. ‘With green eyes like yours you could be in the movies!’
I lower my gaze and look out of the window, ignoring the man’s comment . . . I need to blend in.
Dangling from the mirror is a picture of the black elephant goddess Kali. She’s surrounded by a fringe of silver tinsel, to bring the driver luck. On the dashboard is a photo of his family in a fluffy pink frame.
‘Where are you two lads off to?’ he asks.
‘We’re going to see our auntie. We lost our money and got kicked off the train. She lives just outside Galapoor on the road to Kasare,’ Jeevan says, squeezing my arm discreetly.
The driver nods and rams his foot on the accelerator. As the truck speeds off I look in the side mirror at the road behind us, the dirty grey fumes pumping against the blue sky as we shoot towards the town.
‘I’m Krishen. Pleased to meet you,’ he says. ‘I’m not going as far as Galapoor . . . that OK?’
‘Anywhere close is fine,’ says Jeevan.
I’m happy to let him do the talking. I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself and even though I’m deepening my voice it might still make him suspicious.
Loud music with a heavy drum beat and a strong rhythm blares inside the truck.
‘Latest movie,’ says the driver, pausing from singing along badly. ‘You know, my cousin works in Bollywood, driving famous actors around. Last week he had Sharukh Khan in his car.’ He bangs the dashboard as if it’s a drum and the picture of Kali bobs along as if she’s in the movie as well. I nudge Jeevan’s foot, and we both giggle.
We climb even higher, leaving the terraces behind, the road now lined with wild fruit trees, stretching out against the horizon. Every now and then we pass small buildings at the roadside with handwritten signs for chai and coconut juice, pakoray and hot potato dhosay. The truck hugs the tight be
nds upwards, teetering against the crumbling edge of road, scaling the mountain, further into the High Himalayas.
We stop suddenly and I wake with a dry mouth and a tongue that won’t move to ask where we are.
‘First stop dhabba stall,’ says Krishen. ‘Galapoor’s not far now.’
‘We haven’t got much money,’ I say, trying not to think about the lovely food they’ll have at the stall.
‘He owes me a favour, this dhabba man. Forget the money this time, OK?’
Jeevan licks his lips, looking famished. ‘Thanks,’ he shouts, opening the door and jumping on to the ground.
I notice that the stall has a rack of cards with stamps already on them. ‘Let’s send a postcard home.’
‘It’ll be good to let them know that at least we’re safe,’ says Jeevan.
‘And by the time they get it, we’ll be miles away. I think we can afford one.’
I find my purse, give the stallholder a coin for the card and borrow his pen. I’m so hot I pull off my hoodie, wrap it round my waist and sit on a rock to begin writing.
Dear Ma, Rohan and Roopa,
I hope you are managing the chores without me.
Jeevan and I are looking after each other. We are closer to finding Papa. We will be back as soon as we can.
Love, Asha
XXX
I hand the card to Jeevan so he can write his message.
‘There’s a postbox here,’ he says, finishing the card off with a row of kisses and pushing it through the slot.
‘Best pakoray this side of Galapoor,’ says a small wiry boy working at the dhabba stall. He stands on a box so he can reach the stove. He looks directly at us, frowns, then scoops up fresh pakora batter and plops it into the wide frying pan, making the oil crackle. Steam whooshes up as the pakoray turn a mouth-watering golden colour and he adds them to the heaps already piled high on a brass tray.
‘I’ve been told to give you some for free,’ says the boy, handing us a bag brimming with food. ‘How come you two are travelling by yourselves anyway?’ The boy steps closer and even though I’m looking down at the ground, he pushes his face right into mine and eyes Jeevan suspiciously.
Asha & the Spirit Bird Page 6