A little while later there’s a knock on the door and it opens slightly. ‘All sorted with the sister in charge.’ The nurse winks at me. ‘Your funny friend Raj dropped this off for you – honestly, he had us all in stitches – some fresh clothes, something to eat and a few deevay, he said.’
I take the bag. ‘Thank you.’
‘Be careful with the deeva though, won’t you? I shouldn’t really let you but you’ve wrapped me right round your little finger, and if it gives you a little hope . . .’ Her voice trails off.
I give her my best smile in case she changes her mind.
Outside, the sun is setting, sending rays of darkest orange and purple bursting on to Papa’s face, turning his pale skin the most beautiful shade of gold. ‘I can hardly believe I’ve found you, Papa,’ I whisper, holding his hands once the nurse has left. I remember all those times he helped me when I was ill or hurt and now it’s my turn to help him.
I trace the lines on his palms, desperate to know if they show a happy ending. He shifts on the bed and his eyelids give a brief flutter, but he still doesn’t wake.
I lift the mango seedling that I’ve carried all the way from Moormanali and examine it. It made such a long journey in its fragile banana leaf, and survived so much, now in its fresh new pot it’s starting to look like a proper little plant. I balance it on the scratched metal table next to the bed and, lifting the heavy water jug, pour a few drops on to it.
Lakshmi must have given me one of her special deevay, ones she’s bought specially for Divali. The clay is painted bright shiny yellow and there are tiny glass pieces all around the rim. I run my finger along the edge – it’s so pretty. I carefully strike a match, light the deeva and place it in front of the seedling.
I screw my eyes tightly closed, place my palms together and say a prayer . . . I hear the rushing water of the Ganges, the mountain winds whistling their way through the valleys of Moormanali and connect to the ancient rhythms of my ancestors.
The light is fading fast and in the growing darkness, the orange flicker of the deeva lights up the mango seedling.
With fresh confidence I begin my incantation to bring Papa back from the shadowy world he has been stuck in these past months. ‘Papa.’ I bow my head with love. ‘The journey to find you has been so long and treacherous . . . I’ve had to fight my way to get here, crossing mountains, facing dangers I could only have imagined and now I ask, if you can hear me, wake up so we can all go home. Ma is waiting all by herself with Rohan and Roopa.’
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the thump-thumping of his heart. ‘I’ve come to get you, Papa. You have to remember me – it was so hard – Jeevan got really ill in the forest, then we climbed all the way to the highest temple in the world . . . some men trapped us in a junkyard and made us work until our fingers bled. Ma borrowed money, Pa – and there’s a deadline. We have to pay the loan back by Divali or we’ll lose our home for ever.’ I take Papa’s hand and rest it against my cheek. A tear rolls down his finger. ‘That’s why I need you to remember me. I need your help.’
The evening ticks by and I watch Papa closely as each hour slips into the next, waiting for him to wake up.
Finally, his lashes move briefly before his eyes spring open in fright, as if he’s still dreaming. He looks past me without saying a word.
‘Papa, it’s me . . . it’s Asha.’ I grip the blanket more tightly.
I hold his face between my palms, turning it so he has to look at me. His face is blank but I’m frantic to help him remember. I take off my pendant, push it into his hand. ‘Look at this. It’s Nanijee’s necklace – the one she gave to Ma and Ma gave it to me because it’s my turn to wear it now. It helped me to be strong . . . Ma said that I decide what I believe for myself. That’s what I did – I believed my dreams and they helped me to find you.’
But he doesn’t seem to see it and lets it fall from his hand.
I press the pendant back into his palm and hold it there, as if we’re sharing a prayer, feeling its rhythm, as the curved shape touches our skin. I unclasp my hand and it seems to send out a glow, lighting up his face.
I lift the mango seedling and brush the leaves under his nose. ‘Look, Papa, I carried the stone all the way from our orchard back home.’
He blinks and frowns as if the scent has reminded him of something, but the blank expression returns and he drops his head to one side.
‘Please remember us.’
‘When is the nurse coming?’ he says, ignoring me. ‘She comes every day.’
‘We have to get home to Moormanali, Papa.’
‘Where’s that?’ His voice is quiet, confused. ‘This is my home. Who are you? Why are you calling me Papa?’
I know he doesn’t mean it, but his words hurt more than anything that’s happened so far.
The song he used to sing to me comes into my head and I sing it as softly and sweetly as I can.
‘Uncle Moon’s gone far away,
Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone?
Far, far away.
Chanda Mama dhoor ke,
Chanda Mama dhoor ke.
Kithay ke? Kithay ke?
Dhoor, dhoor ke.’
The lullaby calms him to sleep as the sky outside turns midnight blue and I watch over him.
But then he opens his eyes suddenly, although he’s still asleep. ‘Hot, burning hot,’ he cries out again and again, his face filled with panic as if he’s back in the factory seeing the horror over and over again.
‘I’m here, Papa.’ I try to wake him from the nightmare. ‘It’s all over. You’re safe.’
But it doesn’t make any difference. He stays inside his head, locked away from me. I lie next to him, tears sliding from the corners of my eyes, and watch him fall asleep again, without knowing who I am.
What’s the point? Nothing is working, not my prayers, not the mango seedling I’ve carried and nurtured . . . nothing! I lay my head on the blanket and, completely exhausted, let sleep wash over me.
In the morning, dawn edges its way into the small room, filling every corner with a soft pink haze as I wake slowly from an exhausting sleep.
I stare in wonder at the seedling beside the bed, which has grown overnight and now it’s at least as tall as my arm, with dozens of new leaves and blossom. Its roots have spread through the bottom of the pot, covering the table in a network of fine spirals. The room fills with the scent of sweet ripe mango and when I look closer, hidden behind the leaves is a small oval fruit, yellow striped with red.
A tapping on the window startles me but I leap off the bed and pull aside the curtains.
‘Nanijee! It’s you! You came to see Papa . . .’ I stretch my arms out flat against the cold window, but still her wings are way longer. I press my face so close to hers that I see her golden-flecked eyes. ‘But he doesn’t know me, Nanijee . . . he just can’t remember.’
She taps three more times with her smooth grey beak.
‘What can I do?’
She beats her wings, arcing high above the trees and swoops off into the sky. I watch her until she’s a tiny dot, until I can’t see her any more, but I know she’s still there somewhere, that she won’t be far away.
‘R-Rohan?’
I rush to Papa’s side and he sweeps his fingers across my head. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘No, Papa,’ I laugh. ‘It’s me, it’s Asha.’
He cups my face in his hands. ‘Asha – of course – how could I mistake you?’ His voice is raspy, each word forming slowly. ‘I feel . . . so tired.’
I fling my arms around him. ‘Papa . . . my papa,’ I cry, burrowing into the blanket. ‘You’ve been ill for a long time, but you’re going to get better.’ The ancient rhythms sweep through me and I know that all my ancestors are with me.
‘Why did you cut your beautiful hair?’
‘Papa, I went to the highest temple in the world so I could find you. I cut my hair and made a sacrifice.’
‘I’ve be
en in a dream,’ he continues, still speaking carefully. ‘I dreamt about a fire.’
‘There was a fire in the factory but we didn’t know why your letters stopped . . . I read your last letter over and over again.’
He puts his arms around me and I curl my body against his – the moment I’ve waited for is finally here.
‘My darling Asha.’
‘Jeevan and me,’ I say, between sobs. ‘We came to find you together.’
He pulls me closer, kissing the top of my head. ‘No more tears now.’
The nurse pushes open the door, nearly dropping the breakfast tray. ‘Your papa’s speaking to you?’ she says, putting the tray on the side table. ‘I can’t believe it, that’s incredible. I don’t know what magic you did in here last night,’ she smiles, ‘but it’s definitely worked— What’s that huge mango plant doing in here?’
‘Does that mean we can go home?’ asks Papa. ‘How is your ma – my beautiful Enakshi – and Rohan and Roopa.’
The nurse pushes him gently back on to the pillow. ‘Don’t overexcite yourself – I’ll still have to check with the doctor.’ She puts some pills into a container and hands them to Papa with a glass of water.
‘We all missed you so much. Papa, we met people in Zandapur who helped us. Lakshmi and Raj.’ I take a big gulp of air. ‘A-and they say we can stay with them for a few days before we go home.’ I rest against the pillow, trying to catch my breath.
‘I think that’s enough information for the moment,’ says the nurse, handing Papa a small see-through bag with a dirty folded envelope inside. ‘It was in your trouser pocket.’
‘Thank you, Nurse,’ says Papa. ‘It’s the wages I was saving to send home.’
I tuck my head into Papa’s shoulder. ‘It was hard for Ma, but she did her best . . .’ I whisper.
‘My . . . little Ashi.’ He strokes my hair.
Every time I look at him, he seems more and more like my old papa. I hold on to him as tightly as I can.
‘I’m never going to let you go,’ I say. ‘Ever.’
It’s early morning, and me and Papa are taking our daily stroll around the garden of the street shelter while Jeevan and the others mill about, helping to keep everything clean and tidy. Lime-green parakeets swoop through the coconut palms, whistling to each other.
Raj bustles out of the house. ‘Hey, Mr Champion, look at you,’ he laughs. ‘We’d sign you up to the Zandapur Charity Run if you could stay any longer.’
‘I can’t believe it was only a few days ago that I was still in hospital . . . Lakshmi’s been fattening me up with her amazing rice and dhal,’ jokes Papa.
‘Well, it’s definitely working!’ says Raj, heading over to his rickshaw and starting to clean it.
‘Are you ready for a rest now, Papa?’ I ask, as I unhook my arm and we sit down at the breakfast table.
‘Lakshmi sent some chai and jelaybia,’ says Attica, carefully carrying in a small jug and pretty tea glasses on a tray. She pours the sweet chai and offers it to us.
I take a sip. ‘You make the best chai, Attica.’
‘I only helped with collecting the spices,’ she says, giving us a smile that reminds me of the white bakul flowers back home. ‘Thank you, Asha,’ she beams, before running off to collect the eggs.
I haven’t told Papa about Meena and the loan yet – not while he’s been awake – but I know I should. I’m scared of worrying him, of somehow setting back his recovery. My stomach twists in case he’s still not strong enough, but I grip the table and launch in. ‘Th-there’s something important you need to know, Papa. Ma . . . she had to borrow some money,’ I blurt out.
His face tenses and he grows pale. ‘I . . . of course. The money would have stopped. My poor Enakshi.’ He takes a deep breath and places his hand on my arm and I can feel it trembling. ‘What happened?’ he asks. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Ma borrowed the money from a woman called Meena,’ I say, the words catching in my throat. ‘She kept thinking the money to pay her back would come through, but it never did, and eventually Meena came to the farm with two men. They broke some things in the house and took the tractor. She said it was the interest payment.’ Papa is quiet, and simply strokes my hair. It gives me the courage to tell him the rest. ‘She said she’d come back at Divali at nightfall for the full repayment of the loan. She’ll take our home, Papa.’
‘It’s all right, Asha. We have my wages and there’s some money in my account – compensation from the fire.’ He looks across the garden towards the gate, nodding slowly. ‘The deadline’s the day after tomorrow, then. And it’s your birthday.’ He glances down at me fondly. ‘We need to get home as soon as we can. I’m so sorry this has happened. You’ve been so brave.’
I feel warmth rising inside me. ‘When Ma gave me Nanijee’s pendant, it connected me to our ancestors and her spirit showed me the way to you – I believe she kept watch over us in the form of a lamagaia – at every step of this long journey she’s been with us. But –’ I glance up at him – ‘are you sure you’re all right to travel so soon?’
He puts his arm around me. ‘I think the thunder on the night you were born made you extra special. Don’t worry about me, my little Ashi, I’m feeling stronger every day.’
This time Papa takes my hand and we walk together towards the veranda, where Taran is stringing paper decorations along the ceiling. ‘We’re going to start Divali a little early,’ he says with a smile. ‘Give you a proper send-off.’
In the evening we sit down to the farewell meal, which everyone’s been helping to prepare. There’s a new green cloth on the table with fragrant frangipani flowers lining the middle. In the centre are bowls of steaming golden dhal, on either side two large bowls of rice; one plain and the other splashed yellow with saffron.
Papa sits on one side of me, Jeevan on the other.
Sami stands on his chair and raises his glass of home-made lemonade. ‘To Asha and Jeevan,’ he says. ‘To the amazing spirit bird and to all of us for our incredible escape.’ The others all join in cheering and laughing.
‘Divali Mubarak,’ says Raj. ‘Happy Divali.’
I smile and join in the toast, but I’m reminded again of the deadline.
It’s late morning at Zandapur station, the day we’re finally leaving for home. Our journey will be slow through the steep mountain villages but by nightfall we should have reached Galapoor. Then first thing tomorrow – the morning of Divali – we’ll speed towards Sonahaar and get to Moormanali before dark.
‘Look at you!’ says Papa. ‘It was so kind of Lakshmi to make you an outfit for your birthday, and to make Jeevan a shirt.’
I swoosh the ground with my lengha skirt, the magenta-coloured sequins sparkling as they catch the light. A smile spreads like a half-moon right across my face when I clutch the folds of the full skirt, feeling like Sita returning from exile, the only thing missing a golden bow. Even so, a knot of nervousness still coils in my stomach. We’re going home, but will we make it on time to pay Meena off?
Papa sits down while Jeevan and I queue for tickets. Jeevan takes my hand and squeezes it, as if he knows what’s going through my mind. He looks so handsome in his new shirt – I know his ma will burst into tears when she sees him. We stand together, waiting our turn.
‘Close your eyes and hold out your arm.’ Jeevan snaps me out of my daydream.
What’s this all about? I feel his fingers tying something soft around my wrist.
‘You can open them now,’ he says, beaming. ‘I know it’s a day early but with everything else happening tomorrow . . . Happy Birthday!’
I touch the orange and pink woven band. ‘Wow . . . did you make it?’
‘Attica helped.’
‘It’s so pretty, my favourite colours.’ I kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’ My face flushes. ‘For everything.’
He darts his eyes to the ground and nods, nearly turning as purple as my lengha.
We buy the tickets and return to Pap
a. I give him the change and we make our way towards the train.
A chattering murmuration of starlings perches on high wires above the platform and hoards of noisy people mill about, buying snacks and fragrant chai for the train.
‘This is going to be the best birthday ever,’ I say, squeezing Papa’s hand.
‘I wish I could have got you something,’ he says, disappointment in his eyes. ‘Even if it was only small.’
‘Finding you was the best present ever, Papa!’ I link arms with him, resting my head against the crook of his arm.
Lakshmi, Raj, Sami and Attica emerge from the crowd and hurry towards us.
‘Just one more goodbye!’ Lakshmi laughs, giving us a huge hug. ‘We’re so pleased it’s all worked out.’
Papa puts his hands together in thanks. ‘I won’t forget what you did for Asha and Jeevan . . . and me.’
‘Goodbye.’ I hug Lakshmi and then Raj, Sami and finally Attica. I lift her up just like I do with Roopa and she winds her legs round my waist. ‘You have to come to Moormanali, you’ll love it.’
‘What a great idea,’ says Papa. ‘Come for a mountain break . . . bring all the children.’
‘We’ll save up,’ says Raj.
Jeevan slaps Sami on the back. ‘You have to come, I promised I’d teach you to drive, didn’t I?’
‘We’d better get on,’ says Papa. ‘We don’t want the train going without us . . . come on, you two.’
The three of us link arms and walk along the platform together, but just before we board, I turn and give our friends a final wave.
Just like the train at Sonahaar all those weeks ago, the hot narrow corridor is full of people jostling and shoving to get to their seats. We stop to show the tickets to a guard wearing a sky-blue turban.
‘Going home with your family for Divali?’ he asks, sliding open a wooden compartment door and showing us inside.
‘Yes,’ Papa replies, pulling us close.
‘Have a good journey, yaar.’
‘We will,’ says Papa, smiling.
The final fringes of Zandapur flash past the window. The small, fragile houses with corrugated tin roofs stand together, while glass tower blocks reflect the white smoggy sky, and women in multicoloured saris carry bricks on their heads. I think of Attica, Sami and the others and hope they do come to see us one day.
Asha & the Spirit Bird Page 15