Bhangra Babes

by Narinder Dhami

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  “Do you think it will hurt?” Jazz asked. “No, of course not,” I said briskly. “Now stick your leg out.”

  “It's got to hurt a bit,” Geena remarked. She was painting her nails at the dressing table. “Pulling hairs out by the roots usually does.”

  “The box says it's quick and easy and painless,” I replied, picking up a waxed strip.

  “They're hardly going to say it's quick and easy and hurts like hell, are they?” Geena pointed out.

  “That's true.” Now Jazz was looking worried.

  “Oh, live a bit dangerously for once,” I said, advancing on Jazz with the wax strip held out in front of me. But Jazz rolled over to the other side of the bed and tucked her bare legs underneath her.

  “Why do I have to be the one to try it first?” she grumbled.

  “Because Geena and I value your opinion,” I said. This might have worked if Geena hadn't giggled. “You don't want to turn up for the first day of the new term tomorrow with hairy legs, do you?”

  “No one's going to be looking at my legs,” Jazz said with satisfaction, glancing at herself in the mirror. She'd gone up a whole cup size over the summer holidays. Now she was bigger than I was. Drat and double drat. How embarrassing is it when your little sister looks older than you do?

  “Anyway”—Jazz was eager to change the subject—“I thought one of us was going to sneak downstairs to listen at the living room door.”

  Geena tutted loudly.

  “I don't know what you're being so uppity about,” I said. “It was your idea.”

  “She thinks she's one of the chosen few now she's moving to the upper school,” Jazz sniffed. “Saint Geena the Perfect.”

  “It's because I'm growing up,” Geena said, waving her hands in the air to dry her pale pink polish. “I simply can't afford to behave so childishly anymore.”

  “So if I thump you, you won't retaliate?” I asked, grabbing Jazz's pillow and swinging it round my head like a hammer thrower.

  “I will, of course, defend myself with whatever comes to hand,” Geena replied, picking up a hairbrush.

  “Oh, stop it, you two,” Jazz said in a world-weary

  voice. “Let's talk about Auntie. What are we going to do with her?”

  This was a question we'd been asking ourselves ever since Auntie had moved in with us. Our mum had died a year and a half ago, and Auntie had come from India to look after us and Dad. It all looks so simple, written down in one sentence like that. It doesn't tell you anything about the pain and the suffering. And I'm not just talking about Mum, which was the worst thing ever. We also had to learn how to get along with Auntie taking her place. There's only one thing you need to know about Auntie. She interferes. That is all.

  “I mean”—Jazz was getting warmed up—“we hand her the best-looking teacher in our school on a plate—”

  “I'd say Mr. Arora is possibly the best-looking teacher in the whole of London,” I broke in.

  “Or even the entire country,” Geena suggested.

  “All right,” Jazz went on. “We hand her possibly the best-looking teacher in the whole country on a plate—”

  “We didn't exactly hand him to her on a plate,” Geena interrupted.

  “Oh-ho, did we not?” I scoffed. “Whose idea was it to get them together in the first place?”

  “Yours.” Geena gave me a look. “And as I remember, they had a quarrel the very first time they met.”

  “Details,” I said airily. “They soon realized they were meant for each other.”

  “Was that before or after the Molly Mahal disaster?” asked Geena.

  Three or four months ago there was a bit of a rift

  between Auntie and Mr. Arora when we had ex-Bollywood star Molly Mahal staying with us for a while. Don't ask why and how—it's too complicated to explain. And definitely don't ask Geena and Jazz, because they'll blame me. I mean. As if.

  “All right,” Jazz said impatiently. “We find possibly the best-looking teacher in the country and we try our hardest to get him and Auntie together—”

  “We did more than try,” I said. “We actually did it.”

  Auntie and Mr. Arora had been stepping out together since the Bollywood party at school, just after Molly Mahal had callously abandoned us to resume her filmi career. Now what we all wanted to know was, when was the wedding? Which was why we wanted to find out what was going on at this very minute behind our living room door.

  “Please stop interrupting me,” Jazz said huffily. “I mean, we've done all that and made it really easy for them. So when are they going to get married?”

  “Jazz, you've been asking the same thing for the last three months,” Geena grumbled.

  “Well, when are they?” Jazz persisted. “I mean, Mr. Arora's got that promotion now—”

  “He'll be fantastic as head of the lower school,” I said. “Much better than Mr. Grimwade was. Although now he's the deputy head, Mr. Grimwade has the potential to create a lot more misery.”

  “So what's stopping Auntie and Mr. Arora from announcing their engagement?” Jazz persisted.

  “That's not for us to say,” Geena replied, quite

  pompously actually. “And there's nothing we can do about it either, except wait and see.”

  “Oh, I wouldn't say that,” I remarked.

  “Really?” Geena said frostily. “And why wouldn't you say that, Amber?”

  “Oh, God.” Jazz put her hands to her temples. “I can sense one of Amber's ridiculous ideas coming. I feel sick.”

  “I'm not going to do anything,” I said cheerfully. “Except maybe drop a few subtle hints.”

  I lifted my pillow and picked up the magazine that was hidden underneath it.

  “Asian Bride,” said Geena. “Yes, very subtle. Like being hit on the head with a hammer.”

  “I thought I'd just leave it lying around,” I explained. “No pressure. Now”—I picked up the waxed strip again—“let's get on with this, shall we?”

  “I'm not going first,” Jazz stated firmly.

  I sighed. “Well, really. I sometimes wonder if I'm the only one with any sense of adventure round here.”

  “The three of us do it together or not at all,” said Jazz.

  “Oh, if you say so.” I peeled off one of the strips and slapped it onto Jazz's leg. Then I stuck one to my own.

  “Not me,” Geena said. “My nails are still wet.”

  “Too late,” I replied, bouncing across the bed to stick a strip on Geena's shin.

  “It's not hurting at the moment,” Jazz remarked cautiously.

  “Of course not,” I said. “I told you it wouldn't. Now, one, two, three—pull.”

  I think Jazz must have torn hers off a fraction of a second before I did because a bloodcurdling scream
echoed around the room.

  “Aaaaaaaarrgh!”

  No, not that one. That was me.

  Oh, every-rude-word-you
  The pain. The pain. It was like a million tiny red-hot needles piercing the skin. I was lucky I had any skin left, mind you.

  “You said it wouldn't hurt!” Jazz wailed, rubbing the red patches on her legs.

  Still shaking, I realized that there'd only been two screams. Not three. I looked down. Geena's strip was still stuck to her leg.

  “Get that off right now,” I ordered.

  “I can't,” Geena spluttered, looking utterly terrified. “My nails are still wet.”

  “Allow me,” I said with grim relish, and whipped the strip off at speed. Geena's screech nearly brought the roof down on us.

  We heard footsteps charging up the stairs, and Auntie flung the door open.

  “What is it?” she gasped. “Who's been hurt?”

  “Amber tried to kill me!” Jazz moaned.

  “I nearly killed myself too,” I said defensively.

  Auntie surveyed the scene in front of her, our bare legs with the red patches and the wax strips covered with hairs. She smirked. “Don't be such big babies,” she said. “Leg waxing doesn't hurt. Try a bikini wax. Now that's painful.”

  “Can we not go there?” Geena said faintly. “I've just had the most horrible picture come into my head.”

  “I've still got hairy bits,” Jazz grumbled, inspecting her legs closely.

  “You can tweezer those out,” Auntie replied.

  “Tweezer them out?” Jazz shrieked. “Are you insane?”

  “I was impressed when you said you were coming up here to get ready for school tomorrow.” With one sweeping glance, Auntie took in the makeup, the hair dryers, the straightening irons, the nail varnish and all the other stuff strewn on the bed. “I kind of had the idea that you were going to lay your uniforms out and pack your school bags and check over your summer assignments. Little things like that.”

  Looking justifiably smug, I pulled my bag out from under the bed and held it up. “I checked my holiday homework yesterday, my bag's packed and my uniform is hanging up in the wardrobe,” I said. “We're ready to go, aren't we, girls?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Geena in a fake cheerful voice.

  “I've just got to sort out my uniform,” Jazz muttered, carefully pushing her school skirt under the bed with her toe.

  “I can never count on you two to back me up,” I grumbled.

  “Well done, Amber,” Auntie said, smiling. “And you still have time to read magazines, I see.”

  Asian Bride lay on my pillow. I'd forgotten to hide it again after showing the others.

  “Oh, yes, that,” I blustered. “I—er—like the—um— pictures.”

  “Really.” Auntie picked up the magazine and flipped through it while Jazz and Geena pulled gleeful faces and made throat-slashing gestures at me.

  “If you don't mind, I'd like to borrow it.” Auntie moved over to the door, taking the magazine with her. “I need to start making plans, now that Jai and I have agreed to get married.”

  “What?” we shrieked.

  Looking pleased with herself, Auntie disappeared downstairs.

  “Wait!” I yelled, trying to fight my way off the bed past Jazz. “Give us details!”

  “Get your foot out of my ear, Amber!” Jazz shouted. “Did you hear that? They're getting married!”

  “I don't believe it!” Geena wailed. “I've smudged my nails!”

  I was first to the door, but Jazz was breathing down my neck. Geena followed us, grabbing a box of nail wipes. We clattered downstairs like a horde of rampaging wildebeest, intent on clearing everything out of our path. This was big. This was huge!

  Mr. Arora was sitting in the living room next to Auntie, looking embarrassed but very happy. Dad was there too, a big grin on his face.

  “Calm down, girls,” Auntie said as the three of us hurtled into the room. “You're frightening your uncle-to-be.”

  We all beamed at Mr. Arora, who did actually look

  a little scared. He was staring nervously at me, and it was only then that I remembered I'd borrowed Auntie's giant heated rollers and they were stuck all over my head—I looked like a porcupine.

  “Isn't it great news, girls?” Dad said, his eyes shining. He took his glasses off and wiped them furiously. He's such an old softie, I think he might have been about to burst into tears. “Are you pleased?”

  “I should say so,” Jazz replied enthusiastically. “It's about time!”

  Geena elbowed her in the ribs. “You old romantic, you.”

  “Well, it is about time,” Jazz said defensively. “I mean, she's fancied him for ages, and—”

  “Shall we end this conversation right here?” Auntie suggested.

  Mr. Arora blushed. He was so good-looking (floppy-dark-hair-and-melting-chocolate-brown-eyes kind of good-looking), but he really didn't seem to know it. Bless him.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Does this mean you won't give me any maths homework from now on?”

  “Sadly, no,” Mr. Arora replied.

  “You'll be able to give us loads of insider information, though, won't you?” Geena said with glee. “You can be our spy in the school camp.”

  “When's the wedding?” asked Jazz. “Everyone at school will want to see the pictures.” Her eyes shone with a mercenary gleam. “We could charge.”

  “There you are.” Auntie smiled at her new fiance.

  “Didn't I tell you that there's no way the girls would try to exploit this situation?”

  They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, and it was very sweet. Dad pretended to cough and I handed him a tissue.

  “The wedding will be in six weeks' time,” Auntie went on. “We have some arrangements to discuss with Jai's parents first, so we're keeping it a secret for the next few days.” She gave us a stern look. “Don't tell anyone just yet.”

  “Discretion is our middle name,” I said loftily.

  “No, trouble is your middle name, Amber,” replied Auntie. “But make sure that this time you do as you're told.”

  “We will,” Geena promised. “I'll keep these two blabbermouths in line.”

  “And I hope you'll forgive me, girls,” Mr. Arora added.

  “What for?” Jazz asked.

  “For taking your aunt away when you've just got to know her,” he replied.

  Dad hiccupped and reached for another tissue. I wasn't about to burst into tears, but I was shocked. Of course Auntie would be moving out after she married Mr. Arora. It was something I hadn't really thought much about before this.

  But how did I feel about it?

  How did any of us feel?

  “Of course, we had much more fun before Auntie came,” Jazz said dreamily. It was the next morning, and she was stuffing books into her schoolbag higgledy-piggledy. “Remember? We ate takeaways all the time and watched TV until midnight and Dad was never here, so we did whatever we liked.”

  “Yes, but were we happy?” Geena asked.

  “Hold on a moment.” I leaned across the kitchen table and flicked my fingers across the top of Geena's head. “Your halo's a little off-center.”

  “How childish,” Geena said tartly. “That's exactly why I wouldn't expect you two to understand what I mean.”

  “I'm not childish,” Jazz retorted, sticking her tongue out.

  Geena looked smug. “I rest my case.”

  “I know what you're getting at,” I said impatiently. “We were only doing all that stuff because of Mum, so we weren't really happy at all.”

  After Mum died, our family had almost fallen apart. Geena, Jazz and I had stuck together because that was what we always did, but we'd never talked about Mum. We'd tried to pretend it had never happened and that we were all right really. Dad had coped by staying at work all the time. How had we got ourselves out of that mess? We hadn't. Auntie had got us out of it.

  “Thin
gs will be different this time, anyway,” Geena said wisely. “Dad doesn't spend so much time at work, for one thing.” She glanced at the clock. “We'd better go.”

  “If Auntie leaves, we'll have to do our own cooking and cleaning,” Jazz grumbled.

  “I'll miss you too.” Auntie came into the kitchen in her dressing gown, a towel wrapped round her hair. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too,” I replied, adding cheekily, “Are you seeing your fiance later?”

  “That's for me to know and you to find out,” Auntie replied.

  “How childish,” Geena muttered.

  “Oh, be quiet,” I said. “I am a child. I'm allowed to be childish.”

  “I was talking to Auntie,” said Geena.

  “I think it's time you all left for school,” Auntie said. “And remember”—she followed us down the hall toward the front door—“don't say a word to anyone. It's still a secret.”

  “Yes, but for how long?” I wondered, closing the door behind us. “You know what it's like round here. Word travels faster than the speed of light.”

  “Oh! There you are, girls.”

  Our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Macey, popped out of the house next door. I swear she'd been standing looking through the letter box, waiting for us to come out. Mrs. Macey is Auntie's biggest and most faithful fan, even though just a little while ago, she hated us all simply for being Indian.

  “Isn't it wonderful?” she breathed reverently. “But I'm not going to say another word about it, girls. My lips are sealed!”

  And she popped back inside again.

  “Did she mean what I think she meant?” asked Jazz.

  “Yes,” Geena said.

  “But how does she know?” Jazz persisted.

  “Auntie must have told her,” I replied, opening the gate.

  “But we're not allowed to tell anyone?” Jazz grumbled. “That's so unfair.”

  At that moment we were distracted as a bicycle flew across the pavement and screeched to a halt inches from our toes. Without so much as an apology, a hulking

  great Neanderthal climbed off the bike and thrust Dad's Daily Telegraph under my nose.

  Now, in the past I've had my problems with the kids who deliver our newspapers. I admit it. Leo, our last paperboy, and I had a love-hate kind of relationship going on. But Leo had gone to America with his family for six months. Now, apparently, we had some kind of skinhead person who was built like a tank delivering our newspapers.