The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  “I mean, you need to be careful about . . .” Rajni began to gesture at Jezmeen’s blouse and ended up waving at her whole outfit.

  Jezmeen looked amused. “You don’t think I only packed shorts and bikini tops for this trip, do you? It’s Delhi. Supposedly we’re in India for religious reasons. I’ve got other clothes.”

  “I should hope so,” Rajni said.

  Shirina picked up the menu. “Hmm, these juices look refreshing.” She waved over the waiter. He came bounding back.

  “Hello again, Tarun,” Jezmeen said, flashing him a warm smile. Her tattoo was on full display and—Rajni was sure she did this just to spite her—she leaned forward slightly, exposing the deep line of her cleavage.

  “I’ll have the mint, green apple, and carrot detox juice, please,” Shirina said.

  “Madam, so sorry but unfortunately, we don’t have any carrots at the moment,” Tarun said.

  “Just the green apple on its own would be fine,” Shirina said.

  Tarun looked very troubled. “I must apologize, madam, but we are out of all fruits at the moment.”

  Which meant Rajni’s mango smoothie with seasonal fruits would be made of what, exactly? “What do you have, then?” Rajni snapped. She handed him the menu. “Go on. Point it out for me.”

  Tarun nodded at the menu, his features squeezed as if she’d challenged him to conjure all of the missing menu items. The look of concentration on his face made Rajni momentarily ache for Anil. It had been a while since she’d seen him so vulnerable. Something happened around the time he became a teenager, when his whole existence suddenly depended upon appearing tough and streetwise. After Rajni reluctantly conceded to letting Anil take his gap year to work, she couldn’t help pointing out that his regular outfits of hoodies and baggy pants weren’t going to impress any employers. “If they can’t except my authentic self, then I ain’t excepting their job offer,” Anil replied. “Accept!” Rajni had snapped, and walked off as Anil scowled and muttered, “It’s what I said, though.”

  “Madam, I really don’t know what to tell you—” Tarun said.

  “It’s really all right, Tarun,” Jezmeen said. “It’s not your fault.”

  Tarun uttered another apology and scrambled away. “Really, Raj, did you have to scold him like that?” Jezmeen asked.

  “I’m sorry, but when I’m given a menu, I expect items I can actually order, not a wish list.”

  “He’s doing his best,” Jezmeen said. “We’re in India. Adjust your expectations. You can’t throw your weight around like some colonial returnee. Nobody puts up with that nonsense anymore.”

  “You think you can just blend in with everyone here? I’d like to see you try to walk outside wearing that outfit and all that makeup and showing off that tattoo.”

  There. It was done. She couldn’t even create one day of peace with Jezmeen. “I don’t need another mother on my bloody case!” Jezmeen used to shout when she was a teenager. Mother. Jezmeen always said this word like a foul word was supposed to come after it.

  Shirina had a talent for taking herself out of these arguments. Rajni had noticed her training her eyes on the couple in the pool as they splashed each other playfully. Now she picked up the itinerary. “Why don’t we talk about tomorrow?” she suggested.

  “Yes, why don’t we?” Jezmeen said. She took the itinerary from Shirina and studied it. Rajni knew it by heart, she had studied it so many times. “I was really hoping to take a side trip, but I guess that’s not on the schedule.”

  Rajni sighed. “Where exactly were you planning on going, Jezmeen?”

  “There’s a music festival in Goa and then I thought I’d get a city fix in Bombay after getting through all these holy places. There are tons of cheap flights to the south.”

  I’ll get to Vitosha Mountain in Bulgaria for skiing season and then spend a few days in Sofia. Anil and Jezmeen were alike in this funny way. They talked about places they hadn’t been to with such familiarity and confidence.

  Like when Anil said, I am going to give it all up for her. A shudder went through Rajni. What a fool, she kept on saying to Kabir. What a stupid fool our son turned out to be. They had spent all of Anil’s life trying to steer him toward a steady future, giving him every opportunity at success. More opportunities than children with siblings, Rajni and Kabir told each other over the years, a salve for the pain of being unable to have any more kids. Anil had all of their resources and attention. And although Rajni didn’t always understand her son—why, for example, did he insist on being from the streets when he grew up in a lovely Victorian terrace in North London?—she never expected his path to diverge this far from her expectations.

  “I’m afraid my plans have changed slightly as well,” Shirina said. She pointed to the final item on the itinerary—the trek to Hemkund Sahib, where they were meant to scatter Mum’s ashes in Lokpal Lake. “I was going to email you about it but I thought it would be better to tell you in person.”

  “Tell us what?” Rajni asked.

  Shirina took in a deep breath. “It’s really a last-minute thing. Sehaj’s family—the extended family in Punjab—they haven’t met me yet. I agreed ages ago to visit their village at the end of July.”

  Rajni stared at Shirina. Was she really telling them now that she would be skipping out on the most important part of the pilgrimage? The mountain trek would be the most strenuous part of their journey. Rajni hadn’t sent her sisters multiple links to websites about preventing Acute Mountain Sickness for Shirina to just opt out of going altogether.

  “I’m very sorry,” Shirina said.

  “This is a crucial part of the journey, though. I’ve kept Mum’s ashes all this time and brought them to India so we could carry out her wishes. Can’t Sehaj’s family see you a few days later?” Rajni asked.

  “They’re a huge family, people have already made plans to travel down. If I change the dates at the last minute, it’ll look bad.”

  The last minute? Plans for this trip had been in the works since Mum’s death in November. Rajni saw an opportunity to lecture Shirina on priorities—she had missed her chance when Shirina returned to Australia so quickly after the funeral. But Shirina lowered her eyes, as if expecting to be scolded.

  Rajni glanced at Jezmeen. There wasn’t much Rajni and Jezmeen agreed on, but Shirina’s marriage to Sehaj had united them, if only in a cursory way. They shared little observations about how Shirina had disappeared into her role. In that first year, every time Rajni sent a message to check in with Shirina, the replies were about Sehaj and his extended family—new business ventures, celebrations of other marriages. Jezmeen also reported to Rajni that she noticed Shirina had taken down all pictures of herself on social media in any skirts above the knee, or at parties where cocktail glasses and beer bottles were visible.

  It was surprising, because although Shirina had always been obliging, she had never really struck Rajni as an aspiring conservative Indian trophy wife. In university, Shirina had been ambitious enough to do summer internships at PR firms where she wanted to work one day, and after graduation, she landed a good job, earning a salary in her own right. Rajni knew that all sorts of women chose the arranged-marriage route these days, not just the traditional ones who wanted to keep house and have babies right away, yet Sehaj’s wealth seemed to have bought a certain acquiescence from Shirina. “The ring would have cost him six digits,” Rajni had confirmed to Jezmeen in a single-line email when Shirina got engaged, to which Jezmeen had responded, “OMG SERIOUSLY?” Rajni was hoping to catch Jezmeen’s attention for another Can you believe this? moment, but Jezmeen was busy staring at her phone again. She thumbed urgently at the screen, her lips moving as she read something quietly to herself. Rajni was tempted to pluck the phone from Jezmeen’s hands and toss it into the pool.

  “Madam, your orders.” Tarun arrived with a tray and two drinks that looked nothing like the pictures. “Thank you very much,” Shirina said, clearing the itinerary from the table. Rajni took a sip
of her smoothie. It was a mango lassi and it was sickeningly sweet, like drinking pure syrup. The rapid fire of a drill went off in the lobby, rattling her nerves.

  “Anything else I can get you, madam?” Tarun asked tentatively.

  Yes. I’d like to fast-forward to the end of this trip, please, Rajni wanted to say. Being a wife and mother was complicated enough. She didn’t want to be a daughter and a sister as well. I’d like this week to be over as soon as possible. Tarun wouldn’t be able to grant this request but there was nothing new about that.

  Chapter Three

  Day Two: Gurdwara Bangla Sahib

  If the doctors had let me travel to just one place, it would be to this holy shrine to honor the memory of our eighth Guru, Guru Harkrishan. He was invited to stay here as a guest when it was the magnificent bungalow of a Rajput prince. During our Guru’s time here, an epidemic of smallpox and cholera swept over Delhi. Instead of resting in the comfort and safety of the bungalow, he went out to bring food and medicine to the suffering.

  You will spend the morning serving others by working in the Gurdwara Bangla Sahib kitchen. Think about what this place once was and what it continues to represent—a home and a place of healing. It’s a symbol of selflessness, sacrifice, and service. If only I could get there, I know I’d be better.

  Jezmeen woke up the next morning to a ping! and she lunged for her phone, nearly knocking over the bedside lamp. She had set up a Google alert for searches of her name to keep track of what people were saying about her. So far, nobody had made the connection between the host of DisasterTube and the security footage from the Feng Shui restaurant in Soho showing a woman going berserk and causing more expensive property damage than she could imagine. Jezmeen still maintained she was acting in self-defense, although she knew that the video didn’t show the scale of the threat to her.

  The alert that came up this morning was similar to those that had popped up yesterday while she was sitting by the pool with her sisters—somebody describing a clip he had seen on DisasterTube, and criticizing Jezmeen’s introduction of it. “Somebody tell Jezmeen Shergill to shut up already. God, she’s annoying!” Yesterday’s alert had been kinder: an entertainment feature on celebrities who could be twins. There were the usual comparisons between Jezmeen and Polly Mishra, although this writer did refer to Jezmeen as a “fun and fabulous TV host” and Polly as simply an “actress.” Was that a subtle snub at Polly? Jezmeen hoped so.

  God, she’s annoying. Jezmeen knew better than to let comments from strangers online bother her, but she found herself clicking on that guy’s profile and searching for comments that he’d posted on other videos. It took a few minutes, but eventually she found another criticism. “Are we supposed to believe that this guy did it all without the help of steroids—LOL gimme a break,” he’d posted under a video of a bodybuilder showcasing an impressive lifting routine using household objects. He was a serial troll, then. At least he wasn’t one of those guys who sent around a petition to get Jezmeen and Polly Mishra to have a naked boxing match. Those sorts of things cropped up every now and then. Outside the Tube station a few weeks ago, a man approached Jezmeen cautiously, saying, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look a lot like Polly Mishra.” Jezmeen had flashed him a gracious smile and said, “Yes, people say I look like her.” It was the deep-set eyes and the sharp cheekbones, she’d been told. She and Polly Mishra also both wore their shoulder-length hair loose and slightly wavy, although Jezmeen distinguished herself with caramel highlights. The man replied, “Oh, I’m glad you’re not offended. I met her once and when I told her she looked like Jezmeen Shergill, she was very annoyed.”

  Screw Polly Mishra, Jezmeen thought. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sprang up with more enthusiasm than intended. Her head swam to cope with the sudden rush of blood and the room went dark momentarily. Gripping the bedside table, Jezmeen was taken back to the days of her hypochondria phase. Every minor glitch in her system had been a potential symptom of impending death. Could she be blamed? Dad’s death had been so careless and simple—he had slipped in the shower and hit his head, then carried on with his day. If he had gone to the doctor, a scan would have revealed the dangerous blood clot that resulted from the impact and killed him on the walk to his car after work several days later. Needless to say, Jezmeen was very careful when walking on slippery surfaces. But there was only so much she could do about inheriting weak, sickly genes from Mum. After Mum’s cancer diagnosis, Jezmeen had made multiple mammogram appointments, which she was then forced to cancel because she was informed that she was abusing the National Health Service.

  After her shower, Jezmeen got dressed and went down to the lobby. Shirina and Rajni weren’t there yet, so Jezmeen stepped out for a moment into the haze of Delhi. The air was dense with noise and movement and the summer heat bored into her skin immediately. Horns blared incessantly here and the air was thick with dust. But this was also a city where a person could disappear—a thrilling possibility. In a frank evaluation of her career prospects after her contract wasn’t renewed, Jezmeen had considered packing up and moving to India because she had a chance of anonymity here, or at least starting over. But what did starting over mean? She had spent years flitting from one audition to another, landing only minor parts in commercials and extra roles in EastEnders. Her small chance at national visibility had arrived only nine months ago and then she had blown it over one moment of foolishness; there could be another decade of proving herself all over again.

  The dizzying maze of shops, traffic, and tea stands that made up Karol Bagh market was just around the corner. The King’s Paradise Hotel was tucked away at the end of a service alley. Next door, a row of crumbling shop houses sat obscured behind tangled telephone wires and crisscrossed bamboo scaffolding. A stray dog with jutting ribs crouched under a parked van to seek shade. One of the alley walls was adorned with fading pictures of Hindu goddesses, under a sign saying DO NOT DISRESPECT. Jezmeen wondered if images of these deities really did anything to deter men from pissing on the walls, as they were intended. Judging from the acrid whiff of urine in the air, probably not.

  A valet with gel-slicked hair approached her and asked if she needed a taxi. “In a moment,” Jezmeen said, looking over her shoulder. Rajni was coming out of the lift, wearing beige linen pants and a flowy silk blouse which matched the scarf wrapped loosely around her neck for covering her head later.

  “Where is Shirina?” Jezmeen asked. She self-consciously smoothed out the wrinkles in her own cotton kameez top. How did Rajni have the patience to press and iron everything, even on holiday?

  “She was still asleep when I called her room,” Rajni said.

  “Must be the jet lag again,” Jezmeen said.

  The punishing heat burned through Jezmeen’s clothes. They returned to the lobby and sank into the plush sofas. The air bore the potent smell of disinfectant. At the reception desk, a woman wearing a red blazer held the phone to her ear. “This is your wake-up call, sir,” she said, and then she nodded and replaced the receiver.

  “Did you sleep well?” Rajni asked.

  “A few hours,” Jezmeen said. “You?”

  “I never sleep well in hotels.”

  The television screen mounted on the wall flashed brightly. It was the morning news but the presenter only took up a small square on the screen. Banner ads rolled across the length of the screen and neon columns showed the latest stock market figures. It was like watching a casino machine.

  “I was watching one of those sing-along shows on TV last night,” Jezmeen said. “Mum loved those.”

  “Mum and Dad used to watch them together,” Rajni said. “Dad would hum along and Mum would shush him for ruining the song.”

  Jezmeen smiled. “I think I remember that.” It was hard to know which early memories were hers and which were constructed by Rajni’s recollections but she thought she could hear Dad’s off-key humming. She was only five years old when he died, and sometimes she envied Rajni fo
r having known Dad for so many more years. Jezmeen longed to say things like “I got my laugh from my father,” or “My father used to say that.” A sense of legacy would help her feel less lost, especially now that Mum was gone too.

  “I do the same thing now when those shows come on,” Rajni said.

  “You hum along?”

  “I shush Kabir.”

  No surprise there. “And does Anil watch as well?”

  “He did when he was little. Now he pops in his earphones and just watches whatever he wants on the iPad.”

  That sounded like Anil—hypnotized by a world beyond his parents’ living room. Since he hit adolescence, Jezmeen had only seen about three emotions register on her nephew’s face: sullen, bored, and enthralled (but only by whatever was on his phone). His intrigue factor had spiked only briefly over the weekend when she spotted him skulking around the perfume counter at the mall. Excited that he might have a girlfriend (and at the prospect of torturing Rajni with the info), Jezmeen had waited for him to leave before sidling up to the counter girl to get the scoop. “He wanted something mature,” she sighed, throwing a sorrowful look at the Sugar N Spice line for teen girls. Jezmeen was disappointed too. All of that anticipation and Anil turned out to be buying a gift for his mother, whose birthday was next month.

  “Should we call Shirina again or something?” Jezmeen asked. “She might have gone back to sleep.”

  “Give her ten minutes,” Rajni said. She glanced toward the hotel lifts. “Do you think it’s weird that she didn’t tell us about visiting Sehaj’s family till yesterday?”

  Jezmeen shrugged. “Maybe she got the dates confused. It sounds like she’s been really busy.”

  Rajni frowned. She didn’t look satisfied with this response, and truthfully, neither was Jezmeen, but it seemed that Shirina had become another casualty to marriage, like so many other women Jezmeen knew. Appointments were never set in stone and they often brought their partners along to dinner at the last minute.