The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters

by Balli Kaur Jaswal

  “Let me take a wild guess, Cameron. This character doesn’t have any lines, does she?”

  “No,” Cameron admitted.

  The porter was setting her meal carefully on the table and laying out the cutlery.

  “And she probably wears a hijab the whole time? A burka? She’s basically a pair of simpering brown eyes?”

  “I think you’ll need to discuss costumes later, but . . .”

  “Oh, come on, Cameron,” Jezmeen said with exasperation. “I know what Terrorist Number Five’s role is—an angry brown man screaming things in incomprehensible Arabic and waving a giant rifle around, threatening the Western world when what he’s actually saying is closer to ‘Can I have fries with that?’ ”

  “Seven,” Cameron corrected her. “He’s Terrorist Number Seven.”

  “So he’s that low in the rankings. I can’t even be Terrorist Number One’s wife?” Once again, the porter looked dismayed. He glanced nervously at the door as if he might be taken hostage. Jezmeen tried to give him a reassuring smile and held her hand up to say, I’ll get your tip, as she crossed the room, but he backed away and—she was certain she wasn’t imagining this—edged closer to the butter knife.

  “Would you consider that? A higher-ranking terrorist?”

  “Is it a speaking role?” Jezmeen wasn’t sure if this was a serious conversation anymore.

  “She might have a few lines, I suppose,” Cameron said. Jezmeen could picture him sitting at his desk in London, wiping the sweat off his brow and using one hand to type an email to the producers.

  The porter was lingering at the door. “Hang on,” Jezmeen said to Cameron, reaching for her purse. She gave the porter a few rupee notes, which he touched to his forehead in a gesture of gratitude before backing out the door.

  “So it’s a no, then?” Cameron asked when Jezmeen returned to the conversation. “You realize that your options are narrowing, right?”

  “I don’t think Terrorist Number Six’s wife is going to be my big comeback role, Cameron,” Jezmeen retorted. “I’m sorry, but we’re just going to have to work harder on this.”

  “Seven,” Cameron corrected her. Jezmeen wanted to reach through the phone and club him on the head.

  “You mentioned a couple of roles,” Jezmeen said. “What are my other options?”

  Cameron hesitated. With a sinking feeling, Jezmeen realized that Mrs. bin Laden was the good news.

  “There’s a movie which is being shot in India,” Cameron said. “A sort of . . . train journey story.”

  “Really?” Jezmeen asked, her interest piqued. Maybe Cameron had been trying to warm her up. “Tell me more.”

  “A family goes on a trip across northern India to reconnect with their missing son,” Cameron said. “It’s a road-trip story with a bit of a twist.”

  Jezmeen smiled. She could imagine the press junkets now: I was on a similar journey—both spiritual and physical—with my sisters, and I can tell you, there were lots of unexpected twists and turns, ha-ha.

  “. . . it’s a cross-genre sort of thing,” Cameron said. “Quite unusual. Fitting for a niche audience but maybe not limited to them, if done right.”

  “What’s the role?”

  “Shruti,” Cameron said. “The family’s eldest daughter. Unmarried, a bit of a concern for the parents. Unbeknownst to her, they’re taking her to the village to meet a suitable man.”

  “Right,” Jezmeen said. She could work with that. “Sounds like a good role, then.”

  “She’s not in the story for very long,” Cameron said. That hesitation had returned to his voice. “But her character makes a real impact, you know? We think about the consequences of everybody’s actions long after.”

  “What happens to her?” Jezmeen asked, already slightly involved and therefore grieving for Shruti.

  “She catches a . . . uh, virus.”

  “Okay,” Jezmeen said. “A tragic heroine?”

  Cameron cleared his throat. “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Cameron . . .” Jezmeen began.

  “It’s a very physical role,” Cameron said.

  “What, she’s leaping off buildings and rooftops in her condition?”

  “She’s undead.”

  “WHAT?”

  “She has a virus which makes her . . . you know, dead but not quite—”

  “She’s a zombie? You’re offering me a role in a Punjabi zombie film?”

  “Yes,” Cameron said miserably.

  “How far into the film does she die?” Jezmeen asked.

  “About ten minutes.”

  “What the hell, Cameron!”

  “It’s a very physical death,” Cameron said brightly. “You know how zombies are—lots of spasms and buckling. You’d get to display a range of emotions, which could come in handy for something else.”

  “For another Indian monster road-trip film?”

  “I’m not the one who writes these scripts,” Cameron protested. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Who can I shoot, then?” Jezmeen asked. “Who wrote this movie?”

  Cameron gave her a name that she hadn’t heard of. Jezmeen sighed. “It’s disappointing, Cameron,” she said.

  “We’ve talked about this, Jezmeen. The lack of roles and your current reputation.”

  “I know, I know,” she replied. “I’m disappointed in the scripting as well. The unmarried daughter is disposed of within ten minutes in what is—I’m guessing—a three-hour Bollywood spectacle with zombies, like some extended version of the ‘Thriller’ video. They can’t even keep Shruti alive to dance a little bit?”

  Cameron clearly had no words. “Hmm,” he said, as if he was considering sexism and all its complexities when it was just as likely that he was using one hand to type into the Google search engine: “how to calm down angry brown actress.”

  “Those are my two options, then?” Jezmeen asked.

  “For the moment,” Cameron said. “I’m sorry, Jezmeen. You know that I’m advocating for you in every way that I can, but—”

  “I know,” Jezmeen said. The pleading tone in Cameron’s voice made her feel guilty. She thought of Rajni sitting in the police station, surrounded by men and wringing her hands, and she felt a pang of regret for putting her through all of that. “Listen, I’ll think about it, all right?”

  “You will?” Cameron asked brightly.

  “Give me a day or two?” Jezmeen asked. “Send me the info.” Ever since the Arowana incident, she was aware that she couldn’t afford to be choosy, but these choices truly depressed her. Her thoughts flashed back to the makeup counter. Was it worth doing that gig until another breakthrough happened? She was going to go into arrears in her rent; the only thing that would tide her over for a little while was the bit of money Mum had left them from the sale of the house.

  After hanging up, Jezmeen ate her dinner of paneer masala and basmati rice, scraping her spoon across the bottom of the bowl, and then using her fingers to wipe up the last traces. She hadn’t noticed how hungry she was until she started eating, but when she was done, she realized how quickly she had eaten. Immediately the sensation of fullness turned into queasiness. The room was filled with the smell of spices now; she called room service to ask them to take her tray. “Right away, madam,” the porter said, probably terrified that she’d orchestrate a militant ambush on his family if he didn’t obey her. The thought made her realize that she didn’t have her passport back yet. After the police station yesterday, she felt naked without her identification—although she had played it cool, she’d actually been uneasy when the man behind the reception desk took her passport as well. I’ll need that back, she had to refrain from saying because it sounded too much like something her haughty older sister would say.

  “Could I come down to get my passport back, please?” she asked.

  “Madam, we just returned all three of them to Mrs. Chadha,” the desk manager said.

  “Thank you.”

  She sighed and
hung up. She supposed she’d better go over to Rajni’s room to talk to her anyway, try to clear the air. She wanted to be better at this pilgrimage thing—she did—but it was also occurring to her that she was going to need a lot more strength and patience to get through this leg of the journey. Amritsar was a holy city; alcohol was difficult to find here and she wasn’t keen to wander the outer edges of the city in search of a cold bottle of beer.

  She went out into the hall and knocked on Rajni’s door. “It’s me,” she called. “Just wanted to get my passport back.”

  The door opened. “Can I come in?” Jezmeen asked.

  Rajni left the door ajar and turned her back to Jezmeen, busying herself with unpacking. Her suitcases were neatly lined along the wall and open, her clothes categorized in those packing cells that she had bought for Jezmeen and Shirina years ago after seeing them in a sale. “Your bras don’t go missing,” she’d said with amazement, as if this was the worst possible consequence of traveling. Because of all her meticulous organizing and contingency plans, it probably was.

  The passports were sitting on the bedside table. “Raj, I’m really sorry,” Jezmeen said as she entered the room and shut the door behind her.

  Rajni dismissed her apology with a wave, as if to say, “Too little, too late.”

  “Listen, I feel terrible. I know I made a joke of it on the train, but I was actually really scared. I didn’t know what they might do to me in there.” She hesitated, because it was hard to talk about what could have happened. “Rajni, I’ve never felt fear like that before—my skin crawled with it. Every time a guard walked by the cell, I held my breath until he passed because I was terrified he’d come in and do something to me. I realized I had no idea what the law permits police officers to do here, and they’d already decided we were rioters. The men at India Gate, they looked like they were ready to pounce on us and rip us to shreds—then the police had us in little cages and could do the same.” Jezmeen stopped when she realized her voice was shaking.

  “Think about how worried I was,” Rajni said, extracting her toiletries kit from a tight space between two neatly pressed pairs of trousers. “Me and Shirina. Why can’t you think about other people before you plunge yourself into stupid things?”

  “Rajni, we’ve been over this. I wasn’t courting trouble out there. It just happened.”

  “You and Anil,” Rajni said, shaking her head. “You don’t think about other people.”

  “What does Anil have to do with this?” Jezmeen asked.

  Rajni pursed her lips. “Nothing,” she said quickly. Her gaze flitted away from Jezmeen’s. “He’s just selfish sometimes, that’s all.”

  “He’s just a teenager,” Jezmeen said. “He’s going to grow out of it.”

  “What’s your excuse, then?” Rajni countered.

  “I’m not self—” Jezmeen began, but she noticed the muscles tensing in Rajni’s jaw. There was no point arguing. This was how their problems at the hospital escalated. “I was really, really glad to see you,” Jezmeen tried again. “And more grateful than you’ll ever know.”

  Rajni’s gaze softened. “Good,” she said quietly. She paused her unpacking and rose to her feet. Her knees snapped and she winced.

  “Ouch,” Jezmeen said.

  “It didn’t hurt,” Rajni said. “I just hate that sound.”

  “I get it too sometimes, especially if I’ve been sitting all day.”

  “It gets worse. More frequent. I spend all this time trying to outsmart these little signs of my body wearing down—stretch, eat more flaxseeds, get eight hours of sleep. But what can you really do?”

  She sounded like Mum, lamenting that her years of balanced eating and recommended daily walks had taken her nowhere. “After Mum’s diagnosis, she started saying: ‘At least prayer is helpful,’ ” Jezmeen recalled.

  “I don’t know where she got that idea from,” Rajni said.

  “Have you ever tried it?” Jezmeen asked.

  “What—praying?”

  Jezmeen nodded.

  “No,” Rajni said.

  “Not even after—you know, when Mum told us about the jewelry pouch? You didn’t . . . I don’t know . . .” She struggled to find the words. “Check with God?”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” Jezmeen said quickly. She felt silly admitting now that after storming out of Mum’s room and thinking I need a drink, she had found the hospital chapel instead and decided it was as good as anyplace to get some answers. She remembered sitting in that quiet room, shivering as an icy wind blew through a crack in the stained-glass window.

  “God, I can’t believe how much I wish she were here,” she whispered to Rajni.

  Rajni took Jezmeen by the shoulders and guided her to sit down on the bed. “I know,” she said.

  “I just feel so untethered now that she’s gone. Both our parents are dead. We’re orphans, did you realize that?”

  “I know,” Rajni said again.

  “And we’re next.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, we were children, we were that generation that was supposed to outlive the adults. Now that they’ve died, another entire group is going to outlive us. We’re the next to die.”

  “That won’t happen for a long time,” Rajni said, stroking Jezmeen’s back. “It’s decades away.”

  “It’s easy for you to say because you’ve got a legacy. You have a life established—your career, your home, your family. I’m still stuck where I was ten years ago. Virtually nothing’s changed.” A sob escaped Jezmeen’s throat. She saw her future in an endless list of insignificant roles, that woman who flashed across the screen in a rabid frenzy and perished from a zombie virus before the audience even knew her name.

  “Shh,” Rajni said, holding her. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” Jezmeen said. “Even Mum thought my life wasn’t headed anywhere.”

  “She was just concerned about you,” Rajni said.

  Jezmeen shook her head. “After the doctors told her the cancer was terminal, and she didn’t have much time left, she said, ‘How can I die knowing that you’re not settled?’ I thought she was referring to marriage, but it was other things too. She said I had no commitments. ‘You need to settle, Jezmeen,’ she kept saying. It just made me feel worse about my career and everything.”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks before she wrote that letter.” Jezmeen shut her eyes, remembering the way her voice and Mum’s had escalated. She had dropped in at the hospital to see Mum on her way home from an audition for a small speaking role on a two-part BBC drama series. “It went pretty well,” Jezmeen said hopefully. “I’ll know in the next couple of days.”

  “How many of these things are you going to do, Jezmeen?” Mum asked impatiently, surprising her. Although Mum had never been an enthusiastic encourager of Jezmeen’s fledgling acting career, this outburst gave her the impression that Mum had been waiting a long time to tell her off. The ensuing lecture about settling down and being more responsible made Jezmeen feel even worse, and when the producers didn’t call her back by the end of the week, she cheered herself up by polishing off a bottle of wine on her own before Mark came over for dinner that Saturday.

  A few weeks later, when Mum talked to all three of them about the pilgrimage, Jezmeen had been the first to grasp her hand. Don’t leave, she was saying, even though she had known for a while that the end was near. Mum’s fingers were icy; her blood circulation had already become poorer but the shock of those familiar hands feeling so foreign had made Jezmeen recoil. It took her a while to grasp Mum’s request, because she was still frightened by the thought of Mum’s body rapidly deteriorating.

  “We need to call a truce, then.” Rajni sighed. “You and me. No more of this. You saw how upset Shirina was on the train. We need to stop arguing.”

  Jezmeen gulped back a sob and nodded gratefully. She had known from the start of the trip that a conversation with her sisters about Mum’s deat
h was inevitable. For the first time, the thought of it didn’t seem so awful.

  Chapter Nine

  Day Five: The Golden Temple, Amritsar

  At this stage of the journey, I trust that the three of you are feeling closer and more connected to each other. Visiting the Golden Temple is about recognizing the oneness of humanity. You should enter the temple’s grounds with an open heart, and think about leaving the past behind. You must also take a bath in the sarovar to cleanse yourself of all burdens. As you do this, remember that purification is not just about water washing away grit. It is also about your thoughts and actions becoming simpler and more purposeful.

  This part of the journey was about purification, Mum had said in her letter, and so in the morning, Shirina considered calling Sehaj and telling him that she was sorry. She felt a bit foolish for making such a fuss during their phone conversation last night. In the shower, she shut her eyes and let the water pour over her body, rivulets running down the curves of her breasts and thighs, the roundness of her abdomen. The light floral fragrance of the hotel body wash filled the small cubicle. She felt cleaner as the water pooled at the spaces between her feet and the foam circled down the drain.

  As the days crept closer to her “visit to the ancestral village”—the cover that Shirina was still sticking to, even though her sisters might wonder who these relatives were and why they’d never heard of them—Shirina felt a combination of dread and relief. She wished there were a different course of action that would make everybody happy, but she had gone through all the ideas and scenarios in her mind. Everything pointed back to Shirina. This wasn’t easy for Sehaj either. Mother was adamant, and Shirina of all people knew what she was like when she dug her heels in. If she could come to terms with doing this one thing for the family, the tension in their home would melt away.

  So every time the panic seized Shirina, she reminded herself of the future: returning to Melbourne, seeing Sehaj, starting over. She’d even lose this excess weight right away, beginning a midyear new year’s resolution. The future unrolled like a carpet before Shirina, and she saw an entirely new life where she and her mother-in-law had the kind of closeness that she had always craved from Mum. Soon, soon, she reminded herself as she stepped out of the shower. The creamy white body lotion smelled like lilacs, springtime. Soon the obstacle that stood between her and her new family would be gone.