Asha & the Spirit Bird

by Jasbinder Bilan

  She sits opposite me, dark semi-circles around her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ she says. Her voice has lost its usual lightness and sounds as brittle as glass. ‘You know that we can’t survive on the money we make from the farm – even with my extras it’s not enough – and your papa . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Asha, he hasn’t sent any money since that last letter in May.’

  ‘What?’ I nearly choke on the word, the reality of what Ma has said forcing me to grow up in a single breath. I grip the table, unable to speak. I knew about the letters stopping, but she never told me the money stopped too.

  ‘I had nowhere else to turn,’ she says, using the edge of the tea towel to dab away her tears. ‘I kept thinking he was just running late, that the money would turn up the next month. But it never did.’ The sky grumbles and looks darker than ever. She wraps her arms around me and kisses me lightly on the head. ‘Stay inside – I should get the milk. I won’t be long. I promise we’ll talk more when I get back.’

  I wait for her to go, then trail into the back garden with its neat rows of shiny peas and peppers that she’s been growing to sell at the market. The chickens are still unsettled and they can’t stop squawking and pecking each other. Warm drops of rain splash on to my hair and trickle down my neck as I shelter under the wide-canopied sheesham tree beside the house, its rough trunk hard against my back.

  Glossyblack-wingedrosefinches,withtheir blushed underbellies, chatter and dive out from between the branches, chasing each other, dripping more rain from the leaves, like holy water. I let it fall on my face, willing it to revive me, and think of a curse to hurl at the people who’ve invaded my home.

  ‘Do not dare to return here, but begone to the northern poles where nothing grows except cruel ice, and place your heart beneath the white bear’s claw, under the ghost wolf ’s foot. May you wane for ever, shrivel like a coal on the fire, shrink like slime on the wall, waste away like a starving child and become as small as a drop of saliva from a fly’s vomit and much smaller than a speck from the dung heap and so very tiny that you become nothing.’

  I slip on to the ground, letting my shoulders droop at last, exhausted by the burden of the day. I sit with my eyes closed, trying to make sense of what’s happened, but it doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would Papa stop sending the money? The rain has cleared the air and I breathe in the early evening smells; warm soil, grass and the sweet star-shaped bakul flowers, like the ones that Papa collected for me last summer when we took a picnic high into the mountains instead of doing chores. He made them into a garland and crowned me Queen of the Himalayas.

  Is he safe? Has something happened?

  The crickets begin their raucous clicking, droning their steady evening song like a chorus you can’t blot out. I go back inside. I walk over to the small shrine we keep on a shelf in the kitchen and top up the clay deeva with mustard oil.

  Striking a match, I light the deeva, just as I’ve done every single night since Papa left, and watch the pale yellow flame flicker, dimly at first, then explode into a bright light, shining golden under the statue of Shiva, who looks so calm sitting there with his hand raised in peace. I take a deep breath and my senses fill with the comforting scent of jasmine from the garland Ma twined around his neck this morning.

  ‘Maybe this will bring us some luck.’ I put my hands together and close my eyes. ‘Please, Lord Shiva, protect this house and all of us who live here. Protect my papa, wherever he is. Keep us safe and reunite us and give thanks for Jeevan and his family and our neighbours.’ A rush of fear fills my stomach. ‘A-and especially protect us from Meena.’

  When I open my eyes, I notice a letter tucked behind the statue. It’s got a blue British stamp on it and must be from Uncle Neel in England. Why didn’t Ma show it to me? She usually reads all his letters to us. My stomach turns a somersault; she’s been keeping another secret from me! I slip the letter out of its envelope, reading hurriedly, one eye on the door . . .

  Dearest sister Enakshi,

  We are all fine in England. London gets cold quickly in September. Not like India, where you must still be feeling the heat of the sun. The leaves are starting to fall and that means all the children are going back to school. Manu begins his exams this year. We hope he works hard . . .

  I know you haven’t heard from Paras for so long, or received the money he promised to send you. Do you think it ’s time you thought about selling the farm? You can have a good life here. Be brave, Enakshi. Come to England . . .

  My hand is shaking, I can’t finish reading.

  So this is what Ma’s been planning! How can she even consider leaving Papa behind while he’s working to keep us all alive? And what happens when he comes back and there’s nobody here? With the letter still in my hand, I storm outside, gasping for fresh air.

  I stand against the house, staring wildly into the sky. My heart won’t stop slamming against my ribs and my breathing is out of control.

  The stone wall is scorching with heat from the day and I lean against it. A single mottled toad shuffles out of the shadows and I kneel on the damp mud beside it, listening to its soulful croak.

  Way above, a half-moon appears through the burnished evening clouds, lighting up the wings of a circling lamagaia – a bearded vulture – and for some reason it makes me think of Nanijee, Ma’s ma, who died when I was six. Nanijee believed the spirits of our loved ones lived on through animals, and said that after she died she would come back to us and we should look out for her.

  I close my eyes and don’t feel quite so jumpy – the memories of my nanijee are tugging me back to earth.

  You were such a tiny thing when you came from your ma, bloodied and bawling, hardly bigger than my outstretched hand. You fought your way into the world on that stormy night with the thunder thrashing on to the rooftops and lightning searing the skies.

  Your mountain-green eyes shocked the whole village. You were the one chosen to carry forward the ancient name, Asha . . . you were our hope and I clasped you in my arms.

  When I open them again, the lamagaia has perched on the old well. It’s about the size of a lamb, with dark bronze wings and a grey beak. Golden feathers cover its head and the rest of its body. It struts around the crumbling wall and begins pecking as if it’s looking for grains of wheat. Then it spreads its wings, which are far wider than my outstretched arms, and lands beside me, right there, on the ground. Even though its wings are now folded, the bird is colossal.

  They usually keep away from people, but I’m so close I can see each bright yellow scale on its legs and its grey-ridged talons, which it uses to scratch at the ground.

  The lamagaia starts to make a clucking sound, as if trying to tell me something, and I stare into its dark-flecked eyes, mesmerized. I feel a little heart-patter of nerves, but lean even further forward, stretching my fingers towards its feathery wing. It hops away, perching back on the well, tilts its head to one side and lifts its wings.

  ‘I wish you were my nanijee,’ I say, my voice quivering. ‘I need her so much.’ A grey feather tinged with gold floats down and lands by my foot. I stroke its silky softness and weave it into my plait. ‘Perhaps I’ll call you my spirit bird.’

  It keeps looking at me, unfurls its powerful wings again, and this time rises into the grey-white sky, billowing dried sheesham leaves into the air like dust.

  A while later, Jeevan brings the twins home to find me crying at the kitchen table. I wipe my tears and help him to put my brother and sister to bed.

  Afterwards Jeevan places an awkward hand on my back. ‘Are you OK?’

  I walk over to the shrine. ‘Jeevan, look.’ I push the letter from Uncle Neel in front of him and point at the bit about England. ‘Ma’s been keeping this secret. Uncle Neel wants us to sell the farm and go and live there.’

  Jeevan’s eyes dart to the floor then back to me. ‘She wouldn’t actually think of leaving though, would she?’ He looks away. ‘Do you want to go?’

  I beat back the te
ars. ‘How can you think I’d want to?’ I say, folding my arms across my chest. ‘You know how much I love being here. Nowhere would be the same . . . and I’d never find a friend like you.’ I reach for Jeevan’s arm and push the sleeve of his shirt away from his wrist to reveal a friendship band. ‘Remember the day I tied this?’ My face burns as hot as coals as I recall how he stood up to those men, putting himself in danger. ‘Our friendship means the world to me, Jeevan! Especially now! Everything’s tumbling around me and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘We made a pact to always help each other,’ says Jeevan, twisting the band. ‘And I mean to keep my promise.’

  I hear the sound of chappala squelching on the damp ground outside and nervous jabbing pains stab my stomach. ‘Quick, it’s Ma.’ My guilty fingers can barely fold the letter and I push it clumsily back behind the shrine.

  Jeevan steps towards the doorway. ‘Meet me in the mango tree later.’

  ‘OK. I’ll try to get away. Thank you.’

  He bumps into Ma as she brings in the milk. ‘Were you helping Asha with her homework?’ She tries to smile and ruffles his hair.

  He quickly smooths it back down. ‘Yes . . . something like that . . .’ he adds under his breath, the secret turning his cheeks red. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Let’s eat,’ says Ma, letting out a long sigh and striking a match to light the stove. ‘Call Rohan and Roopa, will you?’

  ‘They already ate at Jeevan’s,’ I say, desperate to talk about what’s happened. ‘They’re in bed. And I don’t feel like eating . . . I just want to talk, Ma. What’s happened to Papa? Why hasn’t he sent the money like he promised?’

  She still doesn’t answer me but concentrates on ladling the yellow dhal into two wooden bowls and hands me the one with most. I shake my head and push it away.

  ‘Come on, Asha. You have to eat. It’s Monday tomorrow and you’ve got school.’ She stands beside me, twisting the tea towel. ‘You know the sacrifices we’ve made so you get a good education . . . it’s really important.’

  I grab hold of the tea towel so Ma has to face me. ‘What’s the point of education if we’re going to lose the farm and go to England anyway?’

  She looks at me, nodding slowly. ‘So you found the letter.’

  I feel my cheeks redden.

  ‘Sit down and eat something, Asha.’

  I throw myself on to the wooden bench and tear at a rock-hard roti, left over from this morning, dunk a piece viciously into the dhal and shove it into my mouth, but it won’t go down and scratches my throat.

  ‘That’s right . . . eat up.’ Ma’s brow is set in a deep furrow as she pours a cupful of the milk and begins heating it. ‘This will give you some strength.’ She sprinkles cinnamon and places the frothy warm drink gently in front of me.

  I sip at the milk, forcing the hard bread down my throat. ‘Will they really come back, at Divali?’ I ask, afraid of what she’s going to say. ‘And if they do, will we really have to sell the farm?’

  Ma doesn’t reply, she just clasps her hands together and stares at the doorway, and I know that the answer is ‘yes’.

  ‘If only we knew where my ma hid her gold,’ she says, after a long pause. It’s as if she’s in another world.

  ‘Nanijee had gold?’

  ‘She only told me about it when she was dying. She was feverish, so I was never sure how true it was.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘She said that it was a collection of all the precious gold dowries given to the daughters of our family. Each generation from way back added to the treasure and passed it on. She said there were ancient engraved bangles, earrings, necklaces. Your nanijee wanted to keep it all together and safe for hard times . . . but it was all so long ago that nothing is certain.’

  ‘Did you ever see it?’

  ‘No,’ says Ma, twisting the tea towel again. ‘We don’t know what she did with it. Maybe she intended to tell us, before she died – but she didn’t get the chance. Or maybe it never existed at all.’

  ‘If we could find it –’ I begin to feel excited – ‘Papa wouldn’t have to do that awful job in the factory . . . and we wouldn’t be forced to go to England.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’ve looked, Asha?’

  I will my heart to stop thudding and take a deep breath. ‘Ma, we can’t leave Papa behind. Anything could have happened to him. This is our home. He might come back here looking for us.’

  ‘I can’t manage without him. I’ve been to Sonahaar to get a clear phone signal. I tried the number he gave us over and over again, but it’s dead. And I keep sending letters, but no reply.’

  ‘We can’t abandon him, Ma!’ My words are choked and I can hardly get them out.

  Ma’s face clouds over. ‘But what am I meant to do?’

  ‘Everything I love is here in India,’ I say between sobs. ‘I don’t want to go to England, Ma.’

  But her expression is suddenly determined. ‘I don’t want to either. But if we don’t hear from him or receive any money by Divali, we won’t have a choice. We’ll have to sell the farm to pay Meena back. I’ll tell Uncle Neel we’ll come. That will be nearly six months without a word from your papa.’

  ‘Ma, we can’t – that’s only seven weeks away.’ I grip the edge of the table. ‘We can’t leave him. I don’t care what you say. I won’t go, Ma! I won’t!’ I run out of the kitchen, Ma following behind.

  She finds me in the garden. All the anger has fled from my body and I feel drained. She brings me close to her and I bury my head into her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Asha.’ She wipes the tears from my face. ‘But we have to do something.’ She leads me back inside and we stand beside the shrine. ‘Let’s light another deeva, shall we?’

  ‘Ma,’ I whisper, feeling more tired than ever. ‘Can you tell me the story of when I was born?’ I need to chase away the memories of Meena and the men invading our home.

  ‘But you’ve heard it so many times before.’

  She’s smiling, though: she loves this story as much as I do. ‘Please, Ma,’ I say, pulling her on to the bench beside me.

  ‘Well, OK,’ she begins. ‘The big Divali celebration, the festival of lights, was approaching. My ma, your nanijee, came to visit from her village in the far-off mountains and everyone lit their deevay, acting out the story of Prince Rama and his wife Princess Sita and their return home after being banished by the king, just like every year.’ Her face brightens. ‘Your papa was so attentive, we were very excited. Then out of the blue there was the most spectacular thunderstorm.’ Ma unplaits my hair as she speaks. The lamagaia feather falls into my lap, where I hold it carefully.

  Ma picks up the comb, passes it through my hair. ‘You have such long thick locks, Asha, just like Lord Shiva, so lucky . . . So that night nearly twelve years ago is when you decided to come into the world . . . and we called you the thunder baby.’

  ‘And what did Nanijee say when she saw my green eyes?’

  Ma gives a deep sigh, as if she’s really missing her ma. ‘Nanijee took one look into your mountain-green eyes and said, This baby will see things that others can’t.’

  ‘And do you think that’s true, Ma?’ I sip some milk and trace the red pattern on the tablecloth with my finger.

  ‘Everything can be seen in different ways,’ she says, sprinkling jasmine oil in my hair. ‘It all depends on what you believe in. You’re growing up now, you have to start working things out for yourself.’ She notices the lamagaia feather in my lap and lays it on the table. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Out in the garden. Ma . . . how would you know what form the spirits of our ancestors take?’

  Ma’s voice fades into the background, and the answer comes from somewhere else.

  Didn’t I tell you, Asha, on that day when I left you? Lying still under the covers of fine white muslin, my breath beating out of me slow and laboured. I called you to come and sit beside me and not to be frightened because I would never really lea
ve you . . . my spirit soul would find a way back to you.

  ‘ . . . If you look right into its eyes they say you can gaze into its soul and tell if it belongs to your clan . . . are you OK, Asha?’

  I lean against Ma. ‘Mmmm.’

  Nanijee would have seen lots of lamagaias, because of where she was born in the mountains, and it makes me feel excited when I think of the one I saw earlier, especially after my memory dream. ‘Ma, did Nanijee ever talk about lamagaias?’

  ‘She used to tell a story that she once found a lamagaia chick in an abandoned nest high on a mountain ledge when she was looking after the family goats. She watched it for a few days but no parent bird came to feed it, so she took it little titbits and reared it until it became a fledgling. She said it got big really quickly, even though it was still so young. She loved it and it always came back to her even after it had grown up. That’s what she told me, anyway.’

  She re-plaits my hair and puts the feather back.

  Then she pulls a red silk purse out of a knotted corner of her chuni. ‘I took my pendant off to keep it safe from Meena.’ She holds the purse tenderly. ‘And I think it’s time you had it . . . my ma gave it to me when I was twelve and now it’s your turn.’

  ‘I thought they’d taken it.’ I feel butterflies fluttering in my stomach and watch Ma as she brings it out.

  The pendant is shaped like a teardrop with a curved tip and has a tiny red gemstone at the end. She unclasps the long chain and hangs the necklace she has worn for as long as I can remember around my neck.

  I touch its surface, which is like fine gold lace, and wrap my fingers around it.

  ‘Oh, Ma . . . ’ I can’t find the right words. ‘It’s . . . beautiful . . . I’m honoured to have it and I promise to look after it for ever.’