Asha & the Spirit Bird

by Jasbinder Bilan

  I pull a face. ‘And I haven’t done my homework.’

  ‘Don’t worry, just copy mine in the morning . . . as usual.’

  ‘And you can copy my English,’ I say, shoving him gently. ‘As usual!’

  The pendant rocks against my collarbone as we climb away from the witch’s house towards the grazing pastures. ‘You’re such a good friend, Jeevan. I know exactly what I have to do now and, just like Ma said, I’m working things out for myself, making my own decisions.’ I feel an invisible force, like a powerful hand pulling me towards my destiny. ‘Divali is only seven weeks away and I’m going to Zandapur to bring Papa home before Ma can take us to England.’

  The week zooms by as fast as a flickering sunbird’s wing and I can’t believe it’s Friday evening already; tomorrow, before the sun rises, we’ll be gone.

  Ma’s writing something at the table when I come in from doing my chores. ‘You stayed out really late and . . . look at you.’ She quickly folds the paper over and pushes it into her pocket.

  ‘I had to go back and rub some butter on little Sunny’s hoof,’ I explain, as water from my plait drips down my neck.

  ‘You’re soaking.’ She grabs a towel and wraps it round my shoulders. ‘Come and sit with me.’ She’s trying to sound cheerful, but the circles around her eyes look even darker than yesterday.

  I touch the stitches on the kurta she’s been making for someone in the village. ‘You’re so clever – it’s so neat, Ma.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you. I can teach you to make one when we have some time.’

  I give Ma a tired smile. Going to Zandapur will make things worse for her; I know she’ll be desperate with panic when she discovers I’ve left, there won’t be anyone to help her and she’ll have to do everything all by herself, but I hope she’ll understand that I’m doing this for all of us.

  ‘Come,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘Let’s go.’ She leads me up the stairs.

  Rohan and Roopa breathe noisily on their side of the room, and just this once I’m glad they’re asleep so I can have Ma all to myself, one final time.

  The sheets are soft under my chin as she tucks me into bed. ‘Like when you were a baby . . . do you remember the little rag doll I made for you?’ She touches my hair and hums distractedly. ‘The storm’s taken some of the heat out of the evening so you’ll sleep well tonight. Goodnight, dear little Ashi.’

  How she’ll fret when she sees my empty bed in the pale morning light. ‘Goodnight, Ma. Could I have a hug?’

  ‘Come here.’ She snuggles me close and I breathe in her smell – oniony, mixed with the heady scent of jasmine.

  I cocoon myself against Ma’s body, not wanting her to let me go. ‘What would I do without you?’ she says, her eyes watery. ‘You’ve had to grow up too quickly these last few months.’

  Ma’s words hit me hard – what will she do without me? I burrow my head deeper into the comfort of her arms and we stay like this until I feel myself drifting off to sleep. Eventually I hear the door click as she goes to bed, and I’m left flitting in and out of dreams, late into the guilty night.

  I wake in a sudden panic and sit bolt upright. Is it time to go? I check the alarm clock by my bed but there’s still half an hour to wait. My mouth is dry, my breathing fast, and I can hardly believe that I’m leaving home today.

  In the hushed darkness of the room, I kneel on the bed, feel for the map of India on the wall and pull it off.

  I flick on my torch and lay the map out, but Rohan turns in his bed and I freeze, holding my breath. He wakes and calls out to me, like he does in the middle of the night. ‘Asha?’ He sits up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Asha, what are you doing?’

  ‘Shh . . . nothing, you’re just dreaming, go back to sleep,’ I whisper, hurriedly patting his cheek and kissing his clammy hand. ‘I . . . It’s only a dream.’

  I hold my breath tight, watch his chest rising and falling, before I dare gasp for air again.

  I go back to the map and begin to mark my route, the sharp torchlight spreading long shadows across the paper. The city of Zandapur is on the other side of the mountain – Papa circled it for me before he left – and we have to go through Galapoor first and then Kasare to get there.

  Papa caught the train from Sonahaar, so I use my pen to mark it on, then finally find our village, Moormanali, and put a large heart shape around it.

  I hastily get ready to write my messages for Ma but my hand hesitates – she says it’s wrong to lie, but perhaps it isn’t a lie. After all, I’ll light a deeva once I get to the temple at Kasare. Trying to control my shaking hand, I begin the note I’ll leave on my pillow . . .

  Ma – I’ve gone to light a deeva for us all at the temple. See you later – Asha

  She won’t think anything’s wrong when she reads it – it’s just the sort of thing I’d do on a Saturday morning – but when I start the second note, the one I’ll leave under the statue of Shiva, the one Ma won’t find until much later, I have to swallow hard.

  Dearest Ma,

  Please don’t be cross. I don’t want to go to England and the only person who’ll stand up and defend the farm is Papa, so I’ve gone to find him and bring him home. You told me to make my own decisions and this is what I have to do.

  Don’t worry, Nanijee’s pendant will protect me.

  All my love,

  Asha

  Ma will be shocked, tearful . . . and angry. She’ll know I’ve lied to her but I bite my teeth together, fold the notes and put them on the bed.

  I yank on the stiff jeans and hoodie Uncle Neel sent last year and tie the laces on my blue pumps. These clothes will be a good disguise, in case anyone comes looking for us.I take the piece of broken cup from my kurta and slip it into my pocket.

  I weave the lamagaia feather back into my plait, collect everything I’ll need for my journey and pile it all into my red bag.

  I know Rohan and Roopa will cry when Ma tells them what I’ve done, but maybe they’ll be impressed as well – they want Papa back as much as I do. I swipe my eyes. ‘Look after each other and be good for Ma,’ I say softly.

  I stumble down to the dark kitchen, shining the torch ahead of me. The wooden door to the food cupboard scrapes as I open it. I flick a nervous glance over my shoulder, scooping two mangos and two boiled eggs into my bag.

  Even in this dusky light the statue of Shiva glows golden. I slide the second note under his foot. ‘Please, Lord Shiva,’ I whisper, quickly pressing my palms together. ‘Bless my journey. Look after Ma and Rohan and Roopa.’

  I pick up the matches and take them as well. We’ll have to light fires when we sleep outside, to keep all the wild animals away.

  The thought of the mountain wilderness filled with wolves and ravenous tigers makes my skin tingle, sending a shot of fear searing through my body.

  Leaving our house behind me, I run light-footed through the amber-smudged night towards Jeevan’s farm buildings, blood pounding loudly in my ears. Once I reach the crest of the hill, I hunker behind the row of shivering neem trees, just in case his papa’s arrived early.

  I peer round the tree to check it’s all clear and cautiously trip the final few metres to the shed, but Jeevan’s already there, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the loaded cart.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask, trying to read his expression in the low light.

  His forehead is creased with worry. He slides his eyes away from me, clasps his hands together, then blows the fringe off his face.

  I will my heart to slow down. ‘What’s the matter, Jeevan? Something has happened, hasn’t it?’ My palms are sweaty and I’m afraid of what he’s about to say.

  He begins quietly. ‘I’m really sorry. I’ve thought about it over and over again but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I can’t go with you.’

  ‘What did you say?’ The night air suddenly feels heavy and I find it hard to breathe.

  ‘If anything happened to me, Ma wouldn’t know what to do.�
�

  ‘I don’t understand, Jeevan. I thought you were my best friend . . . I thought you would do anything for me.’

  He tries to put his arm around me but I push him away and storm outside.

  My face is burning. ‘I don’t need you.’ The words we both know aren’t true hang awkwardly in the midnight air.

  ‘Y-you remember what happened to my brother.’

  ‘Yes . . . you told me.’ Jeevan’s younger brother caught a fever when he was five and the doctor didn’t get there in time. I know I should say something to make him feel better, but I just can’t.

  ‘I can’t leave my ma like he did,’ he says, hugging his arms around himself and leaning against the shed.

  Neither of us speaks.

  ‘How will my ma cope if anything happens to me?’ I say in a loud whisper. ‘Then she won’t have Papa or me!’ I remember her silence at supper and the way her tears were just a blink away. I turn my back on him, my throat aching from holding down a sob.

  Then my anger explodes. ‘How dare you? You practically forced me to go to see the witch, you told me that I have to find Papa and now . . . now at the last minute you’re leaving me to do it all by myself!’ I swivel round and punch him in the arm, hard, then look at the floor to stop myself from crying.

  ‘Ow! Stop it! Look, I’m sorry, Asha.’ He holds me by the shoulders and tries to turn my face towards his. ‘ Look at me.’

  But I struggle out of his grip and stomp away.

  I’m shaking now, unable to see anything but a watery veil, and sense my heart form a tight fist against anything that he might say to make himself feel better.

  ‘I promise I’ll help your ma and look after Rohan and Roopa as if they were my own little brother and sister. I . . . I won’t let that Meena woman or her thugs anywhere near the farm.’

  I keep my arms firmly crossed, refusing to speak.

  ‘Maybe when we get to the market I could give you a signal to get away?’

  I close my eyes and clasp my pendant. Nanijee, if you’re listening, help me to be strong, help me on this journey.

  Jeevan searches in his bag and hands me a map.

  I shove it away. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got my own.’ My voice trembles. ‘I measured everything carefully . . . I don’t need yours.’

  ‘Oh . . . suit yourself, then.’ He takes a few steps towards the path leading away from the sheds and turns as if to go, then twists round to face me. ‘Do you want it or not?’

  I edge a little closer, peering at him from under my lashes, watching as he opens up the map under the nearly full moon. The paths are highlighted in different colours and there are funny little pictures to cheer me up along the way and he’s even put our favourite constellations in.

  But when he pushes it towards me, I still don’t take it, so he rolls it up and puts it into my bag. I stay stubbornly silent but leave it there.

  ‘I don’t know if you want it, but I brought you this.’ He holds out the penknife his papa gave him for his last birthday. ‘It’ll come in handy, and you’ll need it more than me and I sharpened some sticks for you, just in case you need weapons.’

  I reluctantly take his offerings, but my furious disappointment glows like a burning coil at the back of my throat and all I can do is shrug like I don’t care any more.

  His face is rigid, as though he’s trying hard to keep his feelings from spilling out. ‘I put a blanket in the cart to make it softer . . . I’ll be back in an hour or so and I’ll make sure you get away once we’re in Sonahaar. You’ll do it, Asha, you’re strong, remember it’s written in your lines.’

  He leaves me alone, surrounded by the vast night sky. Part of me wants to follow him, run home as fast as I can, wake Ma up and tell her how much I love her. I only wish he’d turn back, call and tell me he’s changed his mind, but he’s gone and I only hear the chilly mountain wind whistling down the valley.

  The village houses down in the hollow cling to each other in the ash-grey light, shadowy ghost-like figures shrouded in the heavy mist.

  I’m not sure I believe any of Chitragupta’s predictions now . . . it’s just me, no one else.

  My insides are jangling with nerves, but I’m doing what Ma told me to, working things out for myself, making my own decisions. I grasp my pendant and sense its energy and rhythm releasing an invisible force, as if I’m reaching back across time, touching ancient spirits.

  I find my words again at last and they fly from the embers, like a phoenix rising, filled with renewed strength.

  I shake my hair free and feel the icy breeze blowing it back. ‘I’m Asha, with the mountain-green eyes,’ I howl. ‘I’ll ride like the fearless warrior goddess Durga on the back of an amber-striped tiger, shooting flame-hot arrows, unleashing my anger against injustice. I will bring my papa home.’

  The cart tips forward, the reins flick and we begin moving. My insides churn like milk turning to butter.

  I lift the cover an inch and peer out at sleepy Moormanali one final time from between the layers of cotton plants. Everything is the same as always, except that I’m leaving now, just like Papa did all those months ago when I buried my face into his jacket that smelt of all the smoky fires we’d ever built on the mountainside and begged him to hurry home.

  The moon and the stars shine above me, just like they did for him, hopeful beacons, sending their blessings for the first day of my journey. I can’t tear my eyes away from the fields of sugar cane cloaked in the secret light of earliest morning. I watch until my village gradually becomes a tiny distant hill, embroidered with everything I’ve ever known and loved.

  The cart rattles on until I lose all sense of how long we’ve been on the road, but I’m sure Ma will have found my first note by now, telling her I’ve gone to pray for us all at the temple. This will please her, but later when she goes to light the deeva and finds the second note, she’ll know I’ve lied, and I push the image away.

  The cart suddenly jolts forward and I have to stop myself from calling out as my head crashes against the side. The revving motors and beeping horns outside drill into my brain.

  I hear feet hit the ground and then a burst of raucous voices. Twisting on to my front, I shuffle towards the corner, ease up a little section of the cloth and look out.

  We’re parked in front of a dhabba stall, like the one we all went to for Ma’s birthday a long time ago, and the stallholder is pouring rice batter on to a massive tava, getting ready to make crispy dhosay for breakfast. The spicy potato filling that he’s scooping up to stuff on to round flat pancakes sends grumbles through my stomach, particularly as I spy Jeevan tucking into a huge one.

  Just when I start to wish I’d given him another thump last night, I see a long paper straw being pushed beneath a corner of the cover. I grasp it with my fingers and yank it towards my mouth; fresh coconut milk! It slips gratefully down my parched throat.

  For the first time since Jeevan let me down, I feel the ice around my heart thaw a little towards him, but in the next beat I remember his broken promises and the fury returns.

  Once we’re in Sonahaar I’ll have to fend for myself, against anything that comes my way, and the thought makes my anger flare again.

  I barely have time to squeeze back under the covers before we start to move again; the bullocks’ hooves clattering along the cobbles towards the market, the bitter smell of petrol fumes leaking through the covers, catching the back of my throat. We’re getting closer.

  We stop suddenly and I hear a thud as Jeevan and his papa jump on to the ground. There’s a rustling and the sacking opens, flooding light into the cart. I sink back as far into the cotton as I can, making myself small, fear winding itself around me, anchoring me to the spot.

  ‘You take them a bit of cotton, Papa, then I’ll carry the rest over if they want it. I can manage.’

  It’s only Jeevan . . . I let out my breath at last and settle back between the itchy cotton, listening to the voices turn quiet, waiting for the signal he said he wou
ld give me.

  I stay rigid, not daring to move for what seems like for ever and just when I think he’s forgotten, he lifts the flap.

  ‘It’s all clear,’ Jeevan whispers.

  My arms and legs are like lead, and won’t move until I force them out from under me, willing them into action. I feel for my bag and manage to slide out of the cart, landing in a twisted heap on the hard ground, my body on fire, the pins and needles nearly making me cry out. I pull up my hood and hobble into the busy market, desperate to get away without being spotted.

  It takes all my willpower not to turn back and look for Jeevan, but I keep my eyes straight ahead and slip away between the stalls, disappearing deeper into the labyrinth, my pendant bouncing in time with my heart.

  I try my best to dodge the early morning shoppers as they barge their way down the narrow aisles. A cyclist frantically rings his bell and yells over my head as he zooms past me, knocking me right into a woman dressed in a beautiful sari. She’s carrying a garland of pale jasmine flowers as if she’s going to the temple and has a delicate red bindi in the middle of her forehead.

  ‘Careful, betay,’ she says kindly. She smells of freshly baked naan and my stomach gives an ache as she reminds me of Ma.

  I take out my map and hold it in front of me, peering at the heart I drew around Moormanali this morning, the distance to Zandapur stretching between the two places. ‘Chai,’ cries a loud voice to my left. ‘Hot hot chai.’ The boy is about my height and has a metal carrier in his hand full of clinking glasses and steaming pepper-spiced tea. He crashes into me, sending the map flying into a deep puddle. My hood slips off my head as I dive into the water after my map, the coils of my long plait unravelling. ‘Look where you’re going, you spooky-eyed idiot, you nearly made me spill the chai and lost me my morning money.’ The boy mumbles more curses, heading off into the tightly packed stalls that spiral on for ever.

  ‘Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to,’ I call after him. ‘It was just an accident.’ I lift the soggy map out of the puddle. The ink has run and the paper disintegrates in my hands. What use is it now? I leave it on a pile of empty boxes.