Kitabı oku: «The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Balli Kaur Jaswal

About the Publisher

Prologue

My dearest children,

If you are reading this, you know the end has finally come for me. I hope that our final moments together were peaceful and that I had a chance to tell each of you how much I love you. If not, I hope that you know how much you have enriched my life. I am so very proud of each of you and the individual paths you have trekked in this world. I am blessed to have been witness to your triumphs and challenges, your heartaches and your successes. Guiding you from infancy to adulthood allowed me to live life over and over again, and in this way, I feel that I have stepped into so many worlds in the course of my brief stay in this universe.

There are matters to be discussed of course, involving the will and my estate, but these will come later. I trust that the lawyers will discuss the inheritance and the division of property and assets with you after the other formalities are taken care of. If you would like to be informed ahead of time, please see the attached.

Please take care of yourselves and each other. Make time, not just on special occasions, to come together and enrich your bond as a family. I have learned that the most important thing in life is that we show appreciation to our loved ones. Remember that nothing matters more than this.

This was the letter that Sita Kaur Shergill overheard the old woman in the next bed dictating over the phone. A few times, her voice quavered and she had to pause to sigh and sniffle. Sita had turned down the volume on her television to listen to the part about the lawyers – she was most interested in what this woman was leaving to her children, but ‘the attached’ was not available on this side of the partition. She had seen the children on their visits – two middle-aged sons who were possibly twins with vastly different diets and a handsome blonde woman who always repeated the same soothing words, ‘We’re here, Mum. We’re here.’ They often arrived separately but left together, squeezing each other’s shoulders and making light conversation about parking spaces or the declining quality of the hospital canteen’s coffee.

Sita pressed the buzzer on her remote control and when the nurse arrived, she requested a pen and piece of paper. These were the earliest hours of the morning, before visitors were allowed. It was the best time to think about dying. The pain encompassed her entire body, radiating from her toes to her temples and vibrating in her bones. Despite the morphine, the pain was always visible – she saw it edging in the shadows of her vision on the best days and wringing her frail body like a towel on the worst. Today she was feeling strong enough to sit up; the letter from the woman in the next bed had motivated her, and by some miracle, the nurses attended to her request within the minute.

My dearest daughters, she began. She stopped and frowned. When had she ever addressed her children as dears? She crossed out the line and began again. To Rajni, Jezmeen and Shirina. There – a command for their attention. She used to stand at the foot of the stairs and shout all three names even if she only wanted one of them to come down; she could always find something for the other two to do once they arrived. It only worked for a while, then Jezmeen started calling back: ‘WHICH ONE OF US SPECIFICALLY?’

To Rajni, Jezmeen and Shirina:

By now, I am dead. It is just as well because I’ve had enough of this ghastly life – all this working and suffering and trying to take care of myself for no bloody reason. Please enjoy your health while you have it because once your body betrays you, no comforts in the world will make up for your loss.

No, she couldn’t leave them with that. It was too honest. If these were her last words, they’d never forgive her. She folded the sheet and set it on her side table, weighing it down with the pen, and then she closed her eyes. How did she want to be remembered? She had been a wife, a mother, a widow and a grandmother. Sikh funerals didn’t include eulogies, so her daughters would be spared the task of scraping together a list of her meagre achievements. On some days, she thought she knew which of her daughters would remember her least kindly and on better days, she assured herself that all of them would at least agree that she had tried her very best.

Sita pressed the button to call for the nurse again. It took a while this time, but eventually the rail-thin girl with the tattoos and half her head shaved arrived. She was not as friendly as the Jamaican nurse who sometimes squeezed Sita’s hand and said, ‘You rest now,’ but she smiled when Sita asked her: ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-seven,’ she replied. There were zig-zag patterns shaved into the sides of the girl’s scalp. Sita wondered what man found this sort of thing attractive.

‘Have you ever been to India?’ she asked.

‘No,’ the nurse said, a bit regretfully, which pleased Sita.

‘If your mother asked you to do something for her, no matter what it was, would you do it?’ she asked.

The nurse slid Sita’s table down the bed so she could tug at the edge of the blanket, which was bunched up by her feet. Her fingers grazed the knuckles of Sita’s toes. ‘Of course I would,’ she said. ‘Now, is there something you need, because—’

‘What’s your religion?’ Sita asked.

Her question was met with narrowed eyes. ‘I do believe that’s a very personal question to ask.’

Sita frowned. There was a reason she liked the Jamaican nurse better. She wore a thin gold cross that hung just beneath the V-neck of her scrubs. ‘Ho, Lord,’ she wheezed quietly, stretching her back at the end of a long shift.

‘Can you hand me my pen and paper, please?’ Sita asked. As the girl reached into the drawer next to the bed, Sita’s heart leapt into her throat. Not there!

‘It’s right there, on the table,’ Sita snapped, pointing at the table, now out of her reach. Although the nurse was unlikely to pluck Sita’s jewellery pouch from where it was nestled between a prayer book and her mobile phone charger, Sita had lived long enough to know that you could never be too careful. The girl moved the table back and then left, probably to grumble and tell the other nurses that they were right, old Mrs Shergill needed to cark it already. Last week, Rajni had stormed into the nurses’ station and told them off for leaving Sita shivering during a particularly agonizing episode. ‘I don’t care if she’s already got a blanket, get her another one,’ Rajni nearly shouted, making Sita want to weep with gratitude and also chastise her daughter for making a scene.

The pain was inching into her body now, and she could sense that it was going to be a bad day. Her daughters would visit this afternoon – hopefully all three of them, since Rajni had called Shirina and informed her to fly over at once when it appeared that Sita’s remaining days were down to single digits. She had to write this letter before the strength leached out of her.

To Rajni, Jezmeen and Shirina:

If you remember correctly, when I was first diagnosed with cancer, I wanted to go to India to do a pilgrimage to honour the principles of our great Gurus. You and the doctors convinced me that this was a bad idea because my health was already so fragile, but I think it would have enriched my spirit, if not my physical condition.

I am attaching a list of the places that I would like you to visit on my behalf, after I am gone. They are in Delhi, Amritsar and beyond. The whole journey will take a week. You should go together and do all the tasks as instructed: seva, to serve others and preserve your humility; a ritual sarovar bath, for cleansing and protecting your soul from ailments; and a trek to the high peaks of spirituality, to feel appreciation for that body which carries you in this life. I would also like my ashes to be scattered in India.

There are also some places I’d like you to visit because I won’t have the chance to do so. Simple pleasures, like watching the sunrise at India Gate, and sharing a humble dinner together. I will outline the itinerary in more detail on the next page. Please do this for me. It will be a way of completing my journey in this world and continuing yours.

Love,

Your mother, Sita Kaur Shergill.

Sita’s vision began to blur as she read over the letter. There it was, the searing sensation in her bones. She squeezed her eyes shut and clutched the sides of her mattress. There was only so much morphine the nurses could administer in a day and no legal dose seemed to be enough to wash it all away. ‘We’re here, Mum, we’re here,’ she imagined her daughters saying, just like the blonde woman, as she presented the letter to them. Their faces would be awash with tears and they would take each other’s hands, united for once.

As the wave of pain subsided, Sita picked up her pen again and turned over the sheet to work on the itinerary. Agony was quickly replaced by nostalgia – Sita’s memories of India were stronger than ever. An end-of-life counsellor named Russ who visited last week said that it was common to remember the past vividly as death approached. ‘Think of it as a transition,’ Russ had said. ‘You are finishing one stage and entering another.’ Recalling those words, Sita considered her daughters’ journey to India. She would insist that they do this – no excuses, no backing out. It was a comfort to know that while they returned to her origins, she would be busy entering the afterlife. Who knew how long it would take to adjust to her new surroundings there, make friends, find out how the coffee machine worked? What if Devinder had also ended up in this new place? She had decades of catching up to do with her late husband, after she’d finished telling him off for leaving so suddenly.

Thoughts and memories of those early years of marriage and having children flooded Sita’s mind, reducing all remaining traces of pain to a dull ache that settled in her chest. Those were chaotic days – learning to be a wife and a mother, running a household and adjusting to life in a new country. When she finally got the hang of it all, her husband died. There was only a small fraction of Sita’s lifespan when her family was whole. She scribbled more items onto the itinerary. Her last trip to India had been nearly thirty years ago. In his explanation of the stages of grief, Russ had said that some people experienced an intense desire to turn back time. Although Sita prided herself on being too pragmatic for such wishes, she also hoped that her daughters found India just as she had left it.

There was something else Sita wanted to tell her daughters. It was a confession of sorts, for something she made up her mind to do after Russ left her bedside. She would have to find a suitable moment to tell them. It was not appropriate to write it down; she’d have to lower her voice and prompt her daughters to gather closer. They’d dismiss her at first, of course. ‘Mum, don’t be silly,’ Rajni or Shirina would say. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Jezmeen would retort, because to Jezmeen, nothing was real, not even on a woman’s deathbed. Then they’d begin to protest, telling her she didn’t know what she was saying. That was by far the most frustrating thing about being terminally ill – everybody thought she was thinking through a haze of fear, a desperate need to cling to life. But death was the most certain thing in the world. To prove to her daughters that she was indeed being serious, she’d tell them to open the drawer and take out the jewellery pouch. Have a look inside. You see? Now, please don’t argue with your mother.

Chapter One

I would prefer that you take this journey during a cooler time of the year, but since Rajni can only travel during school holidays, you will need to go to India in July/August. Book your tickets and hotels quickly – I know my last trip to India was well over twenty years ago, but the last-minute bookings were very expensive.

Rajni was not built for fainting spells. Moments after Anil told her about the girlfriend, she considered pretending to faint, but she knew she’d throw her arms out at the last minute to break the fall. Nobody took a woman seriously if she staged her own collapses. A feigned faint, ha-ha.

So she stared at Anil as simple mathematical sums populated her mind:

36 – 18 = 18

The girlfriend was 18 years older than Anil.

36 ÷ 18 = 2

The girlfriend was exactly twice Anil’s age.

43 – 36 = 7

The girlfriend was only seven years younger than Rajni herself.

This last fact made her light-headed. The overpowering smell of half-eaten fish wasn’t helping. For dinner, she had baked three pieces of salmon because Omega Threes were supposed to make everybody live to a hundred. This girlfriend of Anil’s, did she know about the nutritional benefits of Omega Threes? Probably not.

‘Mum, come on,’ said Anil. All Rajni could do was shake her head. No, no, no. Tonight was supposed to be special: their last dinner together before she went off to India. If Anil had chosen this occasion to tell them about his girlfriend, then she was supposed to be … well, a girl. Somebody who called her Mrs Chadha and whose parents regarded Anil with a reasonable amount of suspicion until he won them over with good manners and clean fingernails.

Anil turned to Kabir. ‘Dad,’ he said in a slightly desperate way that made it clear to Rajni that they had already discussed this matter without her. Guilt rippled across Kabir’s expression. He stole a glance at Rajni.

‘You knew about this?’ Rajni asked Kabir. ‘For how long?’

Kabir had thin lips, which almost vanished when he was unhappy. ‘He came to me this morning,’ he said. ‘You were packing for your trip and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

Dinner time – morning = a whole day.

Rajni fixed Kabir with the kind of stare usually reserved for naughty students called into her office. ‘And how do you feel about this? Care to share your opinion?’

‘Obviously, I’m concerned, but Anil is old enough now to make his own decisions.’

‘Concerned? Concerned is how you feel about old Mrs Willis next door when she’s struggling to put her bins out. This is our son, Kabir. He finished Sixth Form mere weeks ago and now he tells us he wants to move in with a woman twice his age!’ Where did Anil even meet a thirty-six-year-old? A horrifying thought struck her. ‘She wasn’t a teacher of yours, was she?’

‘God, no,’ Anil said. Rajni let out a sigh. Thank goodness. She had always worried about Cass Finchley, a music teacher who swayed too suggestively on the edge of the dance floor while chaperoning school formals.

Kabir cleared his throat. ‘Anil, your mother and I just know you have a bright future ahead of you. We don’t want you squandering it on some … fling.’

‘It’s not a fling,’ Anil said. ‘We’re serious about each other.’

‘I’m sure you feel that way now, but there will be problems, son.’ Rajni used to find it touching when Kabir called Anil ‘son’. It was old-fashioned and charming and it brought a rush of warmth to her heart. Now he said the word like he was losing grip on its meaning.

‘There’s nothing we can’t work out, innit?’ Anil said.

‘Nothing?’ Rajni echoed.

Anil shrugged. ‘We’ve got the same cultural background. We get each other. People are always saying that’s the main thing.’

‘You’re from completely different generations. She’s a grown woman. You’re a boy! You might as well be from different planets.’

‘Nothing,’ Anil repeated tersely. With his jaw clenched like this, he looked so much like Kabir that Rajni wanted to suspend the argument and run for her camera. They say photos of the first-born child always outnumber those of subsequent children. As Anil was their first-and-only born, Rajni documented him thoroughly with no fears of sibling inequality. Their home was a shrine to Anil’s childhood: portraits and finger paintings, pencil marks on the wall charting his growth over the years.

Crises about Anil’s future were becoming an annual milestone. Last summer’s fight had been about Anil’s declaration that he wasn’t going to apply to university – he wanted to be done with education after completing Sixth Form. ‘They don’t teach you nothing you can’t learn on the internet these days, don’t they?’ Anil said. Rajni, head spinning from all the double negatives she had spent a lifetime correcting in her son, had left the room. When she returned, Kabir said he would talk some sense into Anil. It took months, but they finally arrived at a compromise: Anil would apply to university, but he could defer for a gap year. He was supposed to get a job during that time (his parents’ hope being that the gap year would help him to recognize the limitations of being without a degree), but then his grandmother had died and left him a small inheritance, turning the gap year into a paid holiday.

‘Think about this for a moment then, Anil,’ Kabir said. ‘She’s surely at an age where she wants to settle down.’

‘That’s why we’re planning on moving in together.’

‘But do you realize what this entails? For her?’

Anil clutched the back of the dining chair in front of him. His news had brought them to their feet, standing before their unfinished meals. A scaly whiff from the salmon hit Rajni in the nostrils again. She picked up the plates and brought them to the kitchen.

‘I understand exactly what Davina wants,’ Anil was saying. As Rajni tipped the scraps into the bin, she had an uninvited image of her son tumbling around in bed with an experienced woman. Stop it, she ordered her mind. She looked around the kitchen for something, anything, to focus on. There was a leaflet on the counter from the Jehovah’s Witnesses who came by yesterday evening. They were such a bother but she found it impossible to shut the door on their faces – those pallid cheeks and impressively starched shirt collars. ‘I’m busy at the moment but perhaps you can leave behind some literature,’ she had offered as a consolation for not wanting to be saved, even though the leaflet would find its way to the bin within a day or two. ALL SUFFERING IS SOON TO END, declared the header over a painting of a sunny green meadow. How nice to be so certain. The words brought Rajni only a brief shot of relief before she returned to reality.

‘A woman at that stage in her life is looking for a long-term partner,’ Kabir was saying to Anil.

‘This isn’t some kinda phrase, Dad.’ He meant ‘phase’. Rajni was too upset to correct him but she kept a mental note to educate him on the difference later.

‘Son, listen for a moment. I’m saying that Davina probably has bigger, more permanent plans.’

Rajni rushed back into the living room. ‘Tick-tock!’ she cried, startling her family. ‘That’s what everyone says to a woman in her mid-thirties whether she wants children or not. “Have one before it’s too late.”’ (In her case: ‘Have another one, you’re not just having one, are you? Finish what you started! Give the poor boy a sibling.’ As if she and Kabir didn’t try and try until sex became another routine household task like doing the laundry or paying the water bill.)

‘Yes,’ Kabir said. ‘Societal pressures. They’re bigger than you think, Anil, especially for adults.’

‘Look, the only person pressuring me is you. Davina and me are just fine.’

‘So if she wanted a baby tomorrow it would be okay? You’d give up all that travelling, your nights out with mates?’ Kabir asked.

That ought to give him a fright, Rajni thought, noting the swell of unease on Anil’s face. He’d been plotting his European holiday: skiing in Bulgaria; island-hopping in Greece; God-knows-what in Amsterdam.

‘I would. I am going to give it all up,’ Anil said quietly. He gripped the chair.

The room became still. Anil bit his lower lip and looked at his knuckles, which had turned white.

Kabir stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I am going to give it all up for her,’ Anil repeated.

‘Son?’

‘Mum. Dad. It’s not a big deal, alright? You have to promise not to overreact.’

The edges of the room began to blur and the floor tilted slightly. Rajni heard Kabir gently saying, ‘Okay, we promise. Now what is it?’

‘Davina’s pregnant,’ Anil said.

And then Rajni fainted.

The customer had seen a video online about how bronze highlighter could be used to take ten pounds off her face. ‘The girl just sweeps this brush across her face and suddenly she has cheekbones,’ she gushed.

‘Those videos are very helpful,’ Jezmeen agreed. ‘Lots of useful tips.’ Especially useful for a person like her, who had no experience doing make-up professionally. After being suspended from her job as a host on DisasterTube, one of the studio make-up artists had given Jezmeen the lead on this job. It was temporary, Jezmeen kept reminding herself. Everything would blow over, and she’d find another role soon. The last time Jezmeen checked online, the number of views on her video had hit 788, which was hardly viral, but her agent Cameron still believed they had to be cautious.

‘Lie low. Wait for the dust to settle,’ he had urged her. There was no end to his supply of banal encouragements whenever they spoke – ‘Take some time for yourself,’ was another favourite which roughly translated to: ‘Take the least humiliating job offer thrown your way and we’ll just have to wait for the anonymous masses on the internet to decide your fate.’

‘Are you going to use highlighter on me, then?’ Stella asked.

‘I’ve got other plans for you,’ Jezmeen said warmly. Starting with matching a more appropriate foundation to Stella’s skin tone. At the moment, she was less ‘Youthful Summer Glow’ and more ‘Fell Asleep in the Tanning Bed’.

As Jezmeen rubbed a wipe across Stella’s cheeks, she had a distinct sense of déjà vu. In another time in her life, Rajni used to apply make-up on her while she struggled to sit still and not turn to the mirror to see her reflection. Jezmeen remembered doing the same for Mum on the morning of Shirina’s wedding. The bridal make-up artist had chosen a deep-purple eye shadow and insisted on a crayon-thick line for Mum’s eyelids. Mum was horrified. ‘I can’t go to the temple like this,’ she’d gasped. ‘People will say …’ She didn’t finish that sentence; she rarely did. It was bad enough that people would say anything. ‘Jezmeen, get me some tissues,’ Mum had commanded. Helping to clean the make-up off Mum’s skin, Jezmeen had noticed the looseness of her cheeks, and the way her eyelids folded, and she vowed never to let herself grow old.

Jezmeen’s phone buzzed on the counter. ‘Excuse me, Stella,’ Jezmeen said, leaning over to see the screen. Message from Rajni. She ignored it. Rajni was likely panicking about the trip and asking everyone if they had taken their tetanus shots, or something similarly hysterical.

‘I’m going to use this primer on you,’ Jezmeen said. She showed Stella the bottle. ‘It’s a great base which keeps your make-up on for much longer during the day.’ Her phone buzzed again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Jezmeen said. She shot a glare at her phone.

‘No worries, love. Your boyfriend must be anxious about you,’ Stella said.

Ha! If only there were an anxious boyfriend, or a boyfriend at all. Her last relationship had ended more disastrously than Stella could probably imagine.

‘Oh no, that’s my sister,’ Jezmeen said. ‘We’re going on a trip to India on Thursday and she’s probably just reminding me to pack sunscreen or something.’

‘A holiday! Just the two of you?’

‘The three of us. Our youngest sister’s flying there from Australia.’

‘That’s lovely,’ Stella said.

People always said this when Jezmeen mentioned having two sisters. Lovely. Cosy teas and long chats. Some sort of unbreakable bond. Stella’s smile was so bright that Jezmeen didn’t want to tell her how much she was dreading this trip with uppity Rajni and irritatingly perfect Shirina.

‘We’re going there for our mum,’ Jezmeen explained. ‘She passed away last November and we’re doing a pilgrimage in her memory and scattering her ashes there.’

‘Oh, that’s beautiful. What a tribute,’ Stella breathed. She reached out and clasped Jezmeen’s hand. Now Stella probably had an image of three dutiful daughters in matching loose white robes solemnly making their way up a misty mountain as they took turns carrying an urn filled with ashes. Again, inaccurate. Pilgrimages weren’t even a requirement of their religion (she had done some quick Googling on Sikhism, and sent all the links to Rajni as part of her continuing campaign to oppose everything her older sister wanted them to do), but after the cancer treatments stopped working, Mum had turned to all kinds of holy remedies. There were rituals she had been too weak to do, places she had been unable to visit for the last time, so her daughters were tasked with completing the journey. Jezmeen noticed that Mum had sneaked in a few itinerary items that involved the sisters simply spending time together, probably because she knew they wouldn’t bother to make the time otherwise. As far as Jezmeen saw it, this trip was less about spirituality and more about Mum forcing them to travel together.

This time Jezmeen’s phone rang. ‘For fuck’s sakes,’ she muttered.

‘Just answer it, darling. It could be important.’

‘Thank you, Stella.’ Jezmeen picked up the phone. ‘Rajni, I’m in the middle of work.’

‘Did you see my messages? You’ll have to find your own way to the airport. Something came up at home last night and … I just have some things to deal with. Kabir’s driving me there directly.’

‘Alright. Is that it?’

‘Yes.’ Rajni hesitated. ‘What time do you plan on leaving?’

‘I’ll be at Heathrow two hours before we fly, Rajni, don’t you worry about it.’

‘You’re still at work?’

‘Yes, and I have to get back to work. Bye now!’

Rajni had started saying something when Jezmeen hung up. She put the phone on ‘silent’ and turned back to Stella. ‘Now, I’ll be using two different concealers because we’re really working with two different shades of irregularities here.’

‘Do I mix these?’ Stella asked.

‘No, we’re using this one for under your eyes and this one for those blemishes on your chin.’ Jezmeen held up each bottle. While Stella inspected them, Jezmeen glanced at her phone. She had a funny feeling. Why did it matter to Rajni that she was still at work now if she was only flying out on Thursday?

‘I might need to write these down,’ Stella said, rummaging through her purse. ‘Otherwise, I’ll forget which one goes where.’

‘Here you go,’ Jezmeen said, handing her a pencil and a card with a face drawn on it. ‘Just draw an arrow to the eye area and write “Nude Secret 19”.’

Stella had careful penmanship. ‘Darling, you have such a lovely manner, has anyone ever told you that?’

Jezmeen smiled, surprised. ‘Thank you.’

‘I must take your name card. Do you do private sessions as well? My daughter’s looking for a good make-up artist for her wedding. It’s only next spring, but good services get booked up so quickly.’

Jezmeen’s smile faltered. Next spring! Her stomach contracted at the thought of still working at a make-up counter. No, no, it wasn’t possible. She was lying low and taking time for herself while the dust settled. People would move on. But Cameron said it wasn’t necessarily about her. ‘There’s a lack of roles for Indian actresses to begin with,’ he’d explained. ‘And directors can’t really afford any bad PR if they’re taking a chance on somebody new. So there’s just a lot working against you at the moment.’ What he avoided saying was that there was one Polly Mishra already. He knew that Jezmeen balked at the frequent comparisons between herself and that actress, who had overshadowed Jezmeen’s career as soon as she arrived on the scene.

While Stella labelled her card, Jezmeen stole a look at her phone. Three missed calls from Rajni in the last two minutes and a message:

‘You DO realize that we’re flying out tonight right?’

Jezmeen’s heart stopped. She nearly dropped her phone. She texted Rajni back:

‘YES of course I know. Just finishing up and leaving straight from work.’

How the hell had this happened? It was Thursday they were supposed to leave, not Tuesday. She had a vague memory of a conversation with Rajni about finding a cheaper flight for Thursday. ‘It’s at two a.m. though,’ Rajni had said. ‘I guess that’s alright.’ And something in her tone annoyed Jezmeen, so she had said, ‘Not all of us have school holidays, you know.’ Rajni had booked the Tuesday flight, then.

Or had Jezmeen just imagined Rajni giving in? Sometimes she had entire conversations with Rajni in her mind. She used to do this with Mum too – it was easier than fighting out loud. In the fantasy arguments, Jezmeen always emerged the winner, with the other person apologizing and sometimes even grovelling for forgiveness. They were leaving tonight, then. They were leaving tonight! She would have to call the manager and tell her something had come up – this could count for a family emergency.

‘What’s the primer called?’ Stella asked.

‘It’s just primer,’ Jezmeen replied. Shit, shit, shit. She didn’t even know where her suitcase was.

‘Oh dear,’ Stella murmured as the pointy end of her pencil punctured the card.

Oh dear indeed.

At Melbourne Airport, an elderly Indian couple were being seen off by their extended family. Shirina watched them move like a swarm of bees to the departure gate. ‘Do you think they’re returning home? Or going back to visit?’ Shirina asked.

Sehaj shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make a difference. They all have to go through the same gate.’ He was busy scrolling through his phone. Shirina glanced at his screen. Numbers and graphs. Work stuff, he’d mutter if she asked what was keeping him so busy.

‘They look like they’re going to visit. What do you think?’ Shirina asked, focusing on the family.

‘Don’t know,’ Sehaj muttered.

‘I’m just trying to make conversation,’ Shirina said. Sehaj seemed to remember himself then. He put the phone aside and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple.

Shirina let her head sink into his chest. Finally, in this bustling international airport terminal, a small chance at intimacy before she left. The past couple of days had been filled with tense silences. She shut her eyes. Sehaj’s shirt smelled like a mix of cologne and that fabric softener his mother had recommended. Her life as a married woman smelled like pressed linens; it was the first thing she had noticed when she moved into the joint family home three years ago. His fingers stroked her hair. She thought she might start to cry, so she twisted away from him and then she felt a heavy weight rolling over her foot.

‘Ow,’ she said, drawing her foot back. It was a suitcase. The woman dragging it didn’t notice. She trotted off towards the gate in stilettos that looked like they were stabbing the ground with each step she took.

‘I’d say they live here and they’re going back for a holiday,’ Sehaj said, nodding at the elderly couple. ‘The family’s too cheerful.’

‘Why would all their kids and grandkids be seeing them off then?’ Shirina wondered aloud.

‘Long trip, maybe?’ Sehaj asked. ‘They might have a home there where they spend a few months out of the year.’

These were a few good months to spend away from Melbourne. Every day, boulders of grey cloud rolled across the skies and showered the city with icy rain. Nobody in England thought it got cold in Australia; even Shirina refused to believe it until she married Sehaj and came here. Now, whenever the news reported heatwaves in July in Europe, Shirina looked out the window at the slick wet roads and the tree branches bowing under the force of heavy wind and she thought, How is that possible?

‘How about them?’ Sehaj asked. He nodded at two young men. ‘Brothers? Best friends?’

‘Best friends,’ Shirina said, delighted that they were playing this game again. On their honeymoon, stranded in the airport due to a snowstorm in Istanbul (another city Shirina did not expect to have winter, let alone snowstorms), they had passed the time making up stories about strangers. Two and a half years wasn’t such a long time ago, but Shirina felt she needed to remind Sehaj of that carefree period in their lives.

‘Do you remember finally getting on that flight from Istanbul and sitting behind the Hollywood Spy Couple?’ Shirina asked.

Sehaj’s eyes lit up with recognition. ‘The ones who looked like movie stars and couldn’t keep their hands off each other?’ They had kissed and snuggled the entire flight – honeymooners, Shirina and Sehaj decided, although those two put other newlyweds to shame with their public caresses and sighs. Then, just before the plane landed, they moved to two empty seats on opposite rows and they disembarked separately. Shirina and Sehaj watched them step into different lines at Customs and then part ways without even acknowledging each other, the woman heading to the Underground, the man staying behind at Baggage Claim.

‘Definitely spies,’ Sehaj said. He liked his Cold War-era thrillers.

Shirina checked the time. She needed to go soon. New destinations and boarding times winked on the Departures screen. There were flights going to Berlin and Jakarta, Pretoria and Chicago – from where Shirina was standing, it was possible to go anywhere. This thought electrified her. It was like sitting in front of the laptop screen again, scrolling through profiles of eligible men, each one a window to a new future.

Sehaj’s body went tense, and her own stomach tightened. He looked like he was ready to say something.

‘I’d better get in there,’ Shirina said. ‘I told Jezmeen I’d get her some Duty Free stuff.’ It was a small, imperfect lie – when was the last time she and Jezmeen spoke? If Jezmeen needed something, she probably wouldn’t tell her.

‘Okay then,’ Sehaj said. He seemed distracted by his thoughts. They stood up and he took her bag. The Indian family was still hovering at the Departure gate and the elderly couple weren’t within view from here. ‘Excuse us,’ Sehaj said. The Indians didn’t budge. ‘Excuse us,’ he said again, this time with more force. They shifted a little bit, their conversation too engrossing to follow any orders.

‘Come on, people, it’s an airport. Get out of the way,’ Sehaj said. This caught their attention. Shirina took his hand but he pulled away and elbowed through the crowd. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, her head down, but she was annoyed at the family as well. Now her pleasant moment with Sehaj was gone.

Shirina hugged her husband, hoping that this would dissolve his anger. His body was still stiff. ‘I’m sorry, Sej,’ Shirina said. How do some married couples fight all the time? she wondered. It was hard enough trying to get through this one conflict. Apologizing made her feel better. Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sorry for the situation.

Then Sehaj took something from his pocket. Shirina recognized the stationery – that stiff cream-coloured card, premier quality – and his mother’s handwriting. Shirina took in the name and address and stared at Sehaj.

‘You can’t come back unless you do this,’ Sehaj said, pressing the card into Shirina’s hand. He didn’t give her any time to respond before he walked off and disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter Two

Day One: Arrival in Delhi

Be patient. India is not going to be like London. The pollution and the bustling crowds will overwhelm you immediately. You girls always joked that I talked too loudly, and I turned everything into chaos. When you enter India, I want you to think about how it felt to leave this place and go somewhere as orderly as Britain, with ruler-straight rows of houses and trains that run on time. I also want you to understand how hard it was for me, adjusting to all of that quiet.

Rajni’s headache was returning, like fingers pressing against her skull. This newly built boutique hotel in Karol Bagh with its patio dining was far removed from the chaos of Delhi that they experienced on the journey from the airport – the hustling luggage handlers, the cab driver that dived into oncoming traffic to overtake his lane, the girls in tattered T-shirts that hung to their knees, dodging rickshaws and potholes with babies propped on their tiny hips. It had been a relief to finally arrive at the King’s Paradise Hotel in one piece, but a glance around the lobby during check-in confirmed that the pictures on the booking website had been aspirational – the doormen’s shoes left prints in the thin layer of plaster dust on the floor and there was some loud, clanging construction going on upstairs. The owner was putting finishing touches on the place, the staff explained as if their apologetic smiles could mask the strong smell of varnish that made Rajni’s head throb. They promised, however, that the hotel café was ‘one hundred per cent ready’.

The minute they sat down, Jezmeen began making fun of the menu. She pointed at a list of indulgent summer beverage offerings: an iced vanilla mango smoothie topped with whipped cream and seasonal fruits. ‘Isn’t that just a fancy mango lassi?’ Jezmeen mused. ‘Look at this one – an iced turmeric latte sprinkled with cinnamon and coconut shavings. That’s just haldi doodh with ice and some toppings, isn’t it?’

‘It sounds pretty good to me,’ Rajni said. She couldn’t believe she had complained about the warmer weather in London last week when it only hit 27 degrees. It was close to 40 here, a furious heat that seemed to demand an apology. If Mum wanted them to appreciate Britain, mission accomplished.

Jezmeen continued to read the menu aloud: ‘King’s Paradise Hotel Café is a true crossroads between the traditions of the East and the modern comforts of the West.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So it’s for people who want to say they’ve been to India without having eaten the food or experienced the culture authentically.’

‘Could you not do that?’ Rajni said. She was annoyed enough with the hotel’s false advertising. ‘If I picked some three-star hotel with monkeys shitting in the lobby for the sake of authenticity, I’d never hear the end of it from you and Shirina.’ She only added ‘and Shirina’ to soften the blow. They both knew Shirina never complained about anything.

Jezmeen ignored her and held up the menu. ‘Our monkeys are very well trained not to shit in the lobby. They have their own toilets made of fair-trade ceramic by local artists and they wipe their own arses with organic cotton tissues hand woven by blind Himalayan nuns,’ she drawled.

‘Shut up,’ Rajni said but it felt good to smile. All through the flight, she didn’t stop replaying Anil’s revelation and its aftermath: the panic that seized his face as she collapsed; the lack of remorse once she recovered. ‘You’re being melodramatic,’ he’d cried, and it sounded so familiar that Rajni wondered if she’d fainted herself into a time warp where she was arguing with Mum. There had been a shouting match before Anil finally stormed out the door. Rajni and Kabir spent all of the next day fretting over his future. Anil finally returned about twenty minutes before they left for the airport, and he said, ‘Nothing’s going to come between us, right?’ For a moment, Rajni thought he was talking about their family. She nearly cried with relief. Then, as Anil began packing up his things, she understood.

Rajni felt the panic rising in her stomach again. Her son would soon have a new family with his thirty-six-year-old girlfriend. She pressed a hand to her chest and took a sharp breath.

‘Everything alright?’ Jezmeen asked.

‘Fine,’ Rajni said. Thank goodness for this trip. Let Kabir talk some sense into their son – she had done all she could (mostly fainting and shouting) to no avail. She looked past the hotel’s walled-in patio, where the foggy sky began. In the distance, a poorly tuned chorus of car horns pierced the atmosphere. The air smelled like burned rubber. Delhi. It couldn’t be helped, Rajni supposed, although she wouldn’t mind putting more mayhem at arm’s length for a while. She had no desire to go out into the city, not after her last trip here with Mum. ‘I know my last trip to India was well over twenty years ago, but the last-minute bookings were very expensive’ – in that part of the letter, Rajni could hear Mum’s pointed tone. It took her years to recover her losses from that trip, and an even longer time to forgive Rajni for what happened.

There was a young European couple in the pool. The deep-golden curlicues of a recent mehndi pattern showed strongly on the woman’s pale hands as they cut through the water, a postcard picture of holiday tranquillity.

Rajni pulled copies of the trip itinerary from her bag. She had typed up Mum’s letter and made duplicates for Shirina and Jezmeen. Perhaps it was overkill – Jezmeen’s expression told her as much – but she had gone ahead and highlighted the activities according to three categories: Spiritual, Tourism and Sentimental.

‘Was your laminating machine broken?’ Jezmeen asked dryly, flapping the paper at Rajni.

As a matter of fact, it was, but Rajni didn’t say so. ‘I thought we’d look this over together.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait till Shirina wakes up from her nap? She might have some suggestions.’

‘Mum set the itinerary,’ Rajni reminded Jezmeen. ‘It’s not like there’s any discussion or negotiating involved.’

‘I’m sure we can tweak it a little.’

Rajni stared at Jezmeen. No, they could not ‘tweak it a little’. This tendency to apply her own interpretation to Mum’s wishes had nearly got them all into massive trouble recently – had Jezmeen forgotten? No. Jezmeen matched her with an even look. She knew what she was doing; insisting that she was right.

‘Jesmeen, I think you’re missing the point—’

‘Can you call me Jezmeen, please?’ Jezmeen looked stricken all of a sudden. ‘With a zed? I changed it legally two years ago and you’re still the only person who calls me Jesmeen.’

‘I’ll try to remember,’ Rajni replied but she didn’t think she’d try too hard. She loved the name Jesmeen; Mum had let her choose it. It was the sort of privilege that came with being eleven when your younger sister was born. Two years ago, Jezmeen had gone through some crisis over turning thirty and sent out an email to close friends and family saying that she was legally changing her name. Rajni hadn’t paid too much attention – Jezmeen thrived on theatrical announcements – so she was surprised when Jezmeen followed through with it. What difference did one letter make? Rajni wondered, but she didn’t need to hear an explanation from Jezmeen, with all of the accompanying eye-rolling and pouting and the you-just-don’t-get-it looks.

Rajni pointed to the itinerary, her finger resting on the header, The Golden Temple, Amritsar. ‘If the purpose of this trip is to do a pilgrimage for Mum, then we’re following this itinerary,’ she tried again.

‘I get that, but I think there’s room to be flexible if, say, we don’t want to spend too much time in one place or we decide we want an extra day somewhere.’

‘It’s not that kind of trip,’ Rajni insisted.

Jezmeen plucked the sunglasses off her head and adjusted them on the bridge of her nose. She turned away so only her profile was visible to Rajni – those angular cheekbones, that small mole just at the top corner of her lip. The last time Rajni had stared so intently at her sister was at Mum’s funeral, when the bruise on Jezmeen’s cheek was just healing. There were no traces of it now.

‘We’ll have lots of quality time together, the three of us,’ Rajni added. Hearing the false cheer in her voice, she was grateful that she couldn’t fully catch Jezmeen’s reaction. They all needed to sit together and talk about what happened in Mum’s final hours – a calm and healing discussion now that they had some distance from all of it. Kabir had warned Rajni that it was naïve to think reconciliation would be so easy, but she reckoned it was all in the atmosphere. The banks of the gently rippling waters surrounding the Golden Temple in Amritsar were much more conducive to open-heart conversation than a Pret A Manger in London – and how often were the three sisters in the same place now that Shirina had moved to Australia? Rajni was determined that they could make peace and move on.

‘You know, pilgrimages aren’t even a requirement of the Sikh religion,’ Jezmeen said.

‘I’m aware of that,’ Rajni replied calmly. Jezmeen was not going to get under her skin. Of all people, Rajni knew the futility of rituals. She had been a teenager when Dad died and Mum began performing little ceremonies to improve their family’s fate. Rajni thought that luck and fate were one and the same – Dad’s death had been unlucky, but Mum saw connections to a greater plan that needed adjusting.

A waiter appeared at their table. He was young, with glossy gelled hair spiked upwards and a nametag that read ‘Tarun’. He probably didn’t think Rajni noticed his eyes lingering on the line of cleavage that ran into Jezmeen’s tight tank top.

‘I’ll have an avocado lime and cilantro smoothie, please,’ she said. Jezmeen made eye contact with Tarun and smiled.

‘Madam, I’m so very sorry but this drink is unavailable,’ he said.

‘Okay then,’ Rajni said, opening the menu. ‘I’ll have the … oh, this looks nice. The peach and strawberry daiquiri.’

Tarun looked embarrassed. ‘Madam, we don’t have any strawberries at the moment.’

‘That’s alright,’ Jezmeen cooed. Honestly, did she have to be such a flirt?

Rajni scanned the menu. ‘Here. This one.’ She pointed at the description that Jezmeen had been making fun of earlier. Below it, there was a picture of the iced vanilla mango smoothie with whipped cream and seasonal fruits. ‘I’ll have one. Jezmeen, you want one?’

‘No thanks,’ Jezmeen said. ‘I’ll just have a cup of chai.’

He smiled brightly at Jezmeen. ‘We have chai. So Madam, I repeat your order: one chai, one vanilla mango smoothie.’ He strutted off before Rajni could ask about the selection of seasonal fruit.

Rajni made another attempt with the itinerary. ‘It’s an early start tomorrow if we’re going to do the morning seva at Bangla Sahib,’ Rajni said.

Jezmeen did not respond. She was staring intently at her phone all of a sudden, her features scrunched in concentration. Moments later, she relaxed, but she continued to steal glimpses of the screen. ‘Are you connected?’ Rajni asked. ‘They still haven’t confirmed my account yet.’ The staff at the mobile phone kiosk in the airport had assured Rajni it would take less than ten minutes to verify her details, but here they were, nearly two hours later, and she still didn’t have any data.

‘I’m using the hotel’s WiFi,’ Jezmeen said. ‘So what are we doing tomorrow?’

‘We’ll cook and serve langar.’ It was the foremost thing on Mum’s itinerary, not that she could expect Jezmeen to have read it.

‘So Mum sent us to India to wash dishes,’ Jezmeen said. She looked up from her phone. ‘She must have taken some joy putting that task in the itinerary – make my daughters do housework like good girls.’

‘Men volunteer in the kitchen too,’ Rajni reminded her.

‘But when they go home, they get to put their feet up, don’t they?’

Rajni thought of Kabir and Anil sitting in their twin recliners watching football while she flitted around them, sometimes still wearing her blazer and work shoes. ‘Mmm,’ she said, which was her standard reply when she agreed but didn’t want to.

Her phone buzzed on the table. It was a message:

‘MRS RAJNI SHERGILL CHADHA. WELCOME TO INDIA. YOU HAVE SIGNED UP FOR 2 MB OF DATA AND FREE CALLS WITHIN INDIA. PLEASE CALL THIS NUMBER TO CONFIRM YOUR IDENTITY.’

‘Finally,’ she said.

After keying in her birth date and the special pin code, Rajni was connected to an operator who asked her for one last confirmation of her identity. ‘Your father’s name, Ma’am.’ Until she agreed to make this trip to India, Rajni hadn’t mentioned Dad’s name in years, but everybody here needed to know. The visa forms asked for his name; the customs officer required her to confirm it before letting her past the gates, and now she couldn’t register for a temporary mobile phone account without saying whose daughter she was. It didn’t matter that he’d been dead since she was a teenager. ‘Devinder Singh Shergill,’ she said. The operator processed this information and after a series of clicks and rapid typing, pronounced her connected.

‘When you and Shirina get your phones sorted, there’s an app that you should download,’ Rajni said. ‘FindMe. It uses the GPS to keep track of each other’s movements. I’ve used it on school trips.’ Supposedly it used up lots of data but it had saved Rajni from losing other people’s children, so the disadvantages were greatly outweighed by the benefits.

Jezmeen stared at her nails and picked at a cuticle with her teeth. ‘Why do we need that?’ she asked. ‘We’re going to be together all the time anyway.’ She made it sound like a prison sentence.

‘It’s a big country,’ Rajni replied. ‘A big, unpredictable country. It’s easy to get lost here.’

‘Isn’t that the point of coming to India?’ Jezmeen asked, nodding at the European couple in the pool. They were both floating on their backs now and gently flipping their toes. ‘To get lost? And then find ourselves again?’

Oh, you want to argue. This was what Mum would say if any of them were being contrary – it was a warning against proceeding any further with their case, whether it was extending a curfew or picking a quarrel for the sake of it, which was Jezmeen’s speciality. Rajni had to bite her tongue to keep from saying the same thing to Anil whenever he questioned her.

Jezmeen waved to somebody in the distance. ‘Hey, sleepyhead.’

Shirina entered the foyer wearing a brilliant turquoise caftan and white espadrille sandals that criss-crossed her slender ankles. It was the other women in the café who turned to stare. That was the difference between her two sisters, Rajni observed. Men looked at Jezmeen and hungered after her long legs; women took note of the details that assembled petite Shirina like a doll – the shiny shoulder-length hair, the bracelet that matched the bag.

And that ring! Rajni couldn’t help staring as if it was the first time she’d noticed it. Had Shirina’s diamond got bigger? Her white-gold wedding band sparkled as well, but the diamond engagement ring looked like something you saw on the news after a successful archaeological dig. Tacky, she’d thought immediately after seeing it the first time, even though she knew just how many carats it was worth. Shirina hadn’t said anything, of course; Rajni had looked up ‘huge diamond ring’ on the internet and trawled through pictures until she found one that matched, and then looked up its value. If it was true that a man spent three months’ salary on the engagement ring, then Sehaj was making very good money indeed – but then, they all knew that already. The heir to one of Australia’s largest family-owned property businesses was not going to skimp on accessories for his fiancée.

‘All caught up on your sleep?’ Jezmeen asked.

‘I’m getting there,’ Shirina said. As she settled at the table, Rajni noticed dark circles under her eyes. ‘Nice hotel, Raj,’ Shirina said, looking around. ‘It’s pretty quiet here.’

‘I’m so glad somebody appreciates my efforts,’ Rajni said, giving Jezmeen a pointed look.

‘That’s a lovely dress,’ Jezmeen said but Rajni noticed her studying Shirina as well. There was a small slump in her shoulders that the bright caftan could not disguise.

‘Thanks,’ Shirina said. ‘I’m afraid it takes me a while to get over the jet lag, so if I sneak off for another nap, don’t mind me.’

‘As long as you’re up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to serve at the temple,’ Jezmeen said.

‘That early?’ Shirina asked.

‘She’s exaggerating,’ Rajni said. ‘We’ll get up when we get up.’

‘Okay,’ said Shirina.

‘No later than nine though,’ Rajni added. ‘So how’s it all going, Shirina? You’ve been so quiet on Facebook.’

‘I don’t really do social media any more,’ Shirina said with a shrug.

Being a school principal, Rajni wasn’t crazy about it either but she used it to keep up with old friends and she found that Shirina had suddenly stopped posting pictures and status updates. Her last activity was a condolence message on her wall from an old classmate dated the day after Mum’s funeral. ‘How’s work?’

‘It’s good,’ Shirina said quickly. ‘Very busy lately. I’m glad to have some time off.’

‘Oh,’ Rajni said. That explained the dark circles then. She waited for Shirina to say more but she was leaning towards Jezmeen and staring right at her chest.

‘Is that a new tattoo, Jez?’ Shirina asked.

Jezmeen grinned and nodded. She pulled down the neck of her tank top to reveal a black letter Z with vines and tiny flowers woven through it. For heaven’s sakes, Rajni thought. ‘I’d been thinking about getting it ever since I made the name change official, but I didn’t know where to get it.’

‘“Where” as in the tattoo parlour or “where” on your body?’ Shirina asked.

‘Where on my body,’ Jezmeen said. ‘I didn’t want it to be too obvious, like on my forearm or something. Then I thought about some really secret places, like my inner thigh, but I wanted it to be a little more visible than that.’

‘Ouch. Inner thigh,’ Shirina said, wincing.

‘I like this spot,’ Jezmeen said. She kept her neckline low. Rajni couldn’t help herself.

‘You need to be a little careful, Jezmeen,’ she said. She knew what she sounded like and she didn’t care.

‘Oh, the instruments were all sterile. This was the same guy who did my first two tats.’

‘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 alright, 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 any more.’

‘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 make-up 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.