The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters Read online

  Don’t Google yourself. The voice in her head was Cameron’s—he had just sent her an email, urgently asking her to call him. “Too late,” she had replied after the incident with the teenage boys earlier. “I already saw it.” She was screwed. The video had gone viral, and she had been identified. The internet was screaming with laughter over the irony of Jezmeen Shergill—the host of a television show which poked fun at people being caught doing embarrassing things on video—being caught doing something so embarrassing on video.

  Cameron had warned Jezmeen that things would happen rapidly, but she could not have anticipated this. In the few hours since it had caught fire, there were mentions of her name on blogs, trolling comments, a particularly nasty thread on the National Geographic nature preservation forum and of course, there was the video. The first thing that came up when you searched for her name used to be “Television Host” (to distinguish her from a pediatric dentist named Jezmeen Shergill in Birmingham). Now it was: “Television Host Jezmeen Shergill Brutally Murders Endangered Animal.”

  Needless to say, Jezmeen had compulsively typed her name into Google every few minutes today while she was supposed to be doing seva. She was aware of Rajni watching and disapproving as she tapped away on her phone. Now she sat in the hotel, watching her notoriety multiply in the search result count. Another email from Cameron popped up: “Seriously. Don’t Google yourself.” Easy for him to warn her against it; she’d searched for his name once and found only three hits. One, his earnest and suited LinkedIn picture from at least a decade ago (he had hair then) gave the impression that his early career was in real estate or insurance brokering.

  “Oh God,” Jezmeen uttered aloud into the empty room. Her Wikipedia page—previously only consisting of a short paragraph outlining her modest career achievements—had been updated. The most objective account of Jezmeen’s incident was headed “Arowana Fish Controversy.”

  On July 7th, 2018, Shergill was dining in Feng Shui restaurant in South London when she became involved in an altercation with her dining partner.

  Feng Shui, which boasts a ten-foot aquarium, hosts its own rare Albino Arowana fish (valued at £35,000). The fish is known to be very sensitive to conflict and is prone to hurting itself when it is provoked or aggravated. The argument between Shergill and her partner took place near the aquarium, despite numerous attempts from the restaurant owners to ask them to respect the fish and move the argument outside. Onlookers reported that after the restaurant owner tried to steer Shergill away from the aquarium, she slammed her hand against the glass, causing the fish great distress. It leaped out of the water and onto the floor, where Shergill kicked it repeatedly.

  This was the most objective version of events? It was lacking in some key details. For starters, the “dining partner” had been Jezmeen’s boyfriend, Mark. Jezmeen had mistakenly thought that reservations at Feng Shui meant a proposal. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider the possibility that he might be breaking up with her. “You just don’t seem very happy with yourself,” he’d said.

  “But my mum just died. I’m dealing with a lot,” Jezmeen protested. It was an understatement, because Jezmeen couldn’t put in words how she felt about Mum’s death. The thought of death in general had always made Jezmeen desperately want to rewind time, even when she was little. After Dad died, she found it comforting to pretend he was just in hiding for a while, until Mum told her to knock it off. Mum’s death was still unreal to her. She was too old for fantasies of Mum’s absence being temporary, which was where alcohol certainly helped.

  Mark shook his head. “It’s been like this for a long time,” he said sadly, glancing pointedly at the bottle of wine, which had inched toward Jezmeen’s side of the table.

  And did the restaurant owner really attempt to “steer” Jezmeen away? Try “grabbed her by the shoulders, leaving her no choice but to flail in self-defense, accidentally knocking on the aquarium.” Also, she did not think that the restaurant owner was serious when he told her that the fish—a bloated, miserable old thing—was “emotionally vulnerable.” Those had been his words. It was only after the whole incident blew up that Jezmeen learned about the endangered Arowana fish and indeed its sensitive nature. Part of the reason there was so much interest was because although Arowanas were rumored to be capable of putting themselves out of misery by flipping out of their tanks, nobody had actually captured it on video before. When Jezmeen and the restaurant owner started arguing, onlookers began filming, thinking they were just witnessing an entertaining tantrum. Now the death of the fish was taking on a life of its own.

  Jezmeen sank back into the bed. She could feel the vodka working now—she had hardly eaten anything all day. After finding out that her video had gone viral, she had to return to the langar hall and wash old breakfast plates, which ruined what little appetite she had. Across the room, the dresser mirror presented an unflattering reflection, but not an unfamiliar one. If she clicked on Images, there’d be a few good head shots but even more stills from the videos: her brief and modest celebrity would turn into infamy now. She hadn’t been on television long enough to have a solid reputation to fall back on—she was an up-and-coming entertainment figure once, and Fish Slayer forevermore.

  Jezmeen scrolled to the bottom of the Wikipedia page, where her few acting roles were listed. Before she landed the DisasterTube hosting role, she had been a waitress on EastEnders—recurring for three episodes—and a receptionist in a television movie based on a real-life scandal in a London investment bank. Several other roles hadn’t made it to this résumé, though, and for the sake of beefing up her filmography, Jezmeen considered adding them. She had been a nonspeaking extra in a few things, and what about that black-and-white student film she helped to direct ages ago? Then again, Jezmeen was grateful that some roles never made it to her page, like the short film for an amusement park in Taiwan, which people watched before getting on a rather racist Arabian Nights–themed ride. Never again, Jezmeen had vowed, after prancing around in that belly-dancer outfit and imploring roller-coaster riders to save her from her impending marriage to a cruel, mustached king. Then there were the countless runners-up, speaking parts that would have set her up for more opportunities, if she’d got them. “Second in line to be considered for Barista #2 in a romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant.” “Was told voice too husky to narrate commercial for major adult nappy brand.” (Initially, Jezmeen thought the director was complimenting her when he said, “ ‘Ultra-absorbent’ doesn’t usually sound so suggestive.”) Nobody looking at this page would know how Jezmeen Shergill almost became famous before killing that fish and clearly deserved another chance.

  Jezmeen needed a distraction from reading about herself on the internet, or there was a risk of polishing off all of the minibar’s offerings before dinnertime. She glanced at her open suitcase. In her haste to catch her flight from London at the last minute, she had thrown together a lot of clothes that really weren’t suitable for Delhi—the only really appropriate bits were that long, mothball-scented cotton top she’d worn today, bought by Mum from a market in West London years ago, and her one pair of jeans which didn’t have fashionable rips in them. Please dress modestly. Mum had found a way to lecture her about her skimpy clothing from beyond the grave. That was why Jezmeen bristled when Rajni told her off for revealing too much skin yesterday—it was enough to hear it from Mum’s letter. Even though Jezmeen didn’t want to admit that her mother and sister were right, she really needed a more modest wardrobe than tank tops and cutoff denim shorts for this trip.

  Jezmeen picked up the phone and dialed Rajni’s room number according to the instructions. The response was a siren-like dial tone. She pressed zero for the operator.

  “Hi, how do I call another room?” she asked when the receptionist picked up.

  “You dial their room number,” she said in a tone that suggested Jezmeen was very thick.

  “I tried that . . . Never mind. Thanks,” she said. After hanging up, she tried Shirina
and by some miracle got connected.

  “Hello,” Shirina said.

  “Hey, it’s me. Want to do some shopping at the market?”

  “Okay. Where’s Rajni?”

  “Didn’t have luck calling her. I’ll knock on her door,” Jezmeen said.

  They hung up. Jezmeen did a quick check in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair. Brushing it wouldn’t help much against the gritty air once they got outside.

  Rajni’s room was on the end of the hall on Jezmeen’s floor. She knocked and waited, then knocked again. Eventually, there was a voice at the door. “Yes?”

  “Raj, it’s Jezmeen. Open up.”

  The door opened a crack through which Jezmeen could see one reddish eye. “I was napping,” Rajni croaked.

  “Shirina and I are going shopping. You coming?”

  “Uh . . . no thanks. I’m going to stay in.”

  “Come on, Rajni. You have to see some of India while you’re here. You don’t have to just do what Mum stated in her letter.” Jezmeen thought about it. “In fact, this is a great way to honor her memory. Mum loved a bargain and never understood why I bought clothes from High Street stores when they sold every type of knockoff at the flea markets she loved going to.”

  It was a joke, but Rajni’s reaction didn’t change. “I think I’m coming down with something,” she said.

  Jezmeen sighed. She tried to sympathize—after all, during her paranoia stage, she had driven herself to A&E over a chest pain that turned out to be nothing but a reflux reaction to some salsa. But Rajni’s aversion to India was so . . . wimpy. Ever since their pilgrimage plans were confirmed, Rajni had made a regular habit of forwarding cautionary articles. “Make sure you bring hand sanitizer from home—not sure if we can trust the local brands!” read one subject line. “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?” read another. The email contained links to a story about a bridge that had collapsed in a rural northern town. Rajni’s India was a land of disasters.

  “We’ll go ahead, then,” Jezmeen said. “Hope you get better soon.” Rajni sniffed loudly, mumbled her thanks, and shut the door. Jezmeen stood there for a moment, contemplating her choices. Leave it or not? She knocked again. Rajni opened the door widely this time. Her eyes were puffy. It was clear that she’d been crying.

  “Oh, Raj. I’m sorry,” Jezmeen stuttered. “I didn’t think . . .”

  Rajni shut the door in her face.

  Jezmeen stood in the hallway, stunned. She had never seen Rajni crying, not even during Mum’s funeral. Her eyes had been bloodshot but it was clear that she had taken the time to cry in private before the ceremony. Did Rajni also blink sometimes and see Mum leaning over the edge of her bed, reaching for her jewelry case? Jezmeen woke abruptly some nights because that moment played back in her dreams, the details slightly different each time. Her subconscious exchanged the pale pink color of the hospital-room curtains for a cheery yellow and moved the dresser a few inches away, so Mum struggled to reach it and gave up. But even when Jezmeen was aware she was dreaming, she could never wake up before Mum died. That conclusion repeated itself in an infinite loop.

  Jezmeen knocked on the door. “Raj?” You can talk to me, she was about to say, but could she? She didn’t know how they’d begin to talk about Mum’s death and she suspected she knew how it would end—yet another fight.

  Bargaining required no shortage of confidence. You had to be assured that you were right from the start, and willing to walk away from the item because pride was more important than purchase. This was why Shirina tried not to get too attached to anything she saw at the market—she didn’t want to get into an argument like Jezmeen was having right now, which was verging on violence.

  “You’re expecting me to pay that much for these cheap chappal? Look at the workmanship. Look at these threads poking out.” Jezmeen waved a shoe in the shopkeeper’s face. Rhinestones marched a path along overlapping plastic straps toward a shimmering plastic gem set in the center. “Cut the price in half and we’ll talk.”

  “In half?” the shopkeeper screeched. Shirina realized immediately that she’d underestimated him. He rolled up his sleeves as if listing the shoes’ attributes was just as physically demanding as making them. Jezmeen did not look intimidated. As they continued to argue, the centerpiece came loose from the sandal and plopped to the dusty ground between them.

  “We’re done,” Jezmeen declared triumphantly, throwing her hands up and washing them clean of the sandals. She took Shirina’s hand and led her to another stall. It was like being children again, except Jezmeen had always left Shirina trailing far behind. She held on tight. This was not a place where she wanted to get lost. The market bustled with chaos and it was full of men wandering in packs, their eyes sometimes connecting with Shirina’s, at which point she hastily looked away. A stray dog with a ladder of ribs showing through his dingy fur weaved between two parked motorbikes at the side of the road. The row of shops seemed to stretch for miles, and where it ended, the main road was choked in peak-hour madness. She and Jezmeen had walked here, their feet traversing pavements that whittled into slivers and then vanished altogether, only to appear once more a few moments later.

  “Honestly, they were bloody ugly shoes, weren’t they?” Jezmeen muttered to Shirina.

  “Why waste all that effort bargaining, then?” Shirina asked.

  “Sharpening my skills,” Jezmeen said. “Look around. There’s so much to buy.”

  It was overwhelming—the columns of sari fabric and their dizzying brocade patterns, entire wall displays of glittering bangles in every possible shade. In a magazine, Shirina had once seen a sari made up entirely of tiny squares of every color. Every single shade and variation in existence. It was beautiful and novel, but also functional, the designer’s write-up explained. Women could wear the sari on their next trip to the tailor and pick out the exact color they wanted from this wearable palette.

  “I do need a pair of cheap sandals, though,” Jezmeen said. “I don’t mind if they’re a little gaudy, although those were just hideous. I need a decoy for the temple.”

  Shirina smiled. She remembered shoe decoys from when they were young. It was always wise to wear your least expensive shoes to the gurdwara lest they get “lost” or swiped from the cubbies outside. But they had to be presentable as well—tattered old Converse runners did not complete the Punjabi ensemble.

  “Italian leather,” Shirina said, in a high-pitched imitation of their childhood friend, Sharanjeet Kaur.

  “Custom-fitted with a one-of-a-kind insole,” Jezmeen replied in a matching pitch.

  “Designed by our personal cobbler.”

  Jezmeen and Shirina both laughed. This was how they used to be, kicking each other under the covers and listening out for Rajni’s footsteps. It was when Jezmeen started getting them into too much trouble that they started drifting apart. The first time Shirina told Sehaj she had sisters, she expected him to ask her what they were like, but he didn’t really want to know about them. He was an only child, and she envied his untethered existence. For Shirina, at least until she stopped following Jezmeen around, having a sister meant being complicit in schemes and being seen as part of a pair rather than an individual.

  “I wonder what Sharanjeet is up to these days,” Jezmeen said. “What a bloody snob. Marries a rich guy and all of a sudden she’s name-dropping her designer at your wedding and talking about her holiday house in the South of France. And that fuss she made after the ceremony when she couldn’t find their shoes right away, like we had stolen them. Wasn’t that long ago that she was a restaurant hostess.”

  “I don’t think she came to the wedding for me,” Shirina said. “She wanted to rub shoulders with Sehaj’s family.” Shirina had been surprised at Sharanjeet’s appearance at all of her wedding events. A childhood friend who had disappeared once she got married, she was eager to reconnect with Shirina when she discovered whose family she was marrying into.

  “Have you stayed in touch since then?” Jezmeen asked
.

  Shirina shook her head. “I know she named her daughter Chanel,” she said.

  Jezmeen rolled her eyes. “I saw pictures of Chanel on her Instagram account. I think Sharanjeet blocked me at some point, though. I haven’t seen anything from her in ages.”

  “I’m sure it’s all really superficial anyway.” Shirina said this with a shrug, as if she had lost track of Sharanjeet as well. She didn’t want Jezmeen knowing that although she appeared inactive on social media, she still logged in to look up people like Sharanjeet, who publicized every inch of her privileged life. There were snapshots of designer bags and posed “deep-thinking” pictures on the golden sands of Mediterranean beaches. The chorus of comments from Sharanjeet’s friends and followers was openly envious and admiring. With nobody questioning what Sharanjeet’s life was really like, Shirina felt petty doing so. Surely there were days when she fought with her husband or spent the afternoon simply waiting for the plumber to show up to fix the leaky tap that was driving her mad—but her pictures presented a life so unspoiled that Shirina didn’t mind only believing in this version of it.

  “You know who else recently had a baby?” Jezmeen said as they followed the current of the crowd. “Auntie Roopi’s daughter. She added me on Facebook recently.”

  “Our old neighbor, Auntie Roopi?”

  “Yup, from across the street. We stayed with her one summer, but you’re probably too little to remember that. She had a cat that you desperately wanted to bring back to our house.”

  Shirina vaguely recalled this cat, and the scent of channa masala bubbling on a stove in a kitchen that was bigger than theirs. She remembered going to Auntie Roopi’s house sometimes but didn’t remember living there. “Why did we stay with her?”

  “Mum and Rajni went to India together. It was shortly after Dad died. I think they were gone for about a month.”

  An image was beginning to surface: tickling competitions with Jezmeen and the cat, the cat flicking its tail at their ankles while they struggled to keep straight faces. Shirina was about four or five, and they were over at Auntie Roopi’s, having lunch. Auntie Roopi let them watch cartoons while she bustled around the house with a vacuum cleaner. At one point, she crossed the living room, blocking the television for a moment while she peered through the curtains. “Your mum’s still away,” she said. “You can stay for dinner.” But Mum was home all day, and the curtains of their house were always drawn, so Auntie Roopi was just saying that for their benefit. Shirina and Jezmeen came home eventually to find Mum lying in bed, in the same place she’d been when they left. Rajni had told them off afterward for upsetting Mum, and said to Jezmeen, “I expect better behavior from you from now on.”