The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters Page 9

  “My career. It’s done.”

  “Should we wait for the naan?” Rajni asked.

  “Don’t you care?” Jezmeen asked. She looked hurt. “I just said my career is over.”

  Had it really started? No, that was not a nice question to ask, although Rajni could see it printed on Shirina’s face as well. Jezmeen had been whining about the shoddy state of her career since it began. “It’s a tough industry,” Rajni said by way of consolation.

  Jezmeen let out a heavy sigh. “I guess I might as well tell you,” she said. “You’ll find out anyway.”

  She took her phone out of her purse and tapped once on it. A black-and-white video appeared. It was surveillance footage from a restaurant, probably one of the videos that Jezmeen presented on her show. Rajni watched with little interest; the waiter was returning now with a platter of steaming rice pilaf and a huge bowl of crispy golden naan. They had definitely ordered too much.

  Shirina gasped. “Oh, that’s horrible,” she said. “What’s wrong with people?” She shook her head. Rajni turned her attention to the screen to find a woman kicking something—was that a large fish? It was difficult to tell.

  Then she remembered the boys from the temple this afternoon. The boy who stuck out his tongue and pretended to choke. She leaned closer and squinted at the screen. “Goodness, Jezmeen, is that you?”

  Jezmeen nodded miserably. “This was the first video that came out. Some animal rights activists managed to get some high-definition footage last night, and it’s everywhere now. I didn’t mean to knock on the glass. Obviously, I was upset. The video doesn’t show the whole situation.”

  The whole situation probably involved more alcohol than Jezmeen would admit to having had. Rajni wondered if Anil was aware of the video. She peered at her own screen. No calls or messages from him. He probably hadn’t seen it, then.

  “Do your producers know?” Shirina asked.

  Jezmeen nodded. “I was at the end of my contract with the show anyway—they’ve chosen not to renew me.”

  At some point, you had to be realistic. This was what Mum had said to Rajni once, when Jezmeen came up in conversation: you had to accept that you weren’t going to be a famous star. “Don’t tell her that, please,” Rajni said to Mum. She knew it would crush Jezmeen, even though she had to admit she didn’t think Jezmeen would ever become a star. Not that Jezmeen wasn’t talented, she just wasn’t wanted. Now Polly Mishra, there was an actress whom people wanted. Rajni, Kabir, and Anil had binge-watched an entire season of The Boathouse one winter weekend while sleet gathered on their windowsill. They had intentions to pace themselves, but the cliffhanger at the end of the first episode was so good that they had allowed themselves one more, and then another, and then it was dinnertime and they ordered a pizza delivery so they could continue watching.

  Rajni longed for the cozy and peaceful indulgence of that afternoon now. As the air became chillier, they had huddled together, excitedly sharing their predictions about the following episodes. Rajni couldn’t recall another time when she and Anil shared the same interests.

  “They’re saying it’s because of this incident,” Jezmeen was telling Shirina. “But I think they want to go with a more mainstream host.” She put “mainstream” in air quotes. “Somebody white would appeal to a wider audience.” Shirina nodded along sympathetically. Rajni didn’t think that those DisasterTube clips of people injuring their crotches in various ways needed a wider audience.

  “It was self-defense,” Jezmeen continued. “He could have bitten me. What if he was poisonous?”

  “I don’t think Arowanas are poisonous,” Shirina said. “They’re just really sensitive. There was this article in National Geographic about animals which are capable of intense and complex emotions. Those fish actually experience distress.”

  Jezmeen groaned. “Now you make me feel even worse.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s not just the issue of the video going viral either. I have to pay the restaurant back for the damage.”

  “How much do you owe them?” Rajni asked.

  “Thirty-five thousand pounds,” Jezmeen said.

  “What?”

  “They’re pretty expensive,” Shirina said. “One of Sehaj’s clients has an Arowana. He bought it from a fish farm in Singapore for a quarter of a million US dollars.”

  “Are they very exotic-looking?” Rajni asked, reaching for the basket of naan. “Or do they bring good luck?”

  “Evidently not,” Jezmeen retorted. “They just flop about the house, feeling complex emotions and then when somebody knocks on the door, they commit suicide.”

  Rajni hesitated. It was the wrong thing to say, and Jezmeen knew it—she bit her lip as if she wished she could take back the words. Their eyes met and they both glanced at Shirina. She had stopped chewing and was reaching slowly for a glass of water. They were all thinking about the same thing. Rajni felt a rush of irritation with Mum for ordering them to converse with each other. Now look at what you’ve done, she thought.

  In the middle of the night, Rajni woke to the sound of tentative scratching. Somebody was in her room. She bolted out of bed and hastily wrapped the bedsheet around her body. “Excuse me?” she squeaked, not sure if this was an effective way to deter a sex pest. She glanced at her suitcase, quickly taking stock of what valuables she had. Her passport was in the safe, thankfully, but the canister of ashes was in plain view. Then she realized it was only valuable to herself—what would a thief want with an old woman’s remains? Taking a small step toward the door, she thought she heard the scratching behind her, louder now. There was a ripping sound. She spun around in time to see the curtains come crashing down from the window.

  “Fucking fuck fuck,” she said, jumping on the spot with her fists balled up tightly. The sheet fell away from her body and pooled around her ankles. It took a moment for the relief to seep in, and for her to process what had happened—the curtain, fastened to the rod at the top of the window by a Velcro strip, had slowly become unstuck throughout the night. Rajni picked it up and carried it to the desk in the corner of the room. How cheap were all these furnishings? She half expected the hotel to actually be made of paper—she’d lean on a wall and the whole place would crumple.

  No chance of getting back to sleep now. Rajni picked up the phone from her dresser and sent Kabir a chat message—it was around nine o’clock in England and he’d be slumped in front of the TV after work.

  “How are you?”

  “Good,” he replied. “How was first day of pilgrimage?”

  Rajni shrugged at the phone. What was there to tell him? She didn’t manage to get through the first day of honoring Mum without thinking of those final, ugly moments. She had been tempted to skip that dinner with her sisters because she knew how draining it would be to engage with them, and she was proven right. She should have chosen room service instead—probably delivered by young, terrified Tarun from the café—but eating alone was no better. It would make her think of all the things that she and Mum had left unsaid. She wasn’t sure she could get through the rest of the trip without unwelcome reminders of her last trip to India with Mum.

  “Don’t know how to describe,” she wrote. As soon as she sent the message, she realized that she sounded like a person in awe, as if all that carrot-chopping in the temple kitchen had filled her spiritual voids. She was about to clarify when Kabir sent another message.

  “Managed to have a chat with Anil today.”

  Rajni pressed the call symbol on her chat screen. Kabir’s voice stretched into a million syllables distorted by distance and a poor internet connection.

  “Heeeeeellllllooooooooooo?”

  He sounded like a dying robot. “Kabir,” Rajni said. “Kabir?”

  “HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLOOOOOOOOOO.”

  She held the phone away from her ear and waited for the connection to adjust. She had called Shirina in Australia once using this service as well, and halfway through the call, the echo had bee
n so strong that she became annoyed with her own voice for interrupting her.

  There was silence on the line. “Kabir,” Rajni said. “Can you hear me?”

  A static-filled pause and then his voice came through in one piece. “Yes.”

  “So what did Anil say?”

  Kabir’s sigh sounded like a roar. Long-distance phone calls were not for subtlety, Rajni realized when she called Shirina to tell her about Mum’s diagnosis. You had to be quick and direct to avoid the message being jumbled by a poor connection.

  “I didn’t have much time to talk with him—he just came by to get more of his things. He’s staying at Davina’s flat until they find a more permanent place to move into together. I’m not sure what we’re expecting him to say or do, Rajni.”

  “You said you’d handle it,” Rajni pointed out.

  “This situation, though—it’s irreversible.”

  “Kabir, you can’t tell me that you’re taking care of matters and then backtrack like this,” Rajni said.

  “I meant that I would try to convince Anil to continue his education, not abandon his child.”

  Rajni wasn’t sure if that was a catch in his voice or the connection dropping. Either way, the word “child” made her want to retch. Anil was a child. He was not supposed to be having one.

  “How sure are we that this child is his?”

  “I asked him that,” Kabir said. “He’s positive. He and Davina have been together for almost three months. She’s six weeks along now—it’s not like she got pregnant with another man and then hunted down some naive young man with a small inheritance to support her.”

  “So she says,” Rajni replied. “Why should we believe her?”

  “I suppose Anil really trusts her.”

  “Did you ask Anil? Did you ask him if he’s certain?”

  “I didn’t. I’m trying not to upset him.”

  “Trying not to upset him?” The words burst out of Rajni’s mouth. She was aware that the walls were paper-thin and that she had probably woken her neighbors on both sides. “Our son’s about to ruin his life and you’re worried about sparing his feelings?”

  “I don’t think questioning the baby’s paternity is the right way to go,” Kabir said. “Let’s assume it’s his.”

  Rajni remained tight-lipped. Kabir continued, “I know it’s difficult to accept, Rajni, but he’ll need our support. He doesn’t know the first thing about raising the child. Remember what a steep learning curve it was for us? We were only a couple of years older than him, if you think about it.”

  “We were in our twenties and we had jobs. We were married and the same bloody age too,” Rajni corrected Kabir. She felt light-headed. “But Kabir, you’re saying . . . you’re saying that this is it? They’re going through with this?”

  “It will be very hard,” Kabir said. “But they’ve made the decision, and from the looks of things—”

  “There’s money,” Rajni said. She shut her eyes as she said this. She couldn’t believe what she was resorting to.

  “Money for what?”

  “For—oh, don’t make me say it, Kabir.”

  It was Kabir’s turn to go quiet. The background filled with a faint hum that made Rajni long for London—one long, peaceful note.

  “What is this really about, Rajni?” Kabir asked. She hated it whenever he asked that question, usually at the peak of an argument, usually an argument about Anil. Because it always came to the answer that was sitting on the tip of Rajni’s tongue now. What will people say? She refused to say it. She had spent the whole day with Mum on her mind; she was not going to become her.

  “Forget it. Let’s just talk about something else,” Rajni said with a sigh.

  “Good idea,” Kabir said. “What’s going on with Jezmeen? I’ve heard there’s some video going viral of her torturing an endangered animal?”

  “Kicking a fish,” Rajni corrected.

  “Is it for real? Or just a publicity stunt for that show she’s on?”

  “It’s real,” Rajni said. “She has to pay the restaurant back for the fish.” It occurred to her that Kabir hadn’t actually seen the video. “How did you find out?”

  “Anil told me it’s all over his social media. He called me the minute he saw it.”

  “That’s nice,” Rajni said. She felt her heart catching in her throat. “Because he hasn’t been in touch with me.”

  “Can you blame him?” Kabir asked.

  “That’s not fair,” Rajni said. “I’m worried about him.”

  “Why do you say that as if I’m not worried about him too?”

  “Because you’re willing to let him ruin his future, Kabir. You’re too soft on him. You’ve always been too easygoing, and look what it’s led to.”

  “Rajni, Anil has made a decision. It is irreversible.”

  “It’s not necessarily,” Rajni said. “Maybe if we paid her to get rid of the baby and just get out of Anil’s life, he could start over.”

  “You of all people should think about whether you want something like that on your conscience,” Kabir said.

  His words sucked the breath right out of her. She nearly dropped the phone. The internet connection was weakening again, and Kabir’s immediate apology sounded like it was coming from underwater. At the small, crackling sound of static that took his words apart again, Rajni decided they had a poor connection and cut off the phone.

  Chapter Six

  Day Three: Sunrise at India Gate

  By this time, you girls are probably annoyed with me for making you get up early each day but a sunrise is something that you shouldn’t take for granted. India Gate is the best place to view the sunrise in Delhi. Just once, for me, stand still and watch a new day beginning. Think of all the new days you have left, and reflect on how you will choose to spend them.

  There was a folded note on the floor between the door and the bathroom. In her bleary still-waking-up state, Jezmeen spotted it but could not summon the energy to get out of bed to pick it up. “What is it?” she mumbled into the empty room. Then she caught a whiff of her putrid breath.

  “Ah, shit,” she said, sinking back to bed. She rolled to her side and patted around for her phone to check the time. Now she could guess what the note said and who had written it. She had foggy recollections (she thought they were dreams) of being woken by knocking this morning, answering the door, and fabricating a very believable food-poisoning story. The “I can’t keep anything down” portion of the story was based on real events anyway. “I’ll join you guys later. I know how to get there,” she’d said with what she assumed was a confident smile. She now realized that one whiff of hangover fire had probably been enough to send her sisters scuttling down the hallway. She could bet anything that the note contained some chastisement on how poorly she had managed to impersonate a sober person.

  An empty bottle of wine had rolled across the television console and remained precariously on its edge. Jezmeen appreciated that her dwindling bank account stretched much further here than in London. It made last night’s room-service orders seem sensible and almost thrifty. She had spotted a bottle shop on the way back from the market last night but it was dank and shadowy and when she approached, a line of men lifted their eyes to meet hers and she lost her nerve.

  Years ago, she’d read a news article about an Indian politician encouraging beatings of women who drank in bars. In response, women all over the country sent pieces of pink underwear to the politician’s office and flooded his email in-box with images of the same. To this day, the politician’s name could not withstand an internet search without hundreds of pictures of lacy pink thongs popping up on the screen. Jezmeen had been thinking about this as she drank straight from the bottle and searched for images of herself last night, pleasure mixing with punishment. It probably explained why she had the oddest dreams of the Arowana fish wearing pink bikini bottoms.

  Jezmeen sat up and let her head adjust. She didn’t remember finishing the whole bottle but the fog of th
is hangover was evidence enough. It was a slow and arduous walk to the door, where she picked up and unfolded the note:

  We’re at India Gate. You can join us if you feel like it—Rajni and Shirina.

  Not as bad as she expected, although she could practically hear Rajni’s self-importance in the straight edges and sharp points of her print.

  It was close to noon. So she had missed the sunrise. Surely she could make it up somehow. There were sunrises every day. She could even go to India Gate now and it would be almost the same, wouldn’t it? There was no reason Mum’s letter had to be followed so exactly.

  Jezmeen took a long shower, letting the steam clear her blocked sinuses. She stepped out feeling instantly better—hangover turnaround was a skill that many people underestimated. It enabled her to have a few too many once in a while and still wake up (albeit a little late for worship) and go about the rest of her day. “Some people call that functional alcoholism,” Mark had said to her once with a grin. That dimple-studded grin. He had gone from teasing her lightly to giving her a pointed look every time she poured another glass. She knew she had been drinking more since Mum’s death but didn’t everybody grieve in their own ways?

  Jezmeen got dressed and stepped out of the hotel, descending into the mob of people, rickshaws, stray animals, shoe-shiners, students. A scooter honked behind her and as it passed, the driver leaned toward Jezmeen. “So sexy,” he hissed, like it was meant to insult her. “Fuck off,” she retorted, but the blare of engines and the shouts of street vendors drowned out her voice anyway. She wove her way through Karol Bagh market, her head tipped up as if just keeping it above water. Her eyes were trained on the mammoth bridge at the end of this street, where the Metro ran above the city, unobstructed by the mayhem on the ground.

  Where were the women? Jezmeen wondered. It wasn’t her first time noticing that Delhi was a city of men, but walking alone made it all the more obvious. Men ran the textile shops, unspooling rivers of sari fabrics across the wide expanses of their counters. The jewelers held out delicate earrings between their thick, calloused fingers. Men clustered at the chai stand outside a small college building, clutching textbooks to their chests. They walked past and deliberately bumped shoulders or dipped their mouths to Jezmeen’s ears, sometimes singing lines from Hindi songs, sometimes muttering filth. Whenever Jezmeen did spot a woman, her face reflected the hardness that Jezmeen realized was in her own expression.