Under My Pillow

It’s only early evening when I get back to the flat, but Priya’s already asleep. Janu says the only time she really rests is before a gala, like she’s storing up her energy. I creep into the bedroom, take the wooden carving out of my pocket and walk over to Priya’s trophy cabinet.I knew it! I trace my hands along the edge where the carving’s broken away and slot the piece into place. It feels so good to see the frame complete. I would have loved to have seen how this once looked when it stood in the house in Doctor’s Lane.

If I gave this piece to Janu he could probably mend the frame, but I can’t risk Anjali knowing I’ve been inside the old house, so I tuck the piece of wood inside my pillowcase. I eat dinner with Anjali and then quietly slip into bed. The air is full of heat and dust and guilt, as I keep going over the moment when I stood in that stream of orange light with Janu and the rest of the world seemed to melt away to nothing.

Priya hasn’t even moved for the last hour. I switch on the tiny lamp. I rummage in my bag and take out Mum’s letter album. I go through everything again, trying desperately to read between the lines. This is exactly how it feels, like . . . ‘The paint is flaking away, leaving the old brickwork peeping through as though a layer of skin has been grazed off . . .’ and I’m only just starting to get a glimpse of what’s underneath. I imagined seeing the house would settle something inside me once and for all, but now all I want to do is go back and explore deeper.

After everything that’s happened there is no way I can sleep. The heat seems to grow more intense every day, and the days are running away so fast, but I don’t ever want this to end. It feels as if I’m wrapped in a kind of heat-spell and if the weather breaks I’m afraid that the spell will be broken too.

I move the lamp over to the table and open up the box of paints. The canvas is starting to fill up, but what’s missing, what I would really like to paint into the picture, is Janu and me, caught in a dust haze in the house in Doctor’s Lane. Instead I draw the red arches of New Market and two figures holding hands rushing across a road strewn with taxis, a rickshaw with a stray wheel, tuk-tuks and bikes. The figures I’ve drawn could be anyone . . .