Priya’s Gala

I’m getting ready to leave for Priya’s gala when Anjali comes into my room with a pile of clean clothes. She didn’t mention the letters at all last night. She smiles when she sees that I’m wearing the salwar-kameez she bought me from the market, but then her smile fades.

‘That’s the door of the old house, isn’t it?’ she asks, staring at my painting. ‘I must have described it very well in my letters. You are talented,’ she speaks with a sharp, knowing edge to her voice. I get a sinking feeling. What if she knows I’ve been inside the house?

I wish I could tell her about going to the house, so I could give her the piece of carving Janu found and she could mend the cupboard. But Priya’s right – whenever you mention the house Anjali raises a wall of silence around her. Whatever memories she has locked away, she’s not going to share them with me, so there’s no way I can ask her all the burning questions I have, whirring in my mind.

Manu must feel the tension between Anjali and me because he doesn’t attempt to make conversation like he usually does.

‘Did you read everything in the album?’ she finally asks.

‘Yes,’ I answer, the guilt flooding through me again.

She sighs deeply and looks out of the window. ‘You see, some things that happened in the past should stay in the past.’

I can’t understand how that can be true. How can it ever be good to bury something in the past as if it never happened? That’s like in the documentary Dad and I watched about people who try to deny that horrific things that happened in history – like the Holocaust or the genocide in Rwanda – actually took place. Dad said the only reason people try to hide the truth is to get away with evil and never having to face up to what they’ve done. How can people learn anything from the past if it’s hidden?

‘I don’t understand,’ I tell Anjali.

She just raises her eyebrows, as if to say, ‘Exactly.’

I feel a surge of frustration again, but I take a deep breath and look out of my own window. It takes me ages to pluck up the courage to ask the question that’s been playing on my mind and, when I finally do, it comes out as a cowardly whisper.

‘Are you going to tell my mum?’

‘I haven’t made my mind up yet.’

I think it’s a relief, for both of us, to get out of Manu’s car. Anjali immediately strides off. A little lump forms in my throat. I know it’s a bit pathetic, but I feel really close to Anjali, even though we’ve only just met. I hate the fact that she’s angry with me and upset, but I don’t know how to make things better.

There are hundreds of cars parked up in a field. In the middle is a huge white marquee. Women in every colour of silken sari are strutting across the field, like peacocks fanning their feathers. When I was little I always found it hard to believe that the pretty show-off peacocks that preen themselves are the males.

Inside the marquee it smells like the flower market: sweet roses and jasmine – that smell is starting to follow me around.

It takes me a few minutes to recognize that it’s the twins, Chand and Charbak from the mall, wearing identical gold cotton kurta pyjamas, who are warming up on the sitar and tabla at the front on the stage. I can’t remember which one plays which instrument, and they’re too far away for me to spot an earring.

I love the sound of instruments tuning up. I think the bit before a show begins is the most magical of all, when no one sends a signal to begin but everyone just somehow knows when to settle. Just as I think that moment’s approaching a large woman comes bustling towards the two empty seats next to me. It’s not until she sits down that I see the girl limping behind her.

‘Mira!’ Paddy calls out, hobbling over. ‘At least I get to sit with you!’ She grins and raises her eyes towards the large woman who must be her mum. Her wild hair is parted down the middle and seems to be smeared to her head with some sort of oil. ‘Ma made me straighten it! She’s always trying to tame me!’ she says, touching her hair self-consciously.

We chat for a while. Then Paddy leans forward and concentrates on watching Chand and Charbak.

‘Isn’t he brilliant?’ whispers Paddy, nodding towards the twin playing the tabla.

Now I remember that it was Charbak who plays the rhythm.

There’s a pause and the silence fizzles with expectation.

A short, strong-looking man walks on stage and blows into a conch. The sound is hollow and haunting as if it could carry across mountain ranges. The music begins, slowly at first, and then builds into a frenzied rhythm.

Te, tak a Te, te, tak a Te, te tak a Te te te . . . Charbak holds the beat as he plays.

Dancers in glittering emerald-and-gold saris enter the stage as if summoned. I pick out Priya straight away. She dances in the middle, her ankle bells jangling. She’s positioned slightly forward from the others, but even if she was right at the back of the stage she would stand out, and not only because of her short hair (looks like she got her way then!). She’s the one you’re drawn to, because of her grace and energy, and the fact that every movement she makes is so precise and perfect. Her eyes light up as she dances. Everything about her is alive. Watching her move around the stage I feel so proud of her. I see for the first time that all her energy, which sometimes feels too big for real life, is meant to be here, crackling and lighting up this stage.

‘What do you think?’ asks Paddy.

I shake my head in disbelief. Now I understand why she’s been rehearsing so hard.

There’s nothing to say when you see someone as talented as Priya. You just have to watch and feel and let her spirit carry you away so that you almost feel like it’s you dancing.

Anjali turns to me with tears in her eyes. She wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me to her. No words pass between us, but I think she’s beginning to thaw.

‘Sorry you couldn’t dance, Paddy,’ says Anjali kindly.

‘Better it was me who was injured than Priya,’ Paddy says, her hands following the movements of the dancers. It must be awful for her to have to sit and watch after all that training.

When it’s time for the interval, I feel breathless, as if I had been dancing along with the performers. I turn to Anjali, and see that she’s beaming with pride. I wonder what it would feel like to be able to tell a story with your body, to learn the exact phrases dancers have been using for centuries. It’s like they’re tracing their bodies back through time, movement after movement, into the distant past. If Anjali understands this, why can’t she understand why I took Mum’s letters?

‘Do you need the toilet?’ asks Anjali, breaking into my thoughts.

I shake my head.

‘Give me five minutes,’ she says. ‘You’ll keep her company, won’t you, Paddy?’

‘I’m not going anywhere in a hurry!’ Paddy laughs.

The marquee’s almost empty now; only Chand and Charbak sit on the front of the stage, chatting and joking with each other.

‘Charb!’ calls Paddy.

Charbak squints into the audience and then sprints up the steps towards her, taking them in threes. Chand lopes along behind his brother.

Now Charbak’s sitting next to Paddy. He has flung an arm round her shoulder and they’re chatting away.

‘Hello!’ says Chand, awkwardly leaning on the edge of the seat next to mine.

‘Your sitar playing was brilliant.’ I say, feeling slightly embarrassed.

‘Have you heard others on sitar?’

‘Um . . . no, not live,’ I admit.

‘Well, how do you know it was good then?’

Chand has this unnerving way of saying exactly what he’s thinking.

Paddy and Charbak are deep in conversation, and I’m not sure how long I can keep this going with Chand, so I make an excuse about needing the toilet after all.

Outside there are crowds of people talking, drinking and eating picnic food. Families are sitting on blankets on the ground, but I can’t see Anjali anywhere among them. I look out towards the middle of the field and catch sight of the mustard and deep plum colours of Anjali’s sari. About twenty or thirty women are slowly turning in a circle. They stand close together, chatting and laughing. I watch the group move around, and every few minutes a different silken-robed figure disappears and reappears. I imagine that each of them gets their own turn to dance in the middle. Maybe all these women were dancers once, like Anjali. As the circle breaks up they all scatter in different directions I wonder what it feels like when your body’s been as free as a bird, like Priya’s, and then you start to get older. Maybe that’s why these women come out to the field to do their own dance.

In the marquee Chand and Charbak start tuning up again, and slowly people pack up their blankets and make their way back inside. There’s that sound again, of people gathering, voices fusing together and bubbling up into a state of expectation. Charbak strikes his tabla three times, and on the third beat the dancers enter, this time dressed in red silk sari skirts, choli and long garlands of white flowers draped around their necks. Priya is not among them; instead another girl is standing forward from the rest.

‘I thought Priya was dancing in this,’ I whisper to Paddy.

She shrugs and concentrates on the stage. I turn to Anjali to ask her, but she’s sitting way forward on her seat with her face cupped in both hands, and I don’t want to disturb her, so I just lean back in my seat and try to take it all in.

This time the music is poignant and gentle, a bit like ballet. I can see why Priya would prefer Kathak – it’s like her: so fast, strong and bright. This lead dancer, starting with her eyes and hands, begins to hypnotize the audience, drawing us into every single tiny movement she makes. Her limbs are long and flowing, as if a river is running through her body. Grandad told me once about this ancient temple dance. He said that when Lila used to perform it, it moved him to tears. I suppose Lila must have taught Anjali to dance, and now here’s Priya on stage. When I get back to London I’m going to see if I can find a class. Maybe Millie will come with me.

I don’t know how long it goes on for – it could be hours, it could be minutes – and for a time I forget where I am or that there is anyone else around me. I’m only brought back to reality by the loud applause. Now people are standing up cheering and clapping and calling out to the dancers. The star dancer steps forward and there’s a roar of approval as she takes her bow. Paddy’s on her feet making loud whooping noises. The dancer puts her hand to her head, pulls at her hair and lets her long black plait fall to the ground. She smiles up at us and ruffles her short red hair. I should have guessed, but from this far away I couldn’t really see her face.

There is a general gasp, but then the women around Anjali laugh and make comments to her. Paddy’s mum in her gold sari is laughing so hard that her three thick tummy rolls are set in motion. She catches me watching her.

‘Acha, you are the London cousin Priya and my Padma never stop talking about. London this, London that! Tomar naam ki?’

‘Mira,’ I tell her.

‘Gita,’ says Padma’s mum as I shake her plump hand. I notice her tiny wrists, jangling with bright gold bangles.

‘Gita and I used to dance together once!’ Anjali tells me.

‘Like tonight, in the field,’ I say.

The two women exchange a look and burst out laughing.

‘That was more of a dance of nature!’ Gita whispers in my ear. ‘The toilets are not smelling well on such occasions!’

I go bright red, feeling like a complete idiot.

‘Anyway, we don’t dance any more!’ Gita grabs hold of a roll of her tummy fat and wobbles it in my direction. ‘Too old and fat!’

‘Speak for yourself!’ says Anjali.

‘Your aunty never stops working – that’s how she keeps her shape! But what a shame you never got to see my Padma dance.’ Gita smiles proudly, putting a protective arm around Paddy.

‘Oh, Ma! Do you have to?’ Paddy protests, trying to squirm away.

We keep clapping as the dancers leave the stage. As Priya waves goodbye the audience claps a little louder. She takes a final bow and exits, leaving her long black plait coiled on the stage, as if a snake has shed its skin.