‘So how’s your first week been, Laila?’ Mum asks, as she tidies up the landing sofa and plumps the cushions around me. Maybe that little velvet cushion isn’t the best hiding place for the letter after all.
‘Mum! Do we have to talk about school now?’ I ask.
If I look over the whole week, I think I’ve seen Kez to talk to about eight times. Mostly I go around with Pari – and I like her, but it’s not so easy to get to know someone from scratch. There are so many gaps in what you do or don’t know about each other . . . and what you feel like you can ask. I like Mrs Latif’s tutor time more than anything else – the way she asks questions that run through your mind whatever you’re doing through the day. Probably the best lesson of the week was Citizenship. I think it’s my favourite subject. I don’t know why they don’t have it in primary; it’s like learning about everything together. It sort of helps you join things up. I suppose the other thing that’s got me thinking is about starting up dance again. Mrs Latif asked if anyone was interested in an after-school dance club she’s thinking of setting up next term, and me and Pari both registered for that. Even though I was too shy to go to ballet without Kez when she gave it up, I think maybe seeing Priya’s videos has sparked me up again . . . and if Pari comes too . . . But if I told Mum that, I know she would get so over-the-top happy and go on about how talented I was at dance and how I should never have given up ballet. Those are the main things I would tell Mum if I was going to tell her anything, but I don’t – and no matter how patiently she smiles at me, waiting for an answer, I won’t. School feels long enough, and I don’t want to have to go over everything again now I’m home. I think she’s just as relieved as me when the phone rings . . .
It’s not Mira, Krish or Nana Kath calling. I can tell by the way Mum answers the phone.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ Her voice is all high.
There’s the usual polite asking after all the other aunties, uncles and cousins in India, then . . .
‘Ah! Yes, Anjali, I spotted that on Facebook a while back . . . A final fundraising push – it’s a massive target he’s set himself.’
I’m good at deciphering the other half of a phone conversation. I think I would make quite a good codebreaker, like those women in Bletchley Park in the war. I think that was the last film Kez’s gran – our bubbe – took the two of us to see. I can’t remember when I started calling her my bubbe too, but I’ve always sort of thought of her as my other gran. Anyway, if I’m right, the Facebook thing will be about Janu raising money to open a new refuge in his village.
‘Laila was watching one of Priya’s videos the other day. She’s doing so well in New York. A bit of a star, isn’t she? Near Central Park! Swanky . . . I know – Mira was talking about going to stay.’
Mum’s in deep listening mode now.
‘Of course. It’ll be our pleasure to have Janu stay here. That’s generous of Hannah to offer to put him up but, no, he must stay here. We’d be offended if he didn’t. There’s no question. We’ve been waiting to repay your hospitality. Really? Has it taken that long? I know it’s not easy to get a Visa these days, but he’s only visiting for such a short time. Well, yes, I suppose . . .’
I jump up and lean over the banister so that I can hear Mum better.
‘To be honest, Anjali, it’ll cheer us all up. And it’s perfect timing with Krish and Mira away . . . We’ve shrunk to just the three of us. It’s so quiet around here! I know, Laila keeps reminding me they’ll be back, but . . . Just let me know when you’ve booked the flights, OK? Email me the details . . .’
Up until now I think I’ve just about managed to work out everything that Aunt Anjali has been saying on the Kolkata end of the line, but for this next bit I have no idea.
‘For Mira? Really? Sounds intriguing . . . is he? What’s he called his charity? Barefoot Trust? Well, good luck to him!’
I sit on the top stair and watch Mum walk up and down the hallway as she chats on to Aunt Anjali. They always take ages to say goodbye even after it’s obvious that they kind of have. You think they’ve finished and then they start talking about something new.
When Mum’s finally hung up, I take the stairs three at a time. I lean on the banister hard and swing my body around the bottom. The post groans and shakes a bit.
‘Don’t you start doing that! That staircase is rickety enough as it is!’ Mum says. ‘Guess who’s coming to stay?’
‘Janu!’ I laugh.
‘Did you hear everything?’
‘Pretty much!’ I nod.
‘Anyway, glad it’s put a smile on your face.’
I go up to Mira’s room, close the door, stretch out on her bed and text Kez. I think maybe Janu coming will change things between us. It could give us something that’s about me and her again.
You’ll never guess who’s coming to stay!
Are you keeping that snake?
No!
Well?
Janu!
Oh yeah! Mum said he might come over. You know they’re working together on his new refuge . . . the one in his village? I think she wants to show him round some of her community builds. Have you checked out his website? We’re fundraising for his charity at my bat mitzvah.
Yes . . . your friend Rebecca said.
I can’t help that accusing tone that keeps creeping in between us.
I lie on the bed and look around the walls where Mira’s photos used to be and I get to thinking this: the gaps between me and Pari are because of the things we don’t know about each other, but with Kez and me it’s like we know too much. I can’t pretend I’m not upset that Rebecca knows things about Kez that I don’t, especially when they’re things that were always between just the two of us. Janu’s work at the refuge was something I shared with her, like she shares her grandma with me and doesn’t mind that I call her my bubbe too. But I have no idea how to explain why I’m being so off and moody with her, and I don’t think Kez knows either. The one thing it never was before with me and Kez was awkward . . . kind of sour. I wanted to be the person to break the news about Janu coming to stay. Why did she already have to know?
I wait to hear Mum and Dad go up to bed, then google ‘Barefoot Trust Orphanage, India’. It doesn’t take me long to find Janu’s new website. There’s a photo of him and a description of the refuge in Kolkata that me and Kez raised money for in primary school. There’s another photo of him standing on a plot of land by a river where he plans to build a refuge that’s going to be called ‘Vimana’. I don’t know why it annoys me so much that Rebecca knew that name before I did and that Kez has named her new chair after it and didn’t think to mention it. I wish I could tell her how it makes me feel, but when I try to work out what I would say it just sounds petty. It’s not like Janu belongs to me or anything. It’s not like anyone belongs to anyone really. Maybe that’s what Kez is trying to tell me. Have I been clinging on to her too hard?
These thoughts flick through my mind as I click on the different pages of Janu’s website. It looks really slick, with quotes and photographs and video clips. I press the PLAY arrow and Janu’s talking.
‘Like my own mother, many disabled children born into poverty are abandoned, often left on the street at the mercy of others who would exploit them. I walk barefoot for a future for every one of them.’
Janu smiles with his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s sad or happy.
‘Please join me on my barefoot journey.’
Then a computer-generated building plan flashes up.
‘Vimana Refuge is to be designed and built in consultation with Hannah and Maurice Braverman of the award-winning Out of the Box community architects in London. ‘Out of the Box’ specialize in open-access buildings. Their services are generously offered free of charge.’
And nobody thought to tell me. I wonder if Kez actually came up with the name Vimana. And if she did, why should it matter? I really hate thinking like this, but I can’t seem to stop . . . Why should she have to tell me everything? It’s not up to me what she gets involved in . . . but I suppose it’s what we’re used to. Maybe she feels as uncomfortable about what’s happening between us as I do. My head aches from trying to work things out. I just wish I could switch off my brain.
There’s a gauge showing how much money Janu still needs to raise to get the refuge up and running for a year, and there’s a holding page, like it’s not been set up properly yet.
Why Barefoot?
Find out by signing up and following in my footsteps!
The Barefoot Blogger plans to walk from the earth on which he will build his refuge, around London and New York and back to his village . . . collecting stories on his barefoot travels, and funds, as he goes. Please click here to receive updates.
I click on the link and enter my email address, even though he’s already got it. I suppose Kez must have done this already.
