‘Laila has told me of this grounding, Uma,’ says Janu the next morning. ‘I don’t know what naughtiness she has done, but make one exception for me! I’m going to have a lot of planning work and travelling around to do with Hannah over the next two weeks. There may not be another whole day to spend together, if not today.’
‘I suppose . . .’ Mum laughs. ‘Has Laila put you up to this?’
I shrug. It was actually my idea to take Janu up Parliament Hill and show him the view of London.
I’m in my trainers on the concrete path and Janu’s walking on the grass barefoot.
‘Aren’t your feet freezing?’ I ask.
‘A little, but I’ll get accustomed. My soles are hardened from walking barefoot at home.’
‘Careful!’ I push Janu’s arm as I spot the splinters of a broken bottle on the path, but he’s already seen it and takes a wide circle around it.
‘Apparently Ma’s sadhu told her I have to find green parks on my path. He has this theory that when you walk barefoot it sends a charge from the earth through you.’
‘Well, I’d watch out for the dog poo if I were you!’ I point to a sausage-shaped turd on the grass.
Janu throws his head back and laughs.
‘Come on, little cynic . . . I’ll race you!’
Before I can argue, Janu’s sprinting up Parliament Hill. There’s no contest. His legs are twice as long as mine.
‘Unfair advantage!’ I manage to splutter out between puffs as he reaches the top of the hill, way ahead of me, and sits on the bench.
‘That’s life!’ Janu laughs. ‘Fantastic views from here!’ He takes out his iPhone and scans from left to right and then down to his feet.
‘It’s for a competition thing on my blog. I’m trying out different ideas to get some traction. For this one, people must guess the location of where I’m standing barefoot!’
We look over the city and Janu points out the landmarks. He names some of them: St Paul’s Cathedral, the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament – and I fill him in on the ones he doesn’t know: Canary Wharf, the Gherkin . . .
‘The Gherkin! Like a pickle? In Kolkata maybe they will build a shiny glass chilli!’
I start laughing, and I don’t know if it’s the relief of having someone more Mira’s age to talk to, but I can’t stop giggling.
‘What’s so funny, Laila?’
‘I don’t know . . . You being here.’
Janu nods. ‘Do I seem so out of place?’
I look down at his feet and pull a ‘what-do-you-think?’ face.
‘I suppose I do . . . But I hear you like to do things your own way too.’
I don’t know how to answer him.
‘You know we sat up talking a bit after you went to bed last night. Your ma and pa are worried. They told me that you’ve been quite unsettled these last few weeks.’
Janu doesn’t look at me, but I feel my face and neck heat up. How dare they talk to him about me! If Mira and Krish were here too, they probably would have called another full-blown what’s-happening-with-Laila conference.
‘And what’s that one?’ he asks, pointing at a glistening peak.
‘The Shard,’ I say.
‘All that glistens is not gold!’
‘It’s more silver, I think!’
Janu laughs and turns to me, waiting for an answer. It’s hard to escape those dark eyes that look right into you.
‘You know, my sister Priya used to get grounded all the time for sneaking out to her music gigs. Perhaps you are a little rebellious like Priya? But look at her now, building her musical kingdom in New York! Tell me, how is Mira? I haven’t managed to speak to her yet.’
‘Fine, I think.’ I tap the bench. ‘This is her favourite place.’
‘In that case, thanks for bringing me here,’ Janu says.
An old lady with a rainbow-striped cardigan walks up the hill slightly out of breath.
Janu stands up to give her his place, but she pats the air for him to sit again. Instead she places her hand on the back of the bench and admires the view. She looks down at Janu’s bare feet and smiles.
‘I used to walk around barefoot all the time when I was young. Still do sometimes – not at this time of year though! Feels good, doesn’t it?’ she says.
Janu gets into a conversation with her about the refuge he’s raising money for in his village. It turns out that when the old lady was young she travelled all over India and she worked with some disabled children from a place called Bhopal that Janu seems to know all about.
‘Ah!’ the old lady says. ‘And still no proper compensation for those families.’
Janu says he’ll include her story on his blog post if she signs in. Fifteen minutes later he’s given her a tiny card that has a picture of bare feet on it and says:
On the way down the hill we watch the old woman pause at a bench, take her shoes off and carry them in her hand, swinging her arms as she goes.
‘Makes me think of Nana Josie,’ I say. ‘She used to live just down there!’
‘Yes? Mira talked of her many times when she came to India. So, Laila, what have you done to stop your parents allowing you freedom?’
Mum and Dad must have been up half the night talking to him about me. No wonder they went into the front room and closed the door. There doesn’t seem much point in holding things back from Janu now, so I decide to tell him some things, like how much I miss Mira and Krish and how I feel like I’m losing Kez and I just want things to be like they were before.
‘Relationships can change over time, and that can be painful indeed.’ Janu looks into the distance.
I tell him about the day of the Unfriendship Bench and Kez’s face when Dad carried her down the steps.
‘That must be humiliating for a young woman! She is strong-minded. That’s good. But maybe things will change. I’m thinking of my ma – she has her own unique way of looking at things. When I offer to buy her a wheelchair, she refuses – she thinks it is sometimes a privilege to be carried by someone you love . . .’
‘No, Kez really doesn’t ever want to be carried again!’ I say.
‘I wasn’t being literal, Laila! I’m speaking of a love that is not reduced because you accept help. That is not always weakness.’
I really like Janu, but some of the things he says I don’t get.
‘Well, you should at least have a choice, shouldn’t you? There’s loads of places Kez can’t get to without asking for help . . . and why should she?’
‘True,’ Janu says, and turns to me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
I keep thinking how hard it would have been for Kez to just decide to go on the Women’s March like I did the other day. She would have had to go by bus. The underground’s a nightmare for her. Maybe one day we’ll go on a march together.
‘Chalo! Let’s go,’ Janu says, standing up from the bench. ‘Have you made new friends at school?’
I tell him about the other day with Pari. How I wished I hadn’t invited her over, because it was awkward.
‘She is proud, Laila. Who wants to be pitied?’
‘It wasn’t pity!’
‘But you don’t know how Pari lives, do you? You have to discover more about her before you can understand.’
‘I’m trying,’ I say. We walk on in silence for a while.
‘Why don’t you join me barefoot walking? What does it matter what people think?’
I take my trainers and socks off and we walk across the grass together. It actually does feel soft and fresh on my skin. My mind fills with the banner painting of Nana Josie, Hope and Simon walking barefoot together, and then Fliss’s little hands clinging on to the bamboo sticks with such determination that her knuckles turned white.
Janu takes a photo of my feet.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m making a barefoot photo page! Everyone I walk with, everyone who donates, must post a photo of their bare feet on the blog. Shame I didn’t get that lady’s!’
Once we’re on the pavement I have to pick my way around the rubbish and cigarette butts. Janu seems to see things before I do. He takes my arm and guides me along the pavement. On the bus on the way home he gets into conversation with a few other people on the top deck. He’s good at picking out the ones who’ll listen, but one or two don’t hang around when he mentions the charity. It doesn’t seem to bother him though. He talks Bengali to an Indian man on the seat behind us for ages. I can’t believe he actually gets him to take his shoes off. He takes a photo of the man’s bare feet before they part. The way he’s smiling and waving to Janu as he gets off the bus, you’d think they were best friends.
‘Original bus journey indeed!’ the man’s saying.
Someone’s texted me.
Sorry Laila, I won’t make it back, I don’t think. I’ve got to get a painting ready for the first-term exhibition. Your painting actually. Say hi to Janu. Hope he has a good time. Mira X
I show Janu my phone. I don’t understand why Mira doesn’t speak to him herself. It feels really rude after how good his whole family were to us when we went to India.
‘A text only. Thanks for showing me.’
He doesn’t say anything else about the message, but after I’ve shown it to him he sits quietly and looks out of the window.
I’ve forgotten my keys so I clank the letter box.
Dad answers the door and looks straight down at our filthy feet.
‘Is this barefoot thing catching?!’
