Thursday, 24 March 1994
Paying homage to a singular preserved tradition, her family had always insisted on reminding her that they did not celebrate birthdays: that it was an alien culture, not theirs. This excuse had never prevented her father from putting up Christmas decorations in his shop, she argued within, excusing her own plans for the day. As she made her way to Ben’s house after registration, the thought of what was to come delighted her. She had sneaked away during assembly, glancing behind her as she slipped back through the school gates, but she did not dwell on her actions. For a moment, she had chided herself for playing truant, but her regrets were half-hearted, for she had no interest in her lessons today. For a second, she had shuddered at the prospect of facing her father again if he ever found out, but in the next instant, she was telling herself that she did not care. She had to do this today, she told herself, hurrying on with quick steps.
When she arrived at Ben’s front door, she tapped a merry tune on that old pane of glass, butterflies dancing in her belly. When he opened the door to her, her grin was so wide that he could see a full set of teeth, her eyes beaming at him like the moon at midnight. ‘Hi Ben,’ she cooed as she wandered inside, ‘Holi hai.’
‘Happy birthday, Satya,’ he replied, leading her towards the stairs.
‘Oh Ben, I’m so excited,’ she told him, dancing to his side, ‘Today’s going to be the best. Let’s get ready. Let’s have fun.’
‘Ah, so am I finally going to find out what’s in the bags?’
‘I hope you didn’t look,’ she laughed, searching for them frantically.
‘They’re upstairs where you left them,’ he said, ‘The suspense is killing me. How could you do this to me?’
‘It will all be worth it in the end, Ben,’ she laughed as she followed him up the stairs, ‘You know what they say about patience. It’ll be worth the wait, I promise you.’
In his bedroom, she laid one of the bags on his bed and carefully slid an ivory garment out, unfolding it deftly on the bedspread. ‘This is for you,’ she told him, showing him the elegant sherwani, lifting it before him.
‘Oh, you must be joking,’ he replied, ‘I can’t wear that.’
‘But you must, Ben. I’m pretty sure it’ll fit you. There’s a kurta and shalwar to match.’ She glanced at him as his face reddened, watching as he shook it from side to side. ‘Don’t let me down, Ben,’ she whispered almost sternly, ‘You said it yourself: “Let’s be Indian for the day.” Well that’s what this is. You can’t go as you are. Won’t you put it on?’
‘Not likely. Imagine if someone sees me.’
‘No one will see you,’ she told him, pressing it against his chest, sizing its sleeves to his arms, ‘not once we get there. Don’t be so negative, Ben. Have hope. Be optimistic.’
Seizing the other bag from the bed, Satya pranced back to the door, advising her companion that she expected him to be ready by the time she returned. She would not hear another protestation, she insisted, dreaming up an ultimatum to compel him to comply. He looked doubtful as she left him, but she was sanguine, for this stubbornness of his never lasted.
In his mother’s room, Satya unpacked her own outfit, admiring it once more as she spread it out on the abandoned mattress. The last and only time she had worn it was at the wedding of the daughter of a family friend in Leicester last July. It was an expensive purchase, but it had seemed reasonable at the time, when every object of her desire had always seemed well within reach. Even her sisters had admired her when they saw her, if only for a minute or two.
Closing the door behind her, Satya pulled the tie from her collar and began to change, resting her uniform on the back of a battered old rocking chair in the corner of the room. She could not wait to put her favourite outfit on again and revel in its grandeur. Soon she had replaced her black pencil skirt with that beautiful long pale pink lengha, hiding her legs completely, its delicately embroidered hem resting on the floor. Adjusting it at her waist, finding it tighter than she remembered it, she examined the beads and crystals that adorned it, and ran her fingers over the fine floral needlework, fixated by its beauty. Soon afterwards she had replaced her white shirt with that loose turquoise tunic embroidered with pink flowers that had once invited the applause of fellow guests. Though a modest addition to her ensemble, it was far more beautiful than a choli, clothing her in its loose, attractive fabric. Everybody had agreed when they saw her. Standing before the mirror now, she agreed too. It all felt so right, and so necessary. Her baby pink dupatta would replace her pointless tie. Her pretty sandals would replace her dull black shoes. Her neck would receive a necklace, her wrists a set of bangles, her ears her favourite earrings. Yes, she would be a proper Indian for the day.
‘I hope you’re ready,’ she called into the landing as she re-emerged from the room, her feet gliding over the dusty, soiled carpet.
‘I feel daft,’ he called back in defeat, glancing down at himself.
‘No,’ she replied when she saw him, ‘you look very handsome. I’m glad you put it on.’
When he saw her, his response was less refined. ‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed, staring at her in stunned disbelief, ‘you look magnificent. I hardly recognise you. You’re like a completely different person. You look amazing.’
She smiled at him as he stuttered on, grasping for words to convey his feelings, though none seemed right. When he said she looked so much older, he meant it as a compliment. When he said she looked grown-up, it was supposed to be flattery. Though she would have protested such a sleight in normal circumstances, this time she let it pass, for she wanted to savour these moments. Yes, she delighted in her elegance, her beauty, her refinement; it tasted too delectable to cast aside in pursuit of a feeble argument about hurt feelings. She felt like a princess and she hoped he would be her prince.
‘So let’s be Indian for the day,’ she grinned, leading her companion down the stairs with confident, buoyant footsteps. ‘To the wood we must go.’
Worried lest he be spotted and recognised, Ben insisted on a hurried march to Satya’s paradise, his head bowed as they strode along the pavement. Taking in her beauty, he could have drawn her near to him, but instead insisted that they walk on apart, a gap between them, her steps before his. If a car passed them, he would turn his face away to hide it from view. If he saw people ahead, he would cross to the other side of the road, leaving Satya to wander on alone. As he wallowed in fear of what people might think, he wished himself to their destination and accidentally moved it closer.
‘It’s this way,’ she announced as they skirted past the brown rendered houses half way along the street. Pushing through the gate between those still boarded up houses, they rambled past the winter flattened bramble, the rubbish heap and a new car tyre and oil drum totem pole. The warring tribes of Garden Rise had been busy since Satya had last passed this way, marking their territory with ceremonial beer cans and discarded packets of Monster Munch; she hoped desperately that they remained oblivious to the wild garden in their midst.
Guiding Ben past her, she lifted the brittle brown wire mesh back from the post and let him duck through the gap. Guarding her elegant skirt from rusty scratches, she followed through, right leg first, escaping just in time as the fence sprung closed. She had missed this place, she told herself, although it looked unexpectedly barren after winter.
With her companion at her side, Satya trampled down the slope amidst the sleepy plants, the trees all around them leafless and bare, their trunks offering them scant protection from prying eyes and the elements. It was less the paradise she remembered, more the industrial wasteland her brother had always spoken of, but she remained optimistic. Over there, just ahead of them, she could see that old clearing by the lake, the limp branches of the willow tree still weeping on its bank.
‘So here we are, Ben,’ she enthused, mimicking the lone robin that had suddenly frozen at the sight of them.
‘Hmm, it seems nice,’ he murmured, standing motionless beside her.
‘Of course it’s more wonderful in the summer,’ she told him mournfully, ‘It’s like a great forest, a secret garden. Alas spring is running late.’
‘No it’s fine, it’s lovely, a great find.’
‘Do you really like it? I’m glad. We must return when the trees are in bud. When the canopy is green. Won’t you return with me, Ben? Won’t you come with me again?’
The leaves and the lush vegetation had always blanketed the roar of the town in summer, but that old peace was absent now. Although she could still hear the sweet song of a robin and a blackbird nearby, the hum of traffic further away burrowed into her ear, seeding doubts. Satya wondered if he really liked the place as she did, or if he was disappointed and underwhelmed.
‘Do you know there’s so much to discover down here?’ she whispered in his ear. ‘There’s a family of foxes that lives right here amongst the trees. I once followed one in broad daylight. It carried me into a dozen secret gardens. Come with me, I’ll show you one.’
Pinching her lengha clear of the ground, Satya tiptoed around the lake towards the denser tree trunks on the other side, begging Ben to follow her with her rucksack in hand. If she remembered correctly, there would be a holly bush marking the passage back through the trees. There would be two horse chestnut trees too, but she did not think she would be able to recognise them without their leaves; she searched for fallen conkers on the ground instead, amongst the sodden autumn leaves and dark green moss returning to the earth, sprouting toadstools. She spotted a few, but it was the squelching mud beneath her feet that soon preoccupied her, causing her to stop and start as they ambled on between the elderly green-brown trunks and around the great budding rhododendron bushes.
‘I bet you wish you wore wellies,’ quipped Ben as she tried to negotiate yet another mushy ravine.
‘I wish you’d be a gentleman and take my hand,’ she replied wearily, ‘or are you still afraid of my touch?’
Ben did not answer her and left her to stride across it alone, jumping clear of the cold flooded morass inelegantly. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked instead.
‘To India,’ she replied.
If her bearings were correct, there would be a little hill just to her right. Soon she would discover the tall evergreen trees that would at last offer them the privacy she sought, their flat scented leaves insulating them from the distant buzz of the ring road, their firry branches shielding them from the remotest of gazes. If she had got it right, they would happen upon a fallen log, perfect to sit upon to rest. Anxiously, she hoped she was not mistaken, for her sandals were painful now, her feet frosty and drenched. Ben had been right about the waterproof boots.
‘Here we are,’ she enthused ten minutes later after a few wrong turns, inhaling the pine perfume as she tested the strength of the fallen tree beneath her. The aroma was refreshing and sweet, like the potted rosemary in her mother’s garden. It brought the smile back to her face. She pretended it was the scent of their hunted land, imagining notes of cedarwood, frankincense, and patchouli in the air. She wondered if Chandigarh really smelt like that or if it just whiffed of diesel and sewage like their own town in the morning. Why her mind wandered like that, she could not say.
‘Let’s eat,’ she announced, taking her rucksack back from him and retrieving a tray of vegetable samosas and a bottle of water, pretending once more that it was a wondrous feast. ‘Here,’ she said, swinging the tray towards him, ‘take one. Take two. Enjoy.’
As he sat next to her on their makeshift bench, he glanced at her fervently. She looked so elegant, and he wondered what he had done to deserve company like this. He felt lucky, fortunate, blessed, and yet dreadfully scared and sick. He had fantasised of a companion like this, carrying herself with such graceful beauty; she looked just like the bride he had dreamed of once, except that the colours of her skirt and tunic were different. In his dreams they were ivory, burgundy and gold, but something else was different too. He dared not think of those dreams now and sank his teeth into the oily pastry instead, pushing the thoughts from his mind.
‘What are you thinking?’ Satya asked him, finding him far away from her even whilst at her side.
‘Today is escapism, isn’t it?’ he replied.
Satya shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well I want to escape,’ she sighed. ‘I want to escape all the rubbish. The way my family treats me. So why not? If I really could escape, I would. If I can escape for just a day, it’ll be enough for me. I’ll be happy.’
‘It won’t be enough for me,’ muttered Ben, shaking his head, ‘I wish I could just disappear. If I could, I would. No, I will. That’s my plan. I just have to be patient. I’m going to study hard, get into university and leave all this shit behind. I’m never going to come back, you know? I like this town, but I won’t return. I might even try to go abroad. I’d love to go to Boston in the States. Perhaps there’s a PhD waiting for me at Harvard. Wow, that would be my dream. To leave all of this behind. Nothing’s going to stop me now. I might pursue that, you know, but first things first; let’s get to university. Yep, that’s my escape plan. I can’t wait to disappear.’
‘I hope you don’t, Ben. I’d miss you, you know? I wish you’d carry me with you, but…’
‘But you know I’m stubborn and won’t let you?’
‘You said it. I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. We get on so well together. We enjoy each other’s company. We’re on the same wavelength. It’s like we were made for each other. Why won’t you let me escape with you?’
‘Because.’
‘Don’t just say that as if I’m nothing. I want you to let me into your world. I want you to let me in.’
Beside her, Ben threw his half-eaten samosa back into the tray and rose to his feet. He had no words for her now and wandered off through the trees to investigate the sound of seeping water just beyond the base of a silver birch tree.
