Jezmeen said as they followed the current of the crowd. ‘Auntie Roopi’s daughter. She added me on Facebook recently.’
‘Our old neighbour, Auntie Roopi?’
‘Yup, from across the street. We stayed with her one summer, but you’re probably too little to remember that. She had a cat that you desperately wanted to bring back to our house.’
Shirina vaguely recalled this cat, and the scent of channa masala bubbling on a stove in a kitchen that was bigger than theirs. She remembered going to Auntie Roopi’s house sometimes but didn’t remember living there. ‘Why did we stay with her?’
‘Mum and Rajni went to India together. It was shortly after Dad died. I think they were gone for about a month.’
An image was beginning to surface: tickling competitions with Jezmeen and the cat: the cat flicking its tail at their ankles while they struggled to keep straight faces. Shirina was about four or five, and they were over at Auntie Roopi’s, having lunch. Auntie Roopi let them watch cartoons while she bustled around the house with a vacuum cleaner. At one point, she crossed the living room, blocking the television for a moment while she peered through the curtains. ‘Your Mum’s still away,’ she said. ‘You can stay for dinner.’ But Mum was home all day, and the curtains of their house were always drawn, so Auntie Roopi was just saying that for their benefit. Shirina and Jezmeen came home eventually to find Mum lying in bed, in the same place she’d been when they left. Rajni had told them off afterwards for upsetting Mum, and said to Jezmeen, ‘I expect better behaviour from you from now on.’
It seemed that Jezmeen was remembering the same thing, because she said, ‘Rajni was so strict with us when we were little.’
With you, Shirina thought. She learned it was better to avoid trouble after that incident, even if it meant also avoiding Jezmeen. ‘I suppose she was just helping Mum,’ Shirina said. ‘She probably felt she needed to help raise us since Dad wasn’t around.’
‘Oh sure, lots of things had to change after Dad died,’ Jezmeen said. ‘But she used to be more fun. You wouldn’t know it now, but Rajni was cool. She had this stash of sparkly eye shadows and bold lipsticks – the sort of thing Mum probably wouldn’t let her wear, because I remember she always kept it hidden and didn’t tell me where it was. She used to put it on me sometimes, and we’d dance around in her room. I was probably four years old then.’
It didn’t sound like the Rajni that Shirina knew, and she was surprised to hear Jezmeen remember her this way. ‘What changed?’
Jezmeen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Dad’s death, maybe? She and Mum fought a lot after that. There was also a visit from Dad’s older brother before that, and that sparked a couple of arguments. They went to India the summer after Dad died. I remember she was really quiet when she came back from India with Mum and then soon after that, she was taking charge and being Sergeant Rajni – all about following the rules. And I have been resisting her ever since.’
Jezmeen said this with some pride, but any mention of Shirina’s childhood, especially the teenage years, called to mind the sound of her sisters shouting. The arguments were so hostile and belligerent on both sides that it always felt as if the walls of their house were on the verge of collapsing. She had never fought with Rajni or Mum like that. She certainly refrained from taking every piece of bait her mother-in-law dangled before her; it was easier to say yes than to fight every battle. Life was so much more complicated if you always had to win. She recalled an Instagram post of Sharanjeet’s from Christmas last year – mulled wine, a stack of presents wrapped with gold ribbons and the soft glow of a fire in the background. Baby, it’s cold outside, but my love knows just how to keep me warm, the caption read, followed by a litany of hashtags: #winter #fireplace #mulledwine #xmascountdown #love #family #pressies #tiffanys #besthusbandever #besthubbyever #spoiled #butimworthit. Shirina had read the caption over and over again. Painstaking selection of filters enhanced the picture so she could almost hear the firewood crackling gently. Shirina had been so absorbed in the world of Sharanjeet’s life that she only vaguely registered Mother talking behind her. Look at me when I talk to you, Mother snapped, plucking the phone from her hand. It gave Shirina a small fright, because she hadn’t realized the conversation wasn’t over. Later, she told Sehaj about it, who frowned and said, ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Ah, there it is. Madhuri Fashions,’ Jezmeen said, nodding at a stall with magazine cut-outs pasted on its walls above a sewing machine. An elderly man stooped over the machine, tiny gold-framed spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. For his sake, Shirina hoped that the bargaining process would be reasonable. ‘I’ll be in there,’ she said, pointing to the bookshop next door.
Books were crammed into every space, making them impossible to remove. When a title caught Shirina’s eye, she extracted it with her fingernails. ‘Yes,’ the bookshop owner said. ‘Very good story.’
‘You’ve read this?’ she asked. It seemed unlikely. The title – Mister Right Now – was in raised pink lettering and didn’t exactly shout this man as its demographic.
‘I’ve read them all,’ he said.
Well, that was impossible. There were too many books here for one person to have read in a lifetime. There were books in German and some in Scandinavian languages too, left here by tourists probably. His earnestness was admirable though. Probably sensing that Shirina didn’t believe him, he started pointing to the spines of books and giving her a brief synopsis of each.
‘Very bad man starts a corrupt business. Mafia bosses turn against him. He becomes very good man.
‘This one: a family moves into a new house after the father loses his job and they find out it is haunted.
‘A scientist starts a research station in some faraway country and spends thirty years there trying to find out what happened to his lost love.’
Shirina was amazed until she realized she had no way of verifying his claim. She nodded. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, signalling with a wave that she had given up doubting him.
‘Buy a book and I will also give you a numerology reading,’ the man said, pointing at a little sign next to his cash box. ‘When is your birthday?’
‘May 10th, 1990,’ Shirina said.
He repeated the date and tapped rapidly on a calculator. ‘Your life path number is seven,’ he said. ‘Seven is a good number.’
‘Oh,’ Shirina said. She waited for more, but he returned to the shelves and began smoothing out the stacks by jamming the spines of books even further in. ‘What does seven mean?’ she asked. She had never had a numerology reading before – they were like horoscopes, worded to suit every person in some way. But horoscopes were intriguing sometimes. The recognition of herself was thrilling.
‘For that, you must pay,’ the man said.
Shirina almost laughed. She reached into her purse and wondered if the man knew how lucky she was that Jezmeen wasn’t here. Once he took the money from her, he ducked back behind the counter again and opened up a slim silver laptop. Shirina’s eyes followed its path of cables across the floor where they tangled and disappeared behind a cotton sheet nailed to a ceiling beam, serving as a curtain. The man waited, staring intently at his screen and then went to that back room. He appeared moments later with a printout.
‘This is all the information about number seven,’ he said.
Great. So she had just paid for a Google search. His face did not betray any acknowledgement that he had ripped her off. The ink was still damp on the paper; he took care to hand it to her on two flat hands, like a platter. Some words jumped out immediately at Shirina: ‘sympathy’, ‘responsibility’. Then this sentence:
The number seven represents a person who will do anything to keep her family together. She keeps the peace and maintains harmony in situations of conflict.
This was why Shirina only read horoscopes once in a while in Cosmo or in the newspaper. If she subscribed