shower back on, but that would probably seem weird. So I go to the sink and let the tap run for a few seconds, but when I turn it off they’re still going at it so I haven’t got much
choice. I pull on Priya’s dressing gown and walk into the bedroom. Priya switches from Bengali to English, for my benefit, I assume.
‘I’m not wearing a sari dress, Ma! I told you that yesterday!’
‘OK! OK!’ sighs Anjali. ‘You can wear one of those pretty tunic tops I bought you instead.’
‘I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt,’ insists Priya, stomping off to take a shower and slamming the bathroom door behind her.
‘I don’t suppose it really matters,’ Anjali mutters under her breath.
My sari is laid out on the bed, and along with it a matching cream blouse and underskirt.
Now Priya’s not getting dressed up, I’m regretting saying I’d wear this sari, but Anjali’s gone to so much trouble I don’t see that I’ve got much choice. I
turn away from her and pull on the underskirt, tying it at the waist. I shrug off Priya’s cotton dressing gown and try on the blouse. I’m struggling with the little hooks and eyes at
the back, so Anjali comes over and helps me close them.
‘You know, Mira, you coming here has brought back so many memories of your ma and me when we were your age.’ Anjali wraps the silk sari around me, tucks it at the waist and starts to
fold in the tiny pleats. She’s lost somewhere deep in her own thoughts as she readjusts the folds she’s already made and half unravels the silk again; folding, pleating and undoing,
tutting and starting again – folding, pleating and undoing once more, even though it looks perfect to me every time.
‘I think this is finally coming better now,’ she says, standing back to admire her work. ‘You were right, Mira – the detail on this pallu is gorgeous!’ She smiles
as she drapes the long piece of cloth over my shoulder.
‘I love vintage clothes,’ I tell her.
‘What is this “vintage”?’ Anjali asks.
‘Old things. My Nana Josie loved them too,’ I say, looking down at the silver charm on my wrist.
‘Ah! Acha, antique,’ she says, inspecting my charm. ‘Very pretty. What is it?’
‘An artichoke heart,’ I tell her.
‘I see. Layers of leaves . . . beautiful heirloom.’ Anjali sighs, sitting down on the bed and stroking Priya’s sari quilt. I see her eyes are glistening with tears.
‘Mira, our whole family is charmed by your visit, especially my ma,’ Anjali continues, opening her arms. I walk into them and she holds me close. I can feel the emotion welling up
inside her.
Priya springs into the room wrapped in a towel.
‘What do you think of Mira?’ Anjali asks her, pulling me gently to my feet.
‘Very traditional. But rather you than me!’ Priya has an amused expression on her face as she wriggles into her skinny jeans and pulls on a bright red T-shirt with a black star print
all over it.
‘Well, I think she looks gorgeous!’ says Anjali. ‘Wait! Let me take a photo of the two of you for Uma!’ She goes off to find her camera.
I slip my feet into the pretty leather sandals she brought for me. She says they’re made by the children in the refuge. I can’t believe that the youngest sandal maker’s only
seven.
‘You look like a proper traditional girl,’ says Priya. ‘Janu will approve. He’s into homespun!’ She grins and picks up the edge of my sari, inspecting the border
pattern more closely. Something about the way she talks about Janu makes me feel slightly nervous, like it’s important to her that he likes me.
I can hear people arriving and the sound of voices filling up the flat.
‘Let’s get this party started!’ laughs Priya as she walks towards the living room. I take a deep breath and then follow her.
As soon as I enter, people start to hug me and – Priya was right – squeeze my cheeks! There’s a whirlwind of introductions and then I hear a high-pitched voice screeching my
name.
choice. I pull on Priya’s dressing gown and walk into the bedroom. Priya switches from Bengali to English, for my benefit, I assume.
‘I’m not wearing a sari dress, Ma! I told you that yesterday!’
‘OK! OK!’ sighs Anjali. ‘You can wear one of those pretty tunic tops I bought you instead.’
‘I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt,’ insists Priya, stomping off to take a shower and slamming the bathroom door behind her.
‘I don’t suppose it really matters,’ Anjali mutters under her breath.
My sari is laid out on the bed, and along with it a matching cream blouse and underskirt.
Now Priya’s not getting dressed up, I’m regretting saying I’d wear this sari, but Anjali’s gone to so much trouble I don’t see that I’ve got much choice. I
turn away from her and pull on the underskirt, tying it at the waist. I shrug off Priya’s cotton dressing gown and try on the blouse. I’m struggling with the little hooks and eyes at
the back, so Anjali comes over and helps me close them.
‘You know, Mira, you coming here has brought back so many memories of your ma and me when we were your age.’ Anjali wraps the silk sari around me, tucks it at the waist and starts to
fold in the tiny pleats. She’s lost somewhere deep in her own thoughts as she readjusts the folds she’s already made and half unravels the silk again; folding, pleating and undoing,
tutting and starting again – folding, pleating and undoing once more, even though it looks perfect to me every time.
‘I think this is finally coming better now,’ she says, standing back to admire her work. ‘You were right, Mira – the detail on this pallu is gorgeous!’ She smiles
as she drapes the long piece of cloth over my shoulder.
‘I love vintage clothes,’ I tell her.
‘What is this “vintage”?’ Anjali asks.
‘Old things. My Nana Josie loved them too,’ I say, looking down at the silver charm on my wrist.
‘Ah! Acha, antique,’ she says, inspecting my charm. ‘Very pretty. What is it?’
‘An artichoke heart,’ I tell her.
‘I see. Layers of leaves . . . beautiful heirloom.’ Anjali sighs, sitting down on the bed and stroking Priya’s sari quilt. I see her eyes are glistening with tears.
‘Mira, our whole family is charmed by your visit, especially my ma,’ Anjali continues, opening her arms. I walk into them and she holds me close. I can feel the emotion welling up
inside her.
Priya springs into the room wrapped in a towel.
‘What do you think of Mira?’ Anjali asks her, pulling me gently to my feet.
‘Very traditional. But rather you than me!’ Priya has an amused expression on her face as she wriggles into her skinny jeans and pulls on a bright red T-shirt with a black star print
all over it.
‘Well, I think she looks gorgeous!’ says Anjali. ‘Wait! Let me take a photo of the two of you for Uma!’ She goes off to find her camera.
I slip my feet into the pretty leather sandals she brought for me. She says they’re made by the children in the refuge. I can’t believe that the youngest sandal maker’s only
seven.
‘You look like a proper traditional girl,’ says Priya. ‘Janu will approve. He’s into homespun!’ She grins and picks up the edge of my sari, inspecting the border
pattern more closely. Something about the way she talks about Janu makes me feel slightly nervous, like it’s important to her that he likes me.
I can hear people arriving and the sound of voices filling up the flat.
‘Let’s get this party started!’ laughs Priya as she walks towards the living room. I take a deep breath and then follow her.
As soon as I enter, people start to hug me and – Priya was right – squeeze my cheeks! There’s a whirlwind of introductions and then I hear a high-pitched voice screeching my
name.
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