Satish and ripe with wisdom. They’d smirk at each other knowingly as their parents traded news about the prodigious achievements of their boys.
‘Dinesh has been getting excellent marks in science,’ Uncle Ranjeet would confide, grabbing a handful of dhal biji, the crunchy spiced lentils he adored. ‘Biology, chemistry … he’s taking after his old man!’
‘Very good, very good,’ Satish’s dad would agree. ‘Satish’s teacher, too, is very pleased with him. He’s a real all-rounder, she says. You know, good at all sorts of things. You listen to him now, on the tabla. Are these children going to play for us?’
The kids would be rounded up and made to play songs for the adults, and Satish would try to look casual for Dinesh’s sake whilst trying really hard for his dad’s and be exhausted and relieved when they were finally allowed to escape outside.
While they threw a ball in Ranjeet’s garden, or lounged around on the grass, his cousin would tell tales of life at the boys’ grammar school. There wasn’t much Satish could do to compete with this; all the things he might say would be old hat, so mostly he just listened. Dinesh was going to be a doctor, he told Satish. A really good one, better than his dad. He’d work in London, not some rubbish local hospital. And he’d be a surgeon, too, or an anaesthetist. He lingered over the word, though whether from pleasure or the struggle to pronounce it correctly, Satish couldn’t tell.
Satish’s family went to Ranjeet’s for the fun stuff, too, the things that didn’t fit properly in Cherry Gardens. Best of all was the spring festival, Holi. They left Bourne Heath, dressed in their oldest clothes, the ones they could ruin with impunity, waving politely to their neighbours as they climbed in the car and headed for Bassetsbury.
When they arrived, they were made to eat lunch first and they did it in a hurry for once, distracted from their food, peeking out into the garden. There were buckets by the side of the shed, filled right to the top with coloured liquids – pink and green, orange and blue. A pile of water pistols waited next to them. Sima caught Satish’s eye, sniggering, and pointed at Uncle Ranjeet. From where they sat they could see boxes of bright powder on the patio and the domes of balloons, multi-coloured, jostling in a washing-up bowl outside the back door.
When Auntie Manju said the children could get down – release! They tried coaxing their uncle onto the lawn, and when he feigned resistance they grabbed him instead, hauling him by the arms, Dinesh pushing him from behind. In the garden, the world was turned upside down: kids against adults, the grown-ups losing. They scrambled to attack Ranjeet – a water balloon full in the face, an exploding splash of red. He held up his arms in useless defence, giggling, while the children did their worst. Splashes of yellow across Ranjeet’s clothes, purple soaking his hair, orange squirting at him from hastily filled water pistols.
Then the kids collided during the chase, or maybe it was Ranjeet dodging them too effectively, and suddenly nobody was safe. Dinesh rushed up to Satish, hands full of green powder, and smacked it onto his cheeks, then smeared it down his neck and T-shirt. Satish made a grab for one of the balloons but Sima got there first, raising it unsteadily and launching herself at her cousin.
Auntie Manju joined in, and Satish’s mum. When people were wet enough they were attacked with more coloured powder, which clumped on eyebrows and the tops of heads, silting into the folds of Manju’s sari. Satish’s dad stood, fastidious, at the edge of it all until they spotted him, Satish leading the charge, and went on the attack.
‘In the name of Lord Krishna!’ yelled Sima as they pelted him with pink and green and yellow. Satish’s mum took handfuls of purple and shook it over her husband’s head until he stood, caked in colour, coughing and laughing.
For high days and
‘Dinesh has been getting excellent marks in science,’ Uncle Ranjeet would confide, grabbing a handful of dhal biji, the crunchy spiced lentils he adored. ‘Biology, chemistry … he’s taking after his old man!’
‘Very good, very good,’ Satish’s dad would agree. ‘Satish’s teacher, too, is very pleased with him. He’s a real all-rounder, she says. You know, good at all sorts of things. You listen to him now, on the tabla. Are these children going to play for us?’
The kids would be rounded up and made to play songs for the adults, and Satish would try to look casual for Dinesh’s sake whilst trying really hard for his dad’s and be exhausted and relieved when they were finally allowed to escape outside.
While they threw a ball in Ranjeet’s garden, or lounged around on the grass, his cousin would tell tales of life at the boys’ grammar school. There wasn’t much Satish could do to compete with this; all the things he might say would be old hat, so mostly he just listened. Dinesh was going to be a doctor, he told Satish. A really good one, better than his dad. He’d work in London, not some rubbish local hospital. And he’d be a surgeon, too, or an anaesthetist. He lingered over the word, though whether from pleasure or the struggle to pronounce it correctly, Satish couldn’t tell.
Satish’s family went to Ranjeet’s for the fun stuff, too, the things that didn’t fit properly in Cherry Gardens. Best of all was the spring festival, Holi. They left Bourne Heath, dressed in their oldest clothes, the ones they could ruin with impunity, waving politely to their neighbours as they climbed in the car and headed for Bassetsbury.
When they arrived, they were made to eat lunch first and they did it in a hurry for once, distracted from their food, peeking out into the garden. There were buckets by the side of the shed, filled right to the top with coloured liquids – pink and green, orange and blue. A pile of water pistols waited next to them. Sima caught Satish’s eye, sniggering, and pointed at Uncle Ranjeet. From where they sat they could see boxes of bright powder on the patio and the domes of balloons, multi-coloured, jostling in a washing-up bowl outside the back door.
When Auntie Manju said the children could get down – release! They tried coaxing their uncle onto the lawn, and when he feigned resistance they grabbed him instead, hauling him by the arms, Dinesh pushing him from behind. In the garden, the world was turned upside down: kids against adults, the grown-ups losing. They scrambled to attack Ranjeet – a water balloon full in the face, an exploding splash of red. He held up his arms in useless defence, giggling, while the children did their worst. Splashes of yellow across Ranjeet’s clothes, purple soaking his hair, orange squirting at him from hastily filled water pistols.
Then the kids collided during the chase, or maybe it was Ranjeet dodging them too effectively, and suddenly nobody was safe. Dinesh rushed up to Satish, hands full of green powder, and smacked it onto his cheeks, then smeared it down his neck and T-shirt. Satish made a grab for one of the balloons but Sima got there first, raising it unsteadily and launching herself at her cousin.
Auntie Manju joined in, and Satish’s mum. When people were wet enough they were attacked with more coloured powder, which clumped on eyebrows and the tops of heads, silting into the folds of Manju’s sari. Satish’s dad stood, fastidious, at the edge of it all until they spotted him, Satish leading the charge, and went on the attack.
‘In the name of Lord Krishna!’ yelled Sima as they pelted him with pink and green and yellow. Satish’s mum took handfuls of purple and shook it over her husband’s head until he stood, caked in colour, coughing and laughing.
For high days and
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