The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters

‘Lie low. Wait for the dust to settle,’ he had urged her. There was no end to his supply of banal encouragements whenever they spoke – ‘Take some time for yourself,’ was another favourite which roughly translated to: ‘Take the least humiliating job offer thrown your way and we’ll just have to wait for the anonymous masses on the internet to decide your fate.’

‘Are you going to use highlighter on me, then?’ Stella asked.

‘I’ve got other plans for you,’ Jezmeen said warmly. Starting with matching a more appropriate foundation to Stella’s skin tone. At the moment, she was less ‘Youthful Summer Glow’ and more ‘Fell Asleep in the Tanning Bed’.

As Jezmeen rubbed a wipe across Stella’s cheeks, she had a distinct sense of déjà vu. In another time in her life, Rajni used to apply make-up on her while she struggled to sit still and not turn to the mirror to see her reflection. Jezmeen remembered doing the same for Mum on the morning of Shirina’s wedding. The bridal make-up artist had chosen a deep-purple eye shadow and insisted on a crayon-thick line for Mum’s eyelids. Mum was horrified. ‘I can’t go to the temple like this,’ she’d gasped. ‘People will say …’ She didn’t finish that sentence; she rarely did. It was bad enough that people would say anything. ‘Jezmeen, get me some tissues,’ Mum had commanded. Helping to clean the make-up off Mum’s skin, Jezmeen had noticed the looseness of her cheeks, and the way her eyelids folded, and she vowed never to let herself grow old.

Jezmeen’s phone buzzed on the counter. ‘Excuse me, Stella,’ Jezmeen said, leaning over to see the screen. Message from Rajni. She ignored it. Rajni was likely panicking about the trip and asking everyone if they had taken their tetanus shots, or something similarly hysterical.

‘I’m going to use this primer on you,’ Jezmeen said. She showed Stella the bottle. ‘It’s a great base which keeps your make-up on for much longer during the day.’ Her phone buzzed again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Jezmeen said. She shot a glare at her phone.

‘No worries, love. Your boyfriend must be anxious about you,’ Stella said.

Ha! If only there were an anxious boyfriend, or a boyfriend at all. Her last relationship had ended more disastrously than Stella could probably imagine.

‘Oh no, that’s my sister,’ Jezmeen said. ‘We’re going on a trip to India on Thursday and she’s probably just reminding me to pack sunscreen or something.’

‘A holiday! Just the two of you?’

‘The three of us. Our youngest sister’s flying there from Australia.’

‘That’s lovely,’ Stella said.

People always said this when Jezmeen mentioned having two sisters. Lovely. Cosy teas and long chats. Some sort of unbreakable bond. Stella’s smile was so bright that Jezmeen didn’t want to tell her how much she was dreading this trip with uppity Rajni and irritatingly perfect Shirina.

‘We’re going there for our mum,’ Jezmeen explained. ‘She passed away last November and we’re doing a pilgrimage in her memory and scattering her ashes there.’

‘Oh, that’s beautiful. What a tribute,’ Stella breathed. She reached out and clasped Jezmeen’s hand. Now Stella probably had an image of three dutiful daughters in matching loose white robes solemnly making their way up a misty mountain as they took turns carrying an urn filled with ashes. Again, inaccurate. Pilgrimages weren’t even a requirement of their religion (she had done some quick Googling on Sikhism, and sent all the links to Rajni as part of her continuing campaign to oppose everything her older sister wanted them to do), but after the cancer treatments stopped working, Mum had turned to all kinds of holy remedies. There were rituals she had been too weak to do, places she had been unable to visit for the last time, so her daughters were tasked with completing the journey. Jezmeen noticed that Mum had sneaked in a few itinerary items that involved the sisters simply spending time together, probably because she knew they wouldn’t bother to make the time otherwise. As far as Jezmeen saw it, this trip was less about spirituality and more about Mum forcing them to travel together.

This time Jezmeen’s phone rang. ‘For fuck’s sakes,’ she muttered.

‘Just answer it, darling. It could be important.’

‘Thank you, Stella.’ Jezmeen picked up the phone. ‘Rajni, I’m in the middle of work.’

‘Did you see my messages? You’ll have to find your own way to the airport. Something came up at home last night and … I just have some things to deal with. Kabir’s driving me there directly.’

‘Alright. Is that it?’

‘Yes.’ Rajni hesitated. ‘What time do you plan on leaving?’

‘I’ll be at Heathrow two hours before we fly, Rajni, don’t you worry about it.’

‘You’re still at work?’

‘Yes, and I have to get back to work. Bye now!’

Rajni had started saying something when Jezmeen hung up. She put the phone on ‘silent’ and turned back to Stella. ‘Now, I’ll be using two different concealers because we’re really working with two different shades of irregularities here.’

‘Do I mix these?’ Stella asked.

‘No, we’re using this one for under your eyes and this one for those blemishes on your chin.’ Jezmeen held up each bottle. While Stella inspected them, Jezmeen glanced at her phone. She had a funny feeling. Why did it matter to Rajni that she was still at work now if she was only flying out on Thursday?

‘I might need to write these down,’ Stella said, rummaging through her purse. ‘Otherwise, I’ll forget which one goes where.’

‘Here you go,’ Jezmeen said, handing her a pencil and a card with a face drawn on it. ‘Just draw an arrow to the eye area and write “Nude Secret 19”.’

Stella had careful penmanship. ‘Darling, you have such a lovely manner, has anyone ever told you that?’

Jezmeen smiled, surprised. ‘Thank you.’

‘I must take your name card. Do you do private sessions as well? My daughter’s looking for a good make-up artist for her wedding. It’s only next spring, but good services get booked up so quickly.’

Jezmeen’s smile faltered. Next spring! Her stomach contracted at the thought of still working at a make-up counter. No, no, it wasn’t possible. She was lying low and taking time for herself while the dust settled. People would move on. But Cameron said it wasn’t necessarily about her. ‘There’s a lack of roles for Indian actresses to begin with,’ he’d explained. ‘And directors can’t really afford any bad PR if they’re taking a chance on somebody new. So there’s just a lot working against you at the moment.’ What he avoided saying was that there was one Polly Mishra already. He knew that Jezmeen balked at the frequent comparisons between herself and that actress, who had overshadowed Jezmeen’s career as soon as she arrived on the scene.

While Stella labelled her card, Jezmeen stole a look at her phone. Three missed calls from Rajni in the last two minutes and a message:

‘You DO realize that we’re flying out tonight right?’

Jezmeen’s heart stopped. She nearly dropped her phone. She texted Rajni back:

‘YES of course I know. Just finishing up and leaving straight from work.’

How the hell had this happened? It was Thursday they were supposed to leave, not Tuesday. She had a vague memory of a conversation with Rajni about finding a cheaper flight for Thursday. ‘It’s at two a.m. though,’ Rajni had said. ‘I guess that’s alright.’ And something in her tone annoyed Jezmeen, so she had said, ‘Not all of us have school holidays, you know.’ Rajni had booked the Tuesday flight, then.

Or had Jezmeen just imagined Rajni giving in? Sometimes she had entire conversations with Rajni in her mind. She used to do this with Mum too – it was easier than fighting out loud. In the fantasy arguments, Jezmeen always emerged the winner, with the other person apologizing and sometimes even grovelling for forgiveness. They were leaving tonight, then. They were leaving tonight! She would have to call the manager and tell her something had come up – this could count for a family emergency.

‘What’s the primer called?’ Stella asked.

‘It’s just primer,’ Jezmeen replied. Shit, shit, shit. She didn’t even know where her suitcase was.

‘Oh dear,’ Stella murmured as the pointy end of her pencil punctured the card.

Oh dear indeed.

At Melbourne Airport, an elderly Indian couple were being seen off by their extended family. Shirina watched them move like a swarm of bees to the departure gate. ‘Do you think they’re returning home? Or going back to visit?’ Shirina asked.

Sehaj shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make a difference. They all have to go through the same gate.’ He was busy scrolling through his phone. Shirina glanced at his screen. Numbers and graphs. Work stuff, he’d mutter if she asked what was keeping him so busy.

‘They look like they’re going to visit. What do you think?’ Shirina asked, focusing on the family.

‘Don’t know,’ Sehaj muttered.

‘I’m just trying to make conversation,’ Shirina said. Sehaj seemed to remember himself then. He put the phone aside and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple.

Shirina let her head sink into his chest. Finally, in this bustling international airport terminal, a small chance at intimacy before she left. The past couple of days had been filled with tense silences. She shut her eyes. Sehaj’s shirt smelled like a mix of cologne and that fabric softener his mother had recommended. Her life as a married woman smelled like pressed linens; it was the first thing she had noticed when she moved into the joint family home three years ago. His fingers stroked her hair. She thought she might start to cry, so she twisted away from him and then she felt a heavy weight rolling over her foot.

‘Ow,’ she said, drawing her foot back. It was a suitcase. The woman dragging it didn’t notice. She trotted off towards the gate in stilettos that looked like they were stabbing the ground with each step she took.

‘I’d say they live here and they’re going back for a holiday,’ Sehaj said, nodding at the elderly couple. ‘The family’s too cheerful.’

‘Why would all their kids and grandkids be seeing them off then?’ Shirina wondered aloud.

‘Long trip, maybe?’ Sehaj asked. ‘They might have a home there where they spend a few months out of the year.’

These were a few good months to spend away from Melbourne. Every day, boulders of grey cloud rolled across the skies and showered the city with icy rain. Nobody in England thought it got cold in Australia; even Shirina refused to believe it until she married Sehaj and came here. Now, whenever the news reported heatwaves in July in Europe, Shirina looked out the window at the slick wet roads and the tree branches bowing under the force of heavy wind and she thought, How is that possible?

‘How about them?’ Sehaj asked. He nodded at two young men. ‘Brothers? Best friends?’

‘Best friends,’ Shirina said, delighted that they were playing this game again. On their honeymoon, stranded in the airport due to a snowstorm in Istanbul (another city Shirina did not expect to have winter, let alone snowstorms), they had passed the time making up stories about strangers. Two and a half years wasn’t such a long time ago, but Shirina felt she needed to remind Sehaj of that carefree period in their lives.

‘Do you remember finally getting on that flight from Istanbul and sitting behind the Hollywood Spy Couple?’ Shirina asked.

Sehaj’s eyes lit up with recognition. ‘The ones who looked like movie stars and couldn’t keep their hands off each other?’ They had kissed and snuggled the entire flight – honeymooners, Shirina and Sehaj decided, although those two put other newlyweds to shame with their public caresses and sighs. Then, just before the plane landed, they moved to two empty seats on opposite rows and they disembarked separately. Shirina and Sehaj watched them step into different lines at Customs and then part ways without even acknowledging each other, the woman heading to the Underground, the man staying behind at Baggage Claim.

‘Definitely spies,’ Sehaj said. He liked his Cold War-era thrillers.

Shirina checked the time. She needed to go soon. New destinations and boarding times winked on the Departures screen. There were flights going to Berlin and Jakarta, Pretoria and Chicago – from where Shirina was standing, it was possible to go anywhere. This thought electrified her. It was like sitting in front of the laptop screen again, scrolling through profiles of eligible men, each one a window to a new future.

Sehaj’s body went tense, and her own stomach tightened. He looked like he was ready to say something.

‘I’d better get in there,’ Shirina said. ‘I told Jezmeen I’d get her some Duty Free stuff.’ It was a small, imperfect lie – when was the last time she and Jezmeen spoke? If Jezmeen needed something, she probably wouldn’t tell her.

‘Okay then,’ Sehaj said. He seemed distracted by his thoughts. They stood up and he took her bag. The Indian family was still hovering at the Departure gate and the elderly couple weren’t within view from here. ‘Excuse us,’ Sehaj said. The Indians didn’t budge. ‘Excuse us,’ he said again, this time with more force. They shifted a little bit, their conversation too engrossing to follow any orders.

‘Come on, people, it’s an airport. Get out of the way,’ Sehaj said. This caught their attention. Shirina took his hand but he pulled away and elbowed through the crowd. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, her head down, but she was annoyed at the family as well. Now her pleasant moment with Sehaj was gone.

Shirina hugged her husband, hoping that this would dissolve his anger. His body was still stiff. ‘I’m sorry, Sej,’ Shirina said. How do some married couples fight all the time? she wondered. It was hard enough trying to get through this one conflict. Apologizing made her feel better. Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sorry for the situation.

Then Sehaj took something from his pocket. Shirina recognized the stationery – that stiff cream-coloured card, premier quality – and his mother’s handwriting. Shirina took in the name and address and stared at Sehaj.

‘You can’t come back unless you do this,’ Sehaj said, pressing the card into Shirina’s hand. He didn’t give her any time to respond before he walked off and disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter Two

Day One: Arrival in Delhi

Be patient. India is not going to be like London. The pollution and the bustling crowds will overwhelm you immediately. You girls always joked that I talked too loudly, and I turned everything into chaos. When you enter India, I want you to think about how it felt to leave this place and go somewhere as orderly as Britain, with ruler-straight rows of houses and trains that run on time. I also want you to understand how hard it was for me, adjusting to all of that quiet.

Rajni’s headache was returning, like fingers pressing against her skull. This newly built boutique hotel in Karol Bagh with its patio dining was far removed from the chaos of Delhi that they experienced on the journey from the airport – the hustling luggage handlers, the cab driver that dived into oncoming traffic to overtake his lane, the girls in tattered T-shirts that hung to their knees, dodging rickshaws and potholes with babies propped on their tiny hips. It had been a relief to finally arrive at the King’s Paradise Hotel in one piece, but a glance around the lobby during check-in confirmed that the pictures on the booking website had been aspirational – the doormen’s shoes left prints in the thin layer of plaster dust on the floor and there was some loud, clanging construction going on upstairs. The owner was putting finishing touches on the place, the staff explained as if their apologetic smiles could mask the strong smell of varnish that made Rajni’s head throb. They promised, however, that the hotel café was ‘one hundred per cent ready’.

The minute they sat down, Jezmeen began making fun of the menu. She pointed at a list of indulgent summer beverage offerings: an iced vanilla mango smoothie topped with whipped cream and seasonal fruits. ‘Isn’t that just a fancy mango lassi?’ Jezmeen mused. ‘Look at this one – an iced turmeric latte sprinkled with cinnamon and coconut shavings. That’s just haldi doodh with ice and some toppings, isn’t it?’

‘It sounds pretty good to me,’ Rajni said. She couldn’t believe she had complained about the warmer weather in London last week when it only hit 27 degrees. It was close to 40 here, a furious heat that seemed to demand an apology. If Mum wanted them to appreciate Britain, mission accomplished.

Jezmeen continued to read the menu aloud: ‘King’s Paradise Hotel Café is a true crossroads between the traditions of the East and the modern comforts of the West.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So it’s for people who want to say they’ve been to India without having eaten the food or experienced the culture authentically.’

‘Could you not do that?’ Rajni said. She was annoyed enough with the hotel’s false advertising. ‘If I picked some three-star hotel with monkeys shitting in the lobby for the sake of authenticity, I’d never hear the end of it from you and Shirina.’ She only added ‘and Shirina’ to soften the blow. They both knew Shirina never complained about anything.

Jezmeen ignored her and held up the menu. ‘Our monkeys are very well trained not to shit in the lobby. They have their own toilets made of fair-trade ceramic by local artists and they wipe their own arses with organic cotton tissues hand woven by blind Himalayan nuns,’ she drawled.

‘Shut up,’ Rajni said but it felt good to smile. All through the flight, she didn’t stop replaying Anil’s revelation and its aftermath: the panic that seized his face as she collapsed; the lack of remorse once she recovered. ‘You’re being melodramatic,’ he’d cried, and it sounded so familiar that Rajni wondered if she’d fainted herself into a time warp where she was arguing with Mum. There had been a shouting match before Anil finally stormed out the door. Rajni and Kabir spent all of the next day fretting over his future. Anil finally returned about twenty minutes before they left for the airport, and he said, ‘Nothing’s going to come between us, right?’ For a moment, Rajni thought he was talking about their family. She nearly cried with relief. Then, as Anil began packing up his things, she understood.

Rajni felt the panic rising in her stomach again. Her son would soon have a new family with his thirty-six-year-old girlfriend. She pressed a hand to her chest and took a sharp breath.

‘Everything alright?’ Jezmeen asked.

‘Fine,’ Rajni said. Thank goodness for this trip. Let Kabir talk some sense into their son – she had done all she could (mostly fainting and shouting) to no avail. She looked past the hotel’s walled-in patio, where the foggy sky began. In the distance, a poorly tuned chorus of car horns pierced the atmosphere. The air smelled like burned rubber. Delhi. It couldn’t be helped, Rajni supposed, although she wouldn’t mind putting more mayhem at arm’s length for a while. She had no desire to go out into the city, not after her last trip here with Mum. ‘I know my last trip to India was well over twenty years ago, but the last-minute bookings were very expensive’ – in that part of the letter, Rajni could hear Mum’s pointed tone. It took her years to recover her losses from that trip, and an even longer time to forgive Rajni for what happened.

There was a young European couple in the pool. The deep-golden curlicues of a recent mehndi pattern showed strongly on the woman’s pale hands as they cut through the water, a postcard picture of holiday tranquillity.

Rajni pulled copies of the trip itinerary from her bag. She had typed up Mum’s letter and made duplicates for Shirina and Jezmeen. Perhaps it was overkill – Jezmeen’s expression told her as much – but she had gone ahead and highlighted the activities according to three categories: Spiritual, Tourism and Sentimental.

‘Was your laminating machine broken?’ Jezmeen asked dryly, flapping the paper at Rajni.

As a matter of fact, it was, but Rajni didn’t say so. ‘I thought we’d look this over together.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait till Shirina wakes up from her nap? She might have some suggestions.’

‘Mum set the itinerary,’ Rajni reminded Jezmeen. ‘It’s not like there’s any discussion or negotiating involved.’

‘I’m sure we can tweak it a little.’

Rajni stared at Jezmeen. No, they could not ‘tweak it a little’. This tendency to apply her own interpretation to Mum’s wishes had nearly got them all into massive trouble recently – had Jezmeen forgotten? No. Jezmeen matched her with an even look. She knew what she was doing; insisting that she was right.

‘Jesmeen, I think you’re missing the point—’

‘Can you call me Jezmeen, please?’ Jezmeen looked stricken all of a sudden. ‘With a zed? I changed it legally two years ago and you’re still the only person who calls me Jesmeen.’

‘I’ll try to remember,’ Rajni replied but she didn’t think she’d try too hard. She loved the name Jesmeen; Mum had let her choose it. It was the sort of privilege that came with being eleven when your younger sister was born. Two years ago, Jezmeen had gone through some crisis over turning thirty and sent out an email to close friends and family saying that she was legally changing her name. Rajni hadn’t paid too much attention – Jezmeen thrived on theatrical announcements – so she was surprised when Jezmeen followed through with it. What difference did one letter make? Rajni wondered, but she didn’t need to hear an explanation from Jezmeen, with all of the accompanying eye-rolling and pouting and the you-just-don’t-get-it looks.

Rajni pointed to the itinerary, her finger resting on the header, The Golden Temple, Amritsar. ‘If the purpose of this trip is to do a pilgrimage for Mum, then we’re following this itinerary,’ she tried again.

‘I get that, but I think there’s room to be flexible if, say, we don’t want to spend too much time in one place or we decide we want an extra day somewhere.’

‘It’s not that kind of trip,’ Rajni insisted.

Jezmeen plucked the sunglasses off her head and adjusted them on the bridge of her nose. She turned away so only her profile was visible to Rajni – those angular cheekbones, that small mole just at the top corner of her lip. The last time Rajni had stared so intently at her sister was at Mum’s funeral, when the bruise on Jezmeen’s cheek was just healing. There were no traces of it now.

‘We’ll have lots of quality time together, the three of us,’ Rajni added. Hearing the false cheer in her voice, she was grateful that she couldn’t fully catch Jezmeen’s reaction. They all needed to sit together and talk about what happened in Mum’s final hours – a calm and healing discussion now that they had some distance from all of it. Kabir had warned Rajni that it was naïve to think reconciliation would be so easy, but she reckoned it was all in the atmosphere. The banks of the gently rippling waters surrounding the Golden Temple in Amritsar were much more conducive to open-heart conversation than a Pret A Manger in London – and how often were the three sisters in the same place now that Shirina had moved to Australia? Rajni was determined that they could make peace and move on.

‘You know, pilgrimages aren’t even a requirement of the Sikh religion,’ Jezmeen said.

‘I’m aware of that,’ Rajni replied calmly. Jezmeen was not going to get under her skin. Of all people, Rajni knew the futility of rituals. She had been a teenager when Dad died and Mum began performing little ceremonies to improve their family’s fate. Rajni thought that luck and fate were one and the same – Dad’s death had been unlucky, but Mum saw connections to a greater plan that needed adjusting.

A waiter appeared at their table. He was young, with glossy gelled hair spiked upwards and a nametag that read ‘Tarun’. He probably didn’t think Rajni noticed his eyes lingering on the line of cleavage that ran into Jezmeen’s tight tank top.