Read Online Garden of Dreams by Melissa Siebert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melissa Siebert
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though their mouths had been taped shut, they sat in silence for a few minutes, even Ojal, who bent down to search inside a huge plastic bag of clothes – multicoloured saris, scarves, slips and harem pants – mended for the girls. Nothing for Sanjana this time. And Eli wondered what had happened to his real clothes, his Guns N’ Roses T-shirts and skinny jeans and Converse sneakers. In these stupid Indian clothes that Auntie Lakshmi made him wear, he felt as if he was in his pyjamas all the time.
The other girls left, waved goodbye, chattering like birds. He and Sanjana were alone with Ojal, who kept eyeing him as if ready to pounce. He took a chair vacated by one of the girls, across from Sanjana; Ojal resumed her place, in his chair. ‘Oooooh, still warm,’ she smiled.
‘Can you tell our fortunes, Ojal-ji?’ Sanjana asked, splaying her hands on the table as though she meant business.
‘Why not?’ Ojal said. ‘For the rest of the week or the rest of your lives?’
Eli was shaking his head but remembered it meant the opposite. But he felt silly nodding when he meant no. ‘Uh-uh,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’
‘You don’t want to see your future?’ asked Sanjana.
‘Why would I want to?’
‘Courage, my young ones,’ said Ojal, grabbing both of their hands simultaneously. ‘Tell me your birthdates and we’ll see what the stars have designed for you.’
‘Falgun 26, 2050,’ Sanjana said.
‘These bloody Nepalis,’ Ojal said. ‘Those mind-boggling calendars of theirs, they always throw me. Better you first, American.’
‘How’d you know I’m American?’ Eli asked. ‘Which I’m not. Totally.’ He sounded brash but was spooked, a little.
‘You sound like one. Just tell us your birthdate then.’ Ojal reached into her plastic bag again.
‘November fifteenth, 1994.’
‘Time of birth?’
His mom had told him once, but he couldn’t remember. ‘Nine-thirty a.m.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘Cape Town, South Africa.’
‘How exotic.’ Ojal opened a blue spiral notebook, the cheap kind you’d buy at the pharmacy. It had little stick-on stars all over the cover and on some of the inside pages.
Eli and Sanjana looked at each other across the table and smiled. He shrugged his shoulders and she put her finger to her lips. Wait, she seemed to be saying, give it a chance.
‘Give me your hand, boy,’ Ojal said, and took his left hand in hers. Strong hands with elongated fingers, covered in thin gold rings with different gemstones, finished in long blood-red nails. Minus the nails, the hands reminded him of Hendrix’s. He smiled to himself at the thought of Ojal playing Jimi’s white Fender.
‘What’s so funny, smarty-pants?’ Ojal said, not waiting for an answer. She traced the longest line on his palm with a red nail. ‘What have we here? Perplexing.’
‘What?’ Eli squinted at his palm.
‘Your life line is very long, but splits here, meaning some sort of illness or calamity – from which you recover, don’t look so worried. But this line,’ Ojal said, tracing the shorter line crossing his palm horizontally, ‘the love line – ah, this is not so promising. In fact, pretty bloody awful, I must tell you.’
‘Why?’ He looked at Sanjana, who was chewing her lower lip, her eyes focused on his palm.
‘You will fall in love with the wrong person, it seems …’
‘What wrong person? Can’t I do anything about it?’
‘What can we do about fate, hey, Sanjana?’ Ojal sweetly swept a stray hair out of the girl’s face. ‘Look at us – here we are, on G.B. Road, stuck with all these bloody arseholes and tossed around like bad fruit …’
‘Bad fruit?’
‘They like us when we are fresh and juicy but when we’re rotten – straight into the rubbish.’
Just as Ojal said that, the door swung open. All three of them froze. But instead of Anand’s heft in the doorway, it was a timid intruder, stuntedand very thin, a waif with luminous eyes as large as dates.
The other girls left, waved goodbye, chattering like birds. He and Sanjana were alone with Ojal, who kept eyeing him as if ready to pounce. He took a chair vacated by one of the girls, across from Sanjana; Ojal resumed her place, in his chair. ‘Oooooh, still warm,’ she smiled.
‘Can you tell our fortunes, Ojal-ji?’ Sanjana asked, splaying her hands on the table as though she meant business.
‘Why not?’ Ojal said. ‘For the rest of the week or the rest of your lives?’
Eli was shaking his head but remembered it meant the opposite. But he felt silly nodding when he meant no. ‘Uh-uh,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’
‘You don’t want to see your future?’ asked Sanjana.
‘Why would I want to?’
‘Courage, my young ones,’ said Ojal, grabbing both of their hands simultaneously. ‘Tell me your birthdates and we’ll see what the stars have designed for you.’
‘Falgun 26, 2050,’ Sanjana said.
‘These bloody Nepalis,’ Ojal said. ‘Those mind-boggling calendars of theirs, they always throw me. Better you first, American.’
‘How’d you know I’m American?’ Eli asked. ‘Which I’m not. Totally.’ He sounded brash but was spooked, a little.
‘You sound like one. Just tell us your birthdate then.’ Ojal reached into her plastic bag again.
‘November fifteenth, 1994.’
‘Time of birth?’
His mom had told him once, but he couldn’t remember. ‘Nine-thirty a.m.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘Cape Town, South Africa.’
‘How exotic.’ Ojal opened a blue spiral notebook, the cheap kind you’d buy at the pharmacy. It had little stick-on stars all over the cover and on some of the inside pages.
Eli and Sanjana looked at each other across the table and smiled. He shrugged his shoulders and she put her finger to her lips. Wait, she seemed to be saying, give it a chance.
‘Give me your hand, boy,’ Ojal said, and took his left hand in hers. Strong hands with elongated fingers, covered in thin gold rings with different gemstones, finished in long blood-red nails. Minus the nails, the hands reminded him of Hendrix’s. He smiled to himself at the thought of Ojal playing Jimi’s white Fender.
‘What’s so funny, smarty-pants?’ Ojal said, not waiting for an answer. She traced the longest line on his palm with a red nail. ‘What have we here? Perplexing.’
‘What?’ Eli squinted at his palm.
‘Your life line is very long, but splits here, meaning some sort of illness or calamity – from which you recover, don’t look so worried. But this line,’ Ojal said, tracing the shorter line crossing his palm horizontally, ‘the love line – ah, this is not so promising. In fact, pretty bloody awful, I must tell you.’
‘Why?’ He looked at Sanjana, who was chewing her lower lip, her eyes focused on his palm.
‘You will fall in love with the wrong person, it seems …’
‘What wrong person? Can’t I do anything about it?’
‘What can we do about fate, hey, Sanjana?’ Ojal sweetly swept a stray hair out of the girl’s face. ‘Look at us – here we are, on G.B. Road, stuck with all these bloody arseholes and tossed around like bad fruit …’
‘Bad fruit?’
‘They like us when we are fresh and juicy but when we’re rotten – straight into the rubbish.’
Just as Ojal said that, the door swung open. All three of them froze. But instead of Anand’s heft in the doorway, it was a timid intruder, stuntedand very thin, a waif with luminous eyes as large as dates.
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