Read Online Who Will Catch Us As We Fall by Iman Verjee - Free Book Online
Authors: Iman Verjee
Ads: Link
memory of a spicy curry burning her eyes or the sweet taste of the jalebis that they used to hand out as the children went by, pinching their chins and pushing the sticky orange sweet into every mouth, even if it wasnât wanted. Her mother was always absent from these scenes, with her Bridge games and charity events, leaving for the temple early in the morning after feathery kisses goodbye, making Leena feel like a proud orphan.
âBe careful, Shamit!â Mrs Goyal would shout. âI donât want a son with a broken head. Of what use will you be to me then?â
âLook at you â thinking youâre a hero. Youâre lucky I donât tell your father what a besharam daughter he has. Mannerless girl!â Mrs Shah would scold her daughter, Preeti, giving her a stern tap on the backside.
Although those days were only full of good memories, the ones Leena clung to the most were the ones when Jai was with them. They learned quickly never to ask him. He came when he wanted and even then it was with an air of distraction, as if he always had something more important on his mind. He would pick up a soccer ball and juggle it between his nimble feet and they would play football. If he came out swinging a cricket bat, two teams would automatically form, eagerly awaiting his cue. When he grew tired, he would leave the game and, for the sake of her pride, Leena would force everyone to keep on playing for a few more minutes, but the enjoyment would always slow, dwindle down and eventually stop. This teenage boy who was so much older, smarter and handsome than the rest of them, with his head of tamed black curls and dancing features, whose life was so exciting that they longed and dreaded to be a part of it.
âAsk him to come and play with us. Heâll listen to you.â
âHe never listens to me,â she would reply, even then, too proud to ask.
So someone else, if they were feeling brave, would speak up. âWhatâs next, Jai?â
âJai, do you want some banana crisps? My mother made a fresh batch.â
Sometimes it would work. They would manage to trap his attention and he would stir, raise himself up on his elbows and give them a brilliant grin, biting down into the deep-fried plantain. Other times, he would be too lost within himself and their words would never reach him.
âSorry, not today, guys,â he would answer, rolling up and balancing on his heels before standing fully.
They would trail back toward their bikes that were strewn over the curb and falling onto the street, or return to the multicolored hopscotch game scrawled hastily in chalk on the pavement, feeling the thrill in the air suddenly collapse. The day would compress without him, turn dull and shrink, the hope unintentionally dragged from it and its magic completely lost.
In the early evening of Leenaâs twelfth birthday, the Kohlis were driving back from Carnivore, an open-air restaurant situated in the Langata suburb where they had organized a Sunday lunch for her school friends.
Pooja rolled down her window slightly to allow in some cold air, hoping it would help settle the swimming sensation in her head brought on by one too many cocktails. She had spent the day sitting in the dining area, which had led onto the vast playground with its numerous slides, seesaws and a plastic brick castle that consisted of rope ladders, bridges and cargo nets. While the children had played, the parents sat in the shade of overarching palm trees, sipping cold beers and Dawas while the waiter moved quickly around them, cleaning away plates and refilling empty glasses. It had been a day full of laughter, the clicking of cameras, cherry-topped Black Forest cake and her husband holding her hand beneath the table, teasing her fingers.
She had been disappointed when the sun started to lose its solidness, as it stretched out across the afternoon sky and people began to leave, pulling on their cardigans and
âBe careful, Shamit!â Mrs Goyal would shout. âI donât want a son with a broken head. Of what use will you be to me then?â
âLook at you â thinking youâre a hero. Youâre lucky I donât tell your father what a besharam daughter he has. Mannerless girl!â Mrs Shah would scold her daughter, Preeti, giving her a stern tap on the backside.
Although those days were only full of good memories, the ones Leena clung to the most were the ones when Jai was with them. They learned quickly never to ask him. He came when he wanted and even then it was with an air of distraction, as if he always had something more important on his mind. He would pick up a soccer ball and juggle it between his nimble feet and they would play football. If he came out swinging a cricket bat, two teams would automatically form, eagerly awaiting his cue. When he grew tired, he would leave the game and, for the sake of her pride, Leena would force everyone to keep on playing for a few more minutes, but the enjoyment would always slow, dwindle down and eventually stop. This teenage boy who was so much older, smarter and handsome than the rest of them, with his head of tamed black curls and dancing features, whose life was so exciting that they longed and dreaded to be a part of it.
âAsk him to come and play with us. Heâll listen to you.â
âHe never listens to me,â she would reply, even then, too proud to ask.
So someone else, if they were feeling brave, would speak up. âWhatâs next, Jai?â
âJai, do you want some banana crisps? My mother made a fresh batch.â
Sometimes it would work. They would manage to trap his attention and he would stir, raise himself up on his elbows and give them a brilliant grin, biting down into the deep-fried plantain. Other times, he would be too lost within himself and their words would never reach him.
âSorry, not today, guys,â he would answer, rolling up and balancing on his heels before standing fully.
They would trail back toward their bikes that were strewn over the curb and falling onto the street, or return to the multicolored hopscotch game scrawled hastily in chalk on the pavement, feeling the thrill in the air suddenly collapse. The day would compress without him, turn dull and shrink, the hope unintentionally dragged from it and its magic completely lost.
In the early evening of Leenaâs twelfth birthday, the Kohlis were driving back from Carnivore, an open-air restaurant situated in the Langata suburb where they had organized a Sunday lunch for her school friends.
Pooja rolled down her window slightly to allow in some cold air, hoping it would help settle the swimming sensation in her head brought on by one too many cocktails. She had spent the day sitting in the dining area, which had led onto the vast playground with its numerous slides, seesaws and a plastic brick castle that consisted of rope ladders, bridges and cargo nets. While the children had played, the parents sat in the shade of overarching palm trees, sipping cold beers and Dawas while the waiter moved quickly around them, cleaning away plates and refilling empty glasses. It had been a day full of laughter, the clicking of cameras, cherry-topped Black Forest cake and her husband holding her hand beneath the table, teasing her fingers.
She had been disappointed when the sun started to lose its solidness, as it stretched out across the afternoon sky and people began to leave, pulling on their cardigans and
Similar Books
