opened her eyes. The hall was filled with people she didn’t know and her disappointment at being thrown back into the present was profound. She looked at her hands and noticed the flesh of her ring finger bulging around her gold wedding band. It was heat that made her fingers swell but she wiggled the ring, struggling at the knot of her knuckle. It was a relief that it came loose eventually, but she quickly pushed it back on. The men at the altar thumped the heels of their hands rapidly against the tight skins of their tablas. Each beat had an echo that bounced across the walls.
The memory that had surfaced in the cab was niggling at Shirina, filling the spaces between musical notes. She wished she knew how to pray but it was too late to learn now – it was like getting in touch with a neglected friend just to request a favour. And what could she pray for? That night had been her fault – for drinking so much, for stumbling up the driveway, for making the driver so concerned that he threw on his brakes and followed her. ‘You’re okay, one step at a time,’ he said, just a pace behind her, his hands hovering at her waist, braced for a fall but not actually touching her. She had struggled to find her keys so he reached into her bag to help her. She remembered leaning towards him, just to rest her head on his chest for a moment because she could fall asleep right there. The bag was squished between them. ‘Hey,’ the driver said with a nervous laugh. ‘Wake up.’ Then the door opened anyway.
‘Shirina,’ Jezmeen whispered. ‘Are those guys looking at us?’ Shirina followed her gaze and saw a group of young men sitting cross-legged and staring at them, their lips twitching into smiles. ‘They are, aren’t they?’
‘They’re looking at you,’ Shirina said, which was true but it was also what Jezmeen wanted to hear. Shirina adjusted her dupatta again, this time so it obscured her profile.
‘Do you think people here would mistake me for Polly Mishra?’ Jezmeen wondered aloud. ‘Or does that happen more in the UK because there are so few Indian women on television?’
‘You do look alike,’ Shirina said.
‘That’s the problem,’ Jezmeen said with a sigh. ‘There can only be one actress with our looks. She’s had better luck than me, getting such a great break with The Boathouse.’
Sure, luck had some small role to play in Polly’s success but Shirina had watched several episodes of The Boathouse and thought Polly was brilliant in it. She knew better than to say this to Jezmeen, who was sensitive about the whole rivalry. She had once read a celebrity blog site referring to Jezmeen as ‘the poor man’s Polly Mishra’.
Jezmeen was considering something now. ‘Do you think, if I went up to those guys now and pretended to be Polly, they’d know the difference?’
‘Jezmeen, this isn’t the place to be impersonating actresses,’ Rajni said.
‘What is a place to be impersonating actresses, Rajni? I’m curious.’
‘People come here to worship,’ Rajni reminded her.
‘Does it matter?’ Jezmeen asked.
‘Of course it matters.’
‘We’re not exactly sitting here praying. I’ve spent the past ten minutes mentally revising my Christmas party invitation list.’
‘It’s July,’ Rajni said accusingly.
The guy in the middle said something to his friend and grinned. He took out his phone and pointed it at Jezmeen. The flash went off. ‘Now that’s just rude,’ Jezmeen said. She sprang to her feet and marched across the prayer hall. ‘Oh my god,’ Shirina said. She glanced at the bearded granthi serenely reading from the Holy Book, his cadence as hypnotic as a gentle tide. Now would be a good time to take up prayer.
Rajni went after Jezmeen, muttering something about inappropriate behaviour in the temple. One of the tabla players looked up and met eyes with Shirina. She gave him an apologetic smile. He shut his eyes, tipped his face towards the ceiling, and let out a string of melodic drumbeats. She got up and followed her sisters.
‘Hello there,’ Jezmeen said when they approached the men. She smiled sweetly. ‘I noticed you took a picture of me and I thought you might like a close-up.’
The men exchanged looks and two of them were suddenly sheepish. Shirina noticed that they were younger than she’d thought – just boys. One had the patchy beginnings of a beard on his bony chin and the other was wearing a Star Wars T-shirt.
‘So?’ Jezmeen pressed. She placed one hand on her hip. ‘Let’s not be shy now.’
People were beginning to stare. Shirina tugged her sister’s sleeve. ‘Jezmeen, this is embarrassing.’
‘Jezmeen Shergill,’ one boy said. He was the one wearing the Star Wars shirt. ‘So it is you.’
His British accent took Shirina by surprise. Jezmeen said nothing. The boy kept watching her, a slow grin spreading on his face. His friends were hiding their smiles behind their hands. The tabla thumped like a heartbeat.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Jezmeen said. ‘Just because I’m on television, it doesn’t give you the right—’
‘I’m a huge fan,’ the boy continued.
Shirina caught the boy with the patchy facial hair discreetly pulling his phone from his pocket. When he noticed her looking, he dropped his hands.
‘Really?’ Jezmeen asked.
The smirk on Star Wars boy’s face made Shirina nervous.
‘Can we get a photo with you?’ he asked.
Rajni poked her head between them. ‘She’s not Polly Mishra.’
‘They know, Rajni,’ Jezmeen said. ‘He said my name. Are you boys fans of the show? Here, let’s take a quick selfie together, and—’
The boys began to snicker and nudge each other again. ‘Do it,’ Star Wars boy whispered to the boy with patchy facial hair.
The boy let out a theatrical sigh. ‘Oh, Jezmeen Shergill,’ he said, ‘I was dying to meet you.’ And then he stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes and flapped his hands. The other boys collapsed into laughter.
What the hell was he doing? Shirina stared at the boys, forgetting for a moment where they were and how much disruption they were creating. The boys scrambled to their feet and out of the hall. Jezmeen’s face was ashen.
‘You alright?’ Shirina asked, still puzzled. She reached out but Jezmeen’s shoulder flinched at her touch. Jezmeen turned away, pulling her phone from her bag and tapping away rapidly.
‘I wonder where their parents are,’ Rajni remarked, looking over her shoulder at the boys. ‘I’d like to have a word with them.’
‘Just drop it,’ Jezmeen said, not looking up from her phone.
‘They’re obviously here on holidays with family – you’d think their parents brought them here to get some spiritual enlightenment, not sit around—’
‘I said, “drop it”,’ Jezmeen said. Her eyes were blazing. ‘Oh my god,’ she whispered. ‘A hundred thousand.’
It
