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.
‘I’ll have an avocado lime and cilantro smoothie, please,’ she said. Jezmeen made eye contact with Tarun and smiled.
‘Madam, I’m so very sorry but this drink is unavailable,’ he said.
‘Okay then,’ Rajni said, opening the menu. ‘I’ll have the … oh, this looks nice. The peach and strawberry daiquiri.’
Tarun looked embarrassed. ‘Madam, we don’t have any strawberries at the moment.’
‘That’s alright,’ Jezmeen cooed. Honestly, did she have to be such a flirt?
Rajni scanned the menu. ‘Here. This one.’ She pointed at the description that Jezmeen had been making fun of earlier. Below it, there was a picture of the iced vanilla mango smoothie with whipped cream and seasonal fruits. ‘I’ll have one. Jezmeen, you want one?’
‘No thanks,’ Jezmeen said. ‘I’ll just have a cup of chai.’
He smiled brightly at Jezmeen. ‘We have chai. So Madam, I repeat your order: one chai, one vanilla mango smoothie.’ He strutted off before Rajni could ask about the selection of seasonal fruit.
Rajni made another attempt with the itinerary. ‘It’s an early start tomorrow if we’re going to do the morning seva at Bangla Sahib,’ Rajni said.
Jezmeen did not respond. She was staring intently at her phone all of a sudden, her features scrunched in concentration. Moments later, she relaxed, but she continued to steal glimpses of the screen. ‘Are you connected?’ Rajni asked. ‘They still haven’t confirmed my account yet.’ The staff at the mobile phone kiosk in the airport had assured Rajni it would take less than ten minutes to verify her details, but here they were, nearly two hours later, and she still didn’t have any data.
‘I’m using the hotel’s WiFi,’ Jezmeen said. ‘So what are we doing tomorrow?’
‘We’ll
