Part 3 (2/2)

I look at Sara; once again she's brought home a problem that I've had to solve.

During the next few days I play the cordial host and go through the standard protocol of offering Sara a few crumbs from my life, drinks and dinners with friends, movies. But she's not interested. She has a plan for The Agnis and asks me if I want to join her.

*I wish I could,' I decline, as if a great force is holding me back.

Yet, when she's gone to visit The Agnis, I imagine what she's doing with them and picture myself next to her. Something goes missing from the things I'm used to enjoying; they leave me dissatisfied, empty, as though I've left something behind.

I go for my weekly potli ma.s.sage. During the ma.s.sage, I stare at my ma.s.seuse, whose presence I've never acknowledged before. I feel the urge to know more about her: why she's here, where she's from and who she's doing all this work for. She s.h.i.+fts uncomfortably. I ask her name and she murmurs, *You seem tense today.'

I come out of the parlour feeling knotted, dirty.

The next day, when Mary comes home (quieter after I stormed out of her house), I realize that although I see her every day-even more than I see my own father, who's usually travelling or with his other family-I know almost nothing about her. I've treated her as though she's invisible. I lock myself inside my room and clean my cupboard, for the very first time.

The day comes for Sara to leave and I know that with her departure the train of my guilt will leave the station. Early that morning I hear the bell ring. Thinking it is Mary coming for duty, I open the door without looking through the peephole. The entire team of Agnis, twelve girls, are standing outside my front door. Fatima is holding a cake on which is written in clumsy white icing: *We Will Miss You.'

Their mouths drop on seeing me; they were expecting Sara to open the door.

*How did the watchman let you all in?' I ask.

*I told him to,' Sara says, coming up behind me. The girls' faces bloom like flowers. Sara invites them in but they refuse, throwing cautious glances at me.

*How did you find an oven?' I ask pointlessly, seeing that the cake is lumpy and unpretentious, the kind that has bits of forgotten eggsh.e.l.ls in it, the kind that Sara will like.

The girls look at each other and Fatima mumbles, *We request my memsahib for permission to use her oven.'

I know the memsahib whose house Fatima works in, the eighteenth floor Mrs Mehra who has made a nuisance of herself by adopting stray dogs, many of which have bitten young children in the building. The girls chose wisely.

*You bake?' I ask, knowing such a concept is alien to them.

*We learnt because Sara Didi say she likes cake,' Mary says, her eyes lingering on Sara. I notice she calls Sara an elder sister now instead of memsahib.

*Well then, enjoy yourselves,' I say, and hear my voice dripping with a kind of excessive sweetness that masks nothing.

I go into my room, ignoring their flat-toned requests for me to stay. I stare out of my window, standing against its humid breath, as their voices gather around me. I hear them thank Sara for her help and this seems to go on for an eternity. There's a bit of clapping as I imagine the cake being cut. Some of them declare they have an Internet cafe in their slum from which they'll regularly email Sara. Sara says she'll visit them again, maybe next year. They exchange emotional goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. The door shuts and there is silence. I sit on my bed, exhausted.

There's a knock on my door and Sara enters, carrying a slice of cake on a ceramic plate.

*I got you a piece,' she says. *Try it, it's delicious.'

*No thanks, I'm watching my weight,' I reply, turning the pages of Vogue, pretending to read it.

She sets the plate down on my dresser and from the corner of my eye I see her back reflected in the mirror, taut and bony. For a minute neither of us says anything.

*Payal,' she says in a small voice. *I know there are many things you don't want to talk about but I can't leave without saying something important.' She clears her throat and adds, *I want to make it clear that I didn't come to India for The Agnis or my coursework. I came for you, hoping we could get to know each other better.'

If I acknowledge the emotions in Sara's words it will give our forced relations.h.i.+p as step-sisters validity.

I don't look up from the page advertising Cartier's latest engagement rings.

Sara stares at me for a long time, searching. Finally, she sighs and says, *There's something else I want to tell you. I've been blogging about The Agnis, putting up photos of them, their homes, their practice ground. The blog is getting an amazing response, sometimes a hundred hits a day. My professors want me to write my thesis on this.'

*Good for your credits but how does that help these girls?'

*Well,' she says and pauses. She steps away from the dresser and sits down on my bed. *Last week I bought each girl a pair of sneakers. Nice Nike ones, like yours. It was the day before their big match and they won.'

There is no reason for me to pretend to study Vogue, so I look at Sara and ask, *I know they won but how did you get the money to buy the sneakers?'

*A professor from my university arranged a sponsor,' she says, with a self-satisfied grin.

*That's very ... ummm ... kind, I guess, of you. But what exactly do you have planned now that they've reached the National level, thanks or no thanks to your shoes? The match is in three days. How will they get to Delhi?'

Sara runs her hand through her blonde hair, which has become a shade lighter in the sun and says, *I don't know.'

*See, Sara. This is what I keep telling you not to do. Try to relate to things that you shouldn't and leave the job half-done. By helping these slum girls you've sold them false hope and now you can't follow through.'

Sara doesn't honour me with hurt. She looks me straight in the eye and says, *Payal, I may not be able to come back to India for years. But you're here. You can help them.'

I snort dramatically and say, *Sara, you're asking me to finish the job you started?' She doesn't bother with a denial so I continue, *Why don't you understand that things are not so easily done in India? Even if I want to help them, I can't. My coach will find out; the women's basketball world is very small here. I'll get expelled from my team. Plus, believe it or not, the girls are too proud to take my help or money.'

*Is there no other way?'

*Can you think of another way?' I press.

Her stumped expression tells me she can't. She admits defeat when she says, *I have to leave for the airport in thirty minutes.'

I don't have the capacity for any more of Sara's hints, so I say, *I can't come to the airport to drop you, but why don't you finish packing and I'll see you outside in a bit.'

When I open my bedroom door to let Sara out, I hear Mary was.h.i.+ng dishes in the kitchen. She should be practising for the big game, I think, before a little voice quips: what would be the point of that? I shut the door behind me.

I look at the garnet gla.s.s frame holding my mother's photo, taken long before leukemia burnt the skin and bones off her, a time five years ago when we could pa.s.s off as sisters. Her face s.h.i.+nes in the sunlight. Looking at her this way, with life caressing her hopeful eyes, her endless smile never fails to fill me with grief. Yet, when I burst into tears, I know I'm not crying for her. The morning falls around me like ash.

I hear her voice, my mother's voice, and I am happy for it gives me a break from my own.

She tells me to believe.

I reply, I've never believed in anyone but you.

Then feel, she says.

I tell her, I feel nothing but anger since you left.

Believe, feel.

Then she's gone, again. I don't search for her this time. I think. And somewhere between her quiet place and mine, a new emotion finds its way and I think it may be possible for me to love again.

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