Jasmine Skies Read Free

military-looking uniform walks past me. I take a deep breath from my belly like I’ve learned to do in singing lessons, so my voice
doesn’t come out all weak and wonky.
    ‘Excuse me, my case hasn’t arrived . . .’
    His eyes travel down my bare legs and I find myself tugging at the bottom of my denim miniskirt. He glances upward again but doesn’t look me in the eye. Instead he swipes something off his
shoulder, as if I’m an insignificant insect that’s been bothering him.
    ‘Wait, little longer. Takes time,’ he finally mutters, before wandering off.
    Now I wish I hadn’t bothered asking ‘Creepy Guard’ anything. I scan the carousel again. There are only a few bags left, but none of them are mine.
    Another wave of tiredness hits me and my stomach is well and truly tied in knots. I have got to get myself together before I meet Priya and Anjali. I walk over to the loos and lock myself into
one of the cubicles. It’s like an oven in here! I start to undress and I take out the lemon wipes Mum packed for me. I wash the staleness of a night’s travelling off my skin. I spray on
some deodorant and begin to feel less grim. I fold my miniskirt and T-shirt into my bag and take out the soft cotton salwar-kameez, the one Grandad’s sister, Lila, sent for me, the one I said
I wouldn’t be seen dead in . . . because Mum was going on and on about how important it was that I wear ‘appropriate clothing’. The fine cotton is paper thin and a rich autumn
orange, with a paisley black and red block print all over it. Orange is my favourite colour and the cloth feels soft and cool against my skin. I can’t believe I was so mean to Mum about it
now.
    I come out of the cubicle and look in the mirror. I take out my eyeliner and draw a black sweep over the top lid, arching slightly upward, and a thin line on the bottom lid, like I always do. I
comb my hair and then bend forward and throw it back again so it doesn’t look too tidy.
    As I open the door the old lady I saw earlier brushes past me and a wave of her grey hair sweeps across my shoulder, wafting along with it the sweet smell of lily of the valley perfume.
    Because I’m looking backwards and walking forwards, I fall straight over a trolley that’s neatly stacked up with cases. I just about manage to save myself from falling flat on my
face, but I drop my bag and everything spills out across the floor. I grab my new camera (it seems to be OK) and my passport. The old man, who was pushing the trolley, is bending down now,
helping to pick my things up and chuntering his apology in Bengali. I look at him blankly and he suddenly gets it that I don’t understand. Now he’s this close to me I realize he’s
wearing the same Old Spice aftershave that we used to buy Grandad Bimal for Christmas and birthdays. It makes me shiver how that smell brings me to feeling close to Grandad.
    ‘Sorry!’ He smiles at me as I try to collect myself together, along with all the ‘just in case’ stuff I slung into my shoulder bag before I left. I’m so busy
picking up tweezers, eyeliner, period stuff, mobile, iPod, Wuthering Heights , a photo of Jidé . . . that I completely forget about Mum’s letter album until the old man hands me
one of her postcards. I check around the floor to make sure nothing else has gone astray and then I hold out my hand for the old man to pass the card back to me, but he’s busy inspecting the
stamp.
    He reaches in his pocket for his thick-rimmed spectacles and holds the postcard up closer to his eyes. The image is of a sculpture of a mother feeding her baby, the umbilical cord wrapped around
their bodies like a vine.
    ‘This takes me back . . . I thought so, yes, this is it,’ he says, tapping the card excitedly with his finger. ‘1966 . . . Now that was a great gathering.’ The old man
seems to have forgotten I’m even standing here.
    I glance over to the empty luggage carousel and my heart sinks as I watch it slowly grinding to a