Asha & the Spirit Bird Read online

  A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  Nobody expects children to be the ones to stand up and fight against a cruel fate – but in this unforgettable Indian adventure, that’s exactly what our heroes do. Asha and Jeevan must undertake a dangerous journey with only their indomitable friendship to bolster their courage – and mystical help from the animal spirits of Asha’s ancestors. This is a truly inspiring and epic story by debut author Jasbinder Bilan, the winner of the 2017 Times/Chicken House children’s fiction competition. Hold on tight and prepare to be uplifted . . .

  BARRY CUNNINGHAM

  Publisher

  Chicken House

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Letter from the Author

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to my family and especially to my wonderful majee, Chint Kaur Bilan, who held my hand throughout my childhood and still stays close.

  BARFI – A sweet treat made with condensed milk. A bit like fudge.

  BETAY – Dear (term of endearment for a child).

  BUTA – An ancient floral symbol shaped a little like a teardrop.

  CHAI – Spiced sugary tea.

  CHAPPAL, CHAPPALA – Simple sandals a bit like flip-flops.

  CHUNI – A long scarf worn by women, usually to match an outfit.

  DEEVA, DEEVAY – A small clay pot filled with oil and a wick, similar to a tea light.

  DHABBA STALL – A roadside stall selling freshly cooked food.

  DHAL – Soup made with lentils.

  DHOSA, DHOSAY – Rice-batter pancake cooked on a griddle and stuffed with a spiced potato filling.

  DHOTI – A cloth worn by men instead of trousers. You wrap the cloth round the waist and the final section is passed through the legs and tucked into the waist-band.

  DIVALI – The festival of lights celebrated all over India and by Hindus around the world, based on the story of Rama and Sita. Candles are lit, fireworks set off and presents exchanged. The festival is also part of the Sikh religion, where it celebrates the release of Guru Gobind Singh from prison.

  DIVALI MUBARAK – Happy Divali.

  JELAYBIE, JELAYBIA – An orange spiral-shaped sweet treat. It’s crunchy on the outside and filled with liquid sugar.

  KABADI – A traditional Indian sport, a bit like rugby without the ball.

  KURTA – A knee-length tunic worn over trousers.

  LASSI – Drink made with fresh yoghurt, water and ice.

  LENGHA – A long pretty skirt usually worn for special occasions.

  MAHOUT – A person who looks after elephants.

  NAAN – Soft white-flour flatbread cooked in a tandoor oven.

  NAMASTE – ‘Hello’ in Hindi.

  PAAN – A red Leaf from the betel tree, chewed like tobacco.

  PAISA, PAISAY – An Indian currency unit, similar to pence in the UK. One hundred paisay make a rupee.

  PAKORA, PAKORAY – Fried potato and onion savoury snack made with chickpea flour.

  PANEER – Soft cheese cooked with peppers, onions and tomatoes.

  PARATHA – layered wholewheat flatbread filled with potato and smothered in butter.

  ROTI, ROTIA – a flatbread made with wholewheat flour and cooked on a griddle, similar to a Mexican tortilla.

  RUPEE – The currency of India.

  SHUKRIAA – Thank you.

  TANDOOR – Clay oven used to cook naan, as well as chicken and other meats.

  TAVA – Griddle.

  THALI, THALIA – Stainless-steel tray with compartments for different dishes.

  TULSI – Holy basil herb.

  YAAR – A friendly way to refer to a man, similar to ‘mate’.

  Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark

  RABINDRANATH TAGORE

  Icrouch close to the bittersweet straw in the cowshed, last night’s strange dream racing through my heart. The cows shuffle to make room as I steady myself and duck low along the floor. I prise my fingers under the heavy stone, pulling out the small wooden box.

  My hands tremble as I lift the lid, carefully unfold Papa’s last letter and trace his address across the fragile yellow paper.

  102 Connaught Place Zandapur

  He’s been working away for eight long months and I don’t know why he hasn’t written since the half-moon in May, four months ago. I brush away my salty tears with the back of my hand and, even though I know his letter off by heart, read each word as if he were right here with me.

  Dearest Asha,

  The city is so different to Moormanali. It’s busy and full of people. Working in the factory isn’t too bad but I’d much rather be home with you all. I know you’ll be studying hard at school and helping Ma. I miss you every day and promise I’ll come back for your special birthday on Divali.

  Always remember that I love you,

  Papa

  I begin to refold the letter but the clang of the spare cowbell startles me. It’s swinging from a hook in the far corner, where not a breath of air can reach it.

  And suddenly I’m back in the frozen landscape of my dream, lost in the ice wilderness of the Himalayas. I press my back against Tulsi’s steamy body and struggle to calm her; the cows are spooked too.

  I put the letter in my pocket and follow the bell as it moves from side to side through the whisper-still air. Goosebumps spike my arms and beads of cold sweat prickle my forehead, even though the shed is blazing with heat.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the bell, grab Papa’s scarf from the shelf and wind it round my neck. I breathe in his comforting scent to stop the panic rising . . . then the bell sounds again, this time even more loudly, echoing into the air like a death toll.

  I’m about to run and tell Ma but stumble when I hear Jeevan outside shouting my name, his urgent footsteps pounding closer and closer. He bursts in, sending straw and dust flying everywhere.

  ‘Asha!’ His face is red-hot and fear sparks in his brown eyes. ‘Asha, come quick, your ma needs you.’

  ‘What is it?’ I clutch the scarf. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Just c-come.’ He’s panting so hard that his words burst out in snatches. ‘Something terrible is . . . I’ll tell you on the way.’

  ‘Is Ma all right? Is she hurt? Tell me.’

  ‘We’ve got to get down there.’ He grabs hold of my hand, pulling me out of the shed, and we hurtle downhill to the village, but the path is steep and the loose stones are making me slip as air shoots into my lungs in painful gulps.

  I squint towards the clutch of houses, shielding my eyes against the glare of the shiny solar panels and just make out a group of people gathered around our gates. They look like little dots from here and I can’t wor
k out who they are.

  When we get closer, I see Ma, her green chuni flying through the air like it does when she uses it to swat flies.

  Jeevan grips my hand so tightly I can feel his fingernails, sharp on my palms.

  ‘There’s a woman and some men,’ says Jeevan, between breaths. ‘Not from round here. They’re asking for money from your ma.’

  I feel sick, press my side to stop the stitch and keep on going past the mango tree. We’re only a few steps from my house now, where everyone is spilling out of the garden and I see the people Jeevan told me about.

  Two hulking men tower over Ma, and one of them is pointing a blunt metal pipe right in her face. A red car is parked outside too, a slim woman dressed in Western clothes standing beside it. My blood turns cold.

  ‘Jeevan, what’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  We force our way through the crowd. The twins are clinging to Ma’s legs and crying.

  ‘Ma!’ I shout, over the noise. ‘Ma!’

  She ignores me. She’s trying to grasp the slim woman’s hand. ‘One more month, Meena, please!’ she cries.

  The woman flicks Ma away. ‘I’m a business-woman, not a charity,’ she says coldly. ‘Now . . . where’s the money?’ She nods to one of her men, the one with the pipe, who shoves Ma and sends her tumbling to the ground.

  I rush to Ma’s side while Jeevan pulls my little brother and sister away from danger. His mother, who’s watching with the other neighbours, scoops them both up. Ma stands and brushes the dust off her clothes.

  The woman, Meena, signals to one of her men. ‘You search the house. I’ll check the outbuildings. And you –’ she points to the other man – ‘make sure no one interferes.’

  The man with the pipe kicks at our front door with his boot.

  ‘Ma – do something!’ I shout. Needles stab at my stomach.

  But she looks the other way.

  ‘Get away from our house,’ I yell, boiling with outrage.

  The man bares his crimson teeth in a paan-stained smile, shoves aside the beaded curtain, and disappears inside.

  Ma stands watching at the door, frozen to the spot. Why isn’t she doing anything?

  I run into the kitchen, my legs shaking, Jeevan right behind me.

  ‘You can’t just walk into our house!’ My voice cracks.

  ‘Can’t I?’ The man turns and his jaw moves mechanically, still chewing the paan. He spits a blood-red line across the floor, filling the room with his putrid breath.

  Jeevan charges towards him. ‘Stop! That’s disgusting!’

  A fierce admiration bubbles inside me as my friend and I exchange a look swift as a heartbeat. ‘Jeevan, be careful.’ I grab him by the arm. ‘Don’t go too close.’

  The man’s mouth twists into a strange grin as he drops the pipe on the floor. ‘Where’s your papa when you need him?’ he sneers. ‘Probably in some toddy shop spending all your money . . . and I bet he’s never coming back.’

  ‘My papa doesn’t even drink.’ I’m filled with anger. ‘And if he was here you wouldn’t dare to come anywhere near our house.’

  He knots his eyebrows together over his beetle-black eyes and goes to the latticed cupboard door where Ma keeps the crockery. ‘Is this where you hide the valuable stuff?’ He looks inside, but nothing in there is worth much. He sweeps everything out, knocking my best blue cup off the shelf. It clatters to the ground, smashing to pieces. He storms past Jeevan, who stumbles backwards on to the floor.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ I cry, and without thinking throw myself at the man and kick him as hard as I can.

  ‘You . . . little swine!’

  He grasps me by the wrist and shakes me violently. When he finally lets go, my knees buckle as fear swamps me.

  Ma runs in, pulls me towards her. ‘Please . . . stop this. We have nothing to give you. There’s nothing valuable in here.’

  Ma’s neck is bare and I realize they must have already forced the gold pendant from her.

  Meena sweeps through the door and looks around, wrinkling her nose. She knows what she’s looking for: her eyes catch on our brass pot. She reaches into it and brings out the key to the old tractor, which she must’ve seen in the outhouse. ‘We’ll take this as interest,’ she says to Ma, dangling the key for a moment before tossing it to her thug. ‘But I’ll be back for the full repayment.’ She walks out of the house.

  Interest? Repayment? The words spin around in my head but I can’t make sense of them. The only thing I’m sure about is that she’s taking the tractor.

  ‘No! Not Papa’s tractor,’ I shout after Meena, sprinting into the garden. ‘How will we do all the hard farm jobs?’

  Meena is sliding into the driver’s seat of the red car.

  Her men climb on to the tractor. The engine starts with a splutter, followed by an ear-piercing screech.

  ‘No!’ I cry, unable to keep the sobs from escaping. ‘No!’

  Meena winds down the window of her sleek car and fixes Ma with a stare. ‘We’ll be back for the money by nightfall on Divali. If you don’t have it, we’re taking the house.’

  She accelerates out on to the road before Ma can reply, followed by the tractor.

  ‘Ma!’ I scream. ‘Don’t let them steal it!’ My words are drowned out by the engine noise and the neighbours’ shouting.

  Jeevan joins me and we run past Ma, past the neighbours, following the vehicles on to the road. My lungs burn and my legs ache. They’re too fast: we can’t stop them.

  Jeevan swears at them, his face livid, his eyes full of fire.

  His words shock me, even in this moment of hopeless fury, but I let them hang in the air.

  The car and tractor head along the twisting road that leads away from the village, throwing dust on to the ripening barley fields, the engine noise getting fainter and fainter.

  One by one our neighbours leave, talking to each other in hushed voices. Jeevan and I walk together back towards the garden, so close that our arms touch, his eyes glistening. He turns his face away, brushing his nose roughly with the cuff of his sleeve.

  My throat is tight and I can hardly breathe. The words ‘interest’ and ‘repayment’ echo through my mind as I realize what has happened. ‘How could she? How could Ma borrow money from that horrible woman?’ I say, under my breath.

  ‘Try not to think about her.’ Jeevan leads me back into our garden. Ma’s talking to Jeevan’s mother about Meena, shouting words I’ve never heard her say before, the kind you’re not meant to say. They’re laden with anger and grief and her face is all worn out.

  ‘Let’s clear up the mess,’ says Jeevan’s mother, putting an arm around Ma’s shoulder and leading her inside.

  Ma’s face is red with shame, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I didn’t think she’d actually come here and threaten us like that . . . if Paras had been here she wouldn’t have dared.’ She catches sight of me and Jeevan and tries to control herself.

  ‘You’re doing your best,’ says Jeevan’s mother. ‘You weren’t to know she’d just turn up like that.’

  ‘Asha,’ Ma says, wiping her face. ‘See to your brother and sister please. I sent them off to the swing.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ says Jeevan, blowing the fringe off his face. ‘I can take them to our place, give them something to eat – you’ve got enough to deal with here.’ He shoots me a smile and I smile back gratefully.

  Jeevan and I run over to where Rohan and Roopa are playing on the swing Papa made for us.

  They leap off and wrap their arms around my waist. ‘Why were those men so cross?’ asks Roopa.

  ‘That lady was really mean,’ says Rohan, snuggling closer, ‘and they made Ma cry . . . I hate them.’

  ‘Some people enjoy being nasty, it makes them feel big and important. But don’t worry – they’ve gone now and everything will be OK.’ I force a smile and try to sound confident but I’m beginning to doubt everything.

  ‘Who wants a ride on my bike?’ asks Jeevan. He
picks the bike off the ground and props it against the wall. Rohan and Roopa squeal as he lifts them on to the seat. ‘Hold on.’ He climbs on the crossbar and twists to face me. ‘We’ll find a way to get the tractor back, I promise.’

  I watch them disappear out of the garden, feeling numb and useless, my throat so tight I can’t speak.

  How much has Ma borrowed? They said they’d be back at Divali – that’s only seven weeks away. How will we get the money? All I can think of is what we’ll do next time, when they come back again, and it fills me with darkness.

  I look up. The mountains, far beyond the grazing grounds, make a black, jagged ridge against the setting sun.

  When I go inside, Jeevan’s mother has gone and everything is quiet.

  The broken pieces of my blue china cup are piled one on top of the other. Ma hasn’t thrown it away with the rest of the things that were broken, and I feel a surge of love for her. I pick up a shard, feeling the rough cracked edge against my skin, and slip it into my kurta pocket.

  Ma is sitting on the wooden bench, staring with bloodshot eyes into a hot cup of chai, her face puffy and her long hair – usually so neatly tied back – loose and wild.

  ‘You’ve got to tell me what’s been going on, Ma.’ My words are urgent and my insides are twisting up again. ‘Ma, look at me.’

  ‘I know you’re worried and I promise we’ll talk later.’ Her voice shakes and she passes a hand over her hair. ‘We need milk for supper, did you bring it down?’

  ‘No, this is too important, Ma – don’t change the subject. I’m not a child you can hide things from any more.’

  ‘It’s been such a dreadful day . . . I’m sorry, Asha.’ She speaks like she’s in a trance. ‘Where are Rohan and Roopa?’

  ‘Jeevan took them for a ride on his bike, remember? Drink a bit of chai, Ma, it’ll make you feel better.’ I bite my lip. ‘What happened? Why did you borrow money from that woman?’

  Ma doesn’t speak. She gets up. ‘You know . . . we haven’t heard from your papa for four whole months, Asha . . . I keep on waiting but there’s been no letter since May.’ She spits each word out like a bitter seed.

  ‘I know.’ I miss Papa more than if I’d lost my own arm or leg. ‘Ma –’ I make her look at me – ‘everything will be all right. He wrote so many letters before. He loves us. He said he’d come back for my birthday, for sure. He’s probably just been really busy with work.’ I have to convince her so she doesn’t give up. ‘Just tell me the truth. Why did you borrow the money?’