Lilac Skies

by Shivani Bansal

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Punjab, India. It's 1942 and Meena is still a girl when her parents tell her she is to be married, in five days, to a total stranger. What's more, he lives in Kenya. A different country, a different continent, thousands of miles away from everything she knows. She doesn't want to marry, but with four brothers and sisters, Meena knows she will be a burden to her parents if she stays. And it isn't her decision to make.

Nairobi, Kenya. Meena's new home is beyond anything she could have imagined. Nairobi is beautiful, but tensions under the colonial British rule run high. She is told she is lucky because her husband Amar is young and handsome, but all is not as it seems within her marriage... Tucked away from the outside world, Meena spends her time by the mango tree dreaming of going home... until she realises the friendships that she forges here are all she can hold onto.

Going from girl to woman in a strange land, can Meena find a way to finally make her life her own?

For fans of Dinah Jeffries, Janet Macleod Trotter and Jenny Ashcroft, Under Lilac Skies is a heart-wrenching, immersive debut guaranteed to sweep you away.

Release date: September 20, 2022

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

India, 1938

Mango juice dripped down her hands and past her wrists, staining her white kameez.

‘Meena! You’re all sticky! Ma is going to killllll you!’ her brother Himet exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Her most playful, yet favourite brother was happy to be the one not in trouble for once.

‘I’ll clean it up before she sees!’ Meena shrieked, throwing the mango skin at him.

He ran off with her brother, Mohan and their two friends, the heavy sun beating down on them. Meena continued to sit in her spot in the shade, the tree branches hanging low around her, creating a secret hideaway. It was mid-May and the heat was almost overwhelming. She peered through the leaves and watched women hang their washing on lines outside their houses; men arriving home from work, their shirts stained with sweat patches. Children ran around playing hide-and-seek and helping their mothers pick the coriander leaves off the stems. Girls and boys cycled by, the creak of their bikes signalling their arrival. The sky was effortlessly blue, without a hint of grey or white clouding it. It was almost turquoise, and the birds soaring through the sky made it look like a painting.

Meena looked down at her now orange sleeves and sighed.

‘It’s OK, Meena, we can swap,’ Parvathi announced, beginning to take off her spotless kameez. Somehow she always managed to stay clean, no matter what.

‘Don’t be silly. Then you’ll get in trouble,’ Meena said, while wistfully eyeing up Parvathi’s effortlessly clean top.

‘I don’t mind.’

Meena bit her lip. Parvathi was younger and Ma wouldn’t be so angry with her. She shrugged and lifted off her mango-stained top, quickly putting Parvathi’s on. Despite their age difference, the top fit perfectly as Ma made them all share clothes. What was slightly tight on Meena was loose and baggy on Parvathi.

Once Parvathi had changed into her kameez, Meena decided they should go back home. The sun remained high in the sky, but it wouldn’t be long until her pa came back from work, his footsteps gradually speeding up at the thought of seeing his children. They crawled out from their hiding spot and began the short walk back home. As they passed neighbours, they waved and exchanged greetings. Meena saw her brothers and elder sister ahead of them, kicking stray stones as they walked.

They all entered their home together, the waft of freshly made saag leading them directly into the kitchen.

‘Ah, there you all are. Your pa should be home any minute. Clean up for dinner,’ their ma said, her eyes taking in their sweaty, slightly dishevelled appearances. Her eyes paused on Parvathi.

‘What is that on your sleeves? Did you eat the mango or rub it on your body? This isn’t like you to be messy, Parvathi. Go and change, and I want the kameez washed tonight.’

Meena meekly followed Parvathi out of the room, her siblings trailing behind her.

‘Meena, come back here.’ She was caught. Her ma stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Was it you?’ She didn’t need to say more. Meena’s eyes stared into the ground, waiting for the telling off. She nodded. She heard her ma sigh, and then felt her warm presence by her side. ‘Come, sit.’

They sat on the refreshingly cool stone floor and her ma began to unravel Meena’s bun, combing her hands through her hair.

‘The bond you have with your siblings, especially Parvathi, is for life, Meena. She is young, your sister. She will always be there for you. But you must also be there for her. In life, you must lean on each other. We won’t also be here, but you will all have each other. Don’t take her kindness for granted. Protect her too.’

Meena nodded. Her ma was right. She often let Parvathi take the fall for her. She should do a better job at being a big sister.

The door opened and footsteps entered the room. She ran to hug her pa, his small but strong arms holding her close. Her other siblings ran into the room and they all enveloped him, causing him to laugh and struggle to break free. Once they let him go, he walked over to his wife and kissed her forehead. She smiled.

‘I’m home,’ he said.

Nairobi, 1942

The shattering of a plate shocked her out of her daydream. ‘What you have you broken now, Meena?’ a deep voice behind her asked. She turned to see her husband standing tall in the doorway. His veined hands shook slightly, and his towering frame loomed over her. She felt her heartbeat quicken. It had been an accident; she had never been this clumsy before. The fragmented plate glistened white against the red linoleum floor. The design of pieces of fruit around the border of the plate now decorated the kitchen – a shard of banana here, and a piece of pear there.

She felt his eyes burning into her skin, the temperature in the room increasing. Her hands were in fists by her sides, nails digging into her delicate brown skin. This was a new habit she’d picked up – it hadn’t existed eight months ago.

As the sun streamed in through the window, casting her body in a warm glow, her thoughts travelled back to where they had been before she broke the plate.

The ruthless sun shining down on her brown skin, burning the sensitive scalp underneath her thick, black hair. The smell of turmeric, cumin and coriander flying into her nostrils, making her stomach rumble with joy at the thought of dinner. Her sister’s delicate, small hands plaiting her hair, making sure the tel soaked into every strand …

‘Are you going to clean that up?’

She felt her head jolt up and winced as her fingernail drew blood in her palm.

‘Of course. Sorry, Amar,’ she muttered.

She suddenly felt his strong arms around her, his warm lips kissing her on the cheek. He whispered in her ear, ‘Koi bat nahi.’ Don’t worry. She told herself those words every morning when she awoke in this foreign place, in bed with a foreign man. Her ma used to whisper those same words to her whenever she was frightened. Koi bat nahi, Meena, she would say, you are strong, Meena.

She smiled to herself and began cleaning up the plate with her ma’s words ringing in her mind. Little particles of ceramic stung her hands, but she didn’t wince. Amar’s shadow was looming over her, and she became more aware of her actions and facial expressions. Suddenly, she felt his arm brush against hers as he stooped down to help her. Electricity soared through her skin and she felt her arm twitch with excitement.

Amar abruptly stood and Meena craned her neck to look up at her husband, his impressive height and broad stature, the nape of his neck slightly darker from the sun. She put her pile of shattered fragments into the bin and took in her husband’s appearance. His wide-set eyes, which were the colour of the ground after the monsoon was over – a glorious, shiny, earthy brown. When the sun hit, they turned a deep hazel green. The dimple in his right cheek which became more pronounced when he roared with laughter, usually at his own jokes. Jet black hair, combed meticulously every morning, using just a hint of almond oil. Brown skin that darkened further under the African sun. Tiny bristles of new hair emerging on his upper lip, underneath his long, slightly beak-like nose. His thin face that showed no sign of getting saggy with age. She had been lucky to marry a handsome man.

Meena’s face twisted in pain as she involuntarily put her hands back into fists. Small shards of the plate which had been sitting on the surface of her skin now penetrated into her palm. She looked up at Amar, attempting to blink the tears out of her eyes. Without warning, he walked away. She bit her lip and let the tears fall. She would have to pick the shards out of her skin by herself. She tried to brush the tiny daggers from her hands, which only dug them in deeper.

The sound of footsteps made her quickly turn around to dry a tear before it was seen. As she heard feet enter the room, she saw that Amar was carrying a bucket of water. He placed the bucket down on the tiled floor. She lowered down to her knees and had begun to dip her hands in the warm water when she felt his strong hands engulf hers. He loosened out her hands and began to pour the water gently over them. She felt her heartbeat quicken at his touch. She looked up meekly, scared in case her eyes met his. Luckily, he was too enchanted by her hands to notice. His hands had a firm grip on her, helping her to maintain her balance. Her eyes soaked in the small crinkle between his brows which appeared when he was deep in concentration.

The ground met her body without warning as she sharply fell back as Amar abruptly let go of her. His eyes briefly looked into hers and she saw guilt. Or was it sadness? She watched as he hurriedly grabbed the bucket and marched out of the room. Had she done something wrong? Moments later, it all became clear as she heard footsteps approach. Asmita was here. Her mother-in-law.

‘Ma, how are you? Would you like some pani?’ she asked her mother-in-law, while pretending to be cleaning the floor.

‘If I need water, I will ask you for it,’ Asmita snapped as she sauntered off into her bedroom.

Meena spread her body flat on the kitchen floor as the house shook from Asmita’s bedroom door slamming shut. The tiny droplets of blood from her cut hands trickled down her palm. The heat and the sound of birdsong engulfed her body, taking her back to her previous life in India. Her mind drifted to that day over seven months ago when she discovered she was to be married.

She was helping her ma and sister make the dinner. Her ma had been silent all day, barely looking her in the eye. Throughout the day, Meena had felt increasingly sick, her legs becoming wobbly with worry. She wasn’t a particularly naughty child, only a bit messy. She left the antics to her siblings.

She looked up to ask her mother if the rice was cooked and found herself staring straight into her mother’s round, owlish eyes. Her ma quickly looked down, but not before Meena had seen the look of sadness, despair and longing burning in her eyes, tears threatening to escape into a cascade down her face. Meena heard footsteps approaching.

She turned around to see her pa standing in the doorway, looking lost. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, afraid of the possibilities. Was he sick? Had something happened to one of her sisters or brothers? Had they run out of money? She frantically looked from her mother to her father, aching for an answer.

Her ma called Meena’s four sisters and three brothers into the room. Parvathi, Priya, Nita, Jiya, Raj, Mohan and Himet. She was surprised to see her elder brother, Mohan, there. Why wasn’t he at home with his wife? ‘Sit,’ whispered her ma. They all sat around the table, the tension in the room so thick that it was hard to breathe.

Her pa spoke in a rush of words, as if he couldn’t bear to keep them inside anymore: ‘Meena, we have found a husband for you. He has agreed to marry you and we have paid your dowry. The wedding will take place in five days.’ As he said the words ‘five days’, his eyes slowly met Meena’s and she felt her lungs become even heavier.

‘I don’t know him. How can I get to know him in five days?’ she exclaimed. ‘What if he’s old and wrinkly? What if he doesn’t like me?’ The rush of questions was endless. Nobody had spoken over her. She noticed how they were all looking down, as if they were waiting for her to finish saying her piece. She got up and paced around the room, as if her body were charged with electricity. As she passed the mirror hanging on the wall, she saw something in her own eyes. A look of pure and utter desperation.

‘You will not be able to meet him, beti. He will be coming over the day before.’

Confusion took over Meena’s mind. Where was he coming from? It did not take five days to travel from one city in India to another. Why couldn’t they get married in a year or two when she was ready? She was still a child. She felt like one anyway. She wondered if he was from Pakistan, where her father was from. The question died on her lips as she heard the words: ‘He is from Africa.’

Her lungs struggled to find air; her mouth clamped tight. She already knew the answer but still asked: ‘Will he be moving to India?’

As a tear fell from her pa’s eye, the awful truth dawned on her. She was being sent to live in Africa with a stranger. A different continent. Over 3000 miles away. She was no longer needed here. She was a burden. Betrayal blurred her vision as she ran from the house, desperate to get as far away from her traitors as possible. Parvathi, her youngest sister, chased after her and wiped away the tears Meena hadn’t realised were flowing out of her, as if the clouds inside of her had been ripped open and would never drift together again.

The sound of bells startled her from her memories. She heard the local Kenyan man call out for customers. His cart of fresh fruit always looked enticing, but she stayed inside, watching him from the window. At the sound of the bell fading away, she became aware that she was still on the floor. What would Amar and Asmita think if they saw her like this? She quickly stood and brushed the dust off her kameez. The prickling in her hands made her stop. She stared at the small red streams stained on her skin. Noticing the abandoned bucket of water, she rinsed her hands and bandaged them up.

Hindi music began to play, and she heard Asmita singing along. Back home, when her mother sang, they would all hold hands and join in. Asmita’s voice travelled around the house, alone in its misery.

The kitchen stood near the back of the house, facing out into the garden. She could turn in that direction and be away from the claustrophobia that engulfed this house. Yet, her footsteps instead took her down the narrow hallway, past her bedroom until she halted at the white door that was at the end of the hallway. Asmita’s shrill voice travelled through the closed door, and Meena breathed in the haunting lyrics. Her hand rested on the doorknob. Should she go inside? Maybe they could sing together, like she used to with her own mother. The song finished and Meena stepped back from the door. She walked away, leaving Asmita to revel in her music alone.

As she walked back into the kitchen, she passed by an old photograph of Asmita holding Amar in her arms. He must have been almost a year old in the picture. Her face beamed with pride, her eyes unable to look away from her darling son. Amar’s small face looked up at his mother, a grin on his lips. His chubby arms were reaching up to touch her face.

Meena didn’t have many photographs – her family could never afford a camera. She marvelled at how a black box could capture such memories, such love between family. She ached to have a picture of her own family. Something she could look at to remind herself of her parents’ faces.

She picked up the framed photo of Asmita and Amar and noticed a smaller photograph hidden behind it. She set the framed photo down and picked up the other picture, careful not to damage it. It showed a frowning Asmita in the corner, looking at Amar playing with an older man. Meena held the picture closer to her face. The older man resembled Amar closely, from his tall frame to his pointed nose. That must be his father. She wondered why Asmita looked so angry in the picture. Before she could dwell on it any longer, she heard Asmita’s bedroom door open. Without hesitation, Meena quickly put the photographs away and ran out into the garden.

The photograph was etched into her mind. She had never seen a picture of Amar’s father before. All she knew was what her parents had told her. Amar’s father had been a railway worker for the British Empire in Kenya. When her parents had told her this, she had noticed the look of respect on their faces.

Her parents had also told her that Amar’s mother was a widow and to be careful about mentioning her own relationship to her father too often, or the relationship her parents had. As a result of this warning, she never mentioned her parents in front of Amar or Asmita. She often found herself smiling at a memory of her father telling a terrible joke at dinner, or her younger sister stealing bits of food from their brother’s plate. If she was asked what she was smiling about, she shrugged. Those memories were hers to keep.

As she wandered out further into the garden, she thought back to her home. The days had flown by then – playing with her sisters, cooking with her ma, helping her pa fix little things around the house. Two of her main passions had been writing and sewing – her dream was to become a famous writer and see her words in every bookstore, her name under headlines in newspapers. She often daydreamed about her books being taught in schools, the children marvelling at her poetic writing skills. Her parents had always encouraged her writing. She now wondered if they had only gone along with it because they knew she would never have that life. Perhaps they had just been trying to appease her until they found her a suitable man to marry.

When she was thirteen, a poem she had written was published in the local magazine. Her teacher at school had mentioned the competition to the class, recommending they all write one poem each and send it in. The teacher had given her a little wink. She had rushed home and spent the evening writing countless poems, trying to make each one better than the last. Her baby sister Parvathi had been her sounding board. She read the poems to Parvathi before bed, editing them as she read them out. Parvathi had been the one to pick the final poem. When she found out she had won the competition, she ran home to her parents and told them the news. The sheer joy on her mother’s face was an image she retained in her memory.

She had brought a copy of the paper with the poem in it with her to Kenya. One day, two months ago, Amar had come across it while trying to find a bank statement. She had been about to enter the room, but silently watched from the doorway. Her jaw clamped tight as she watched his eyes skim her words. As he neared the end of the poem, a smile crept across her face as she waited for him to realise that she was the wordsmith. She watched as his eyes lingered on the words, his mouth turned up into a small smile. He carefully put the paper down where he had found it and left the room.

The grass felt soft beneath her feet, and she sighed as the sun stroked her scalp. Her ma would have called her inside and put oil in her hair to stop the sun burning her scalp. She loved the way her ma would sit her down on the floor between her legs, and slowly massage the warm oil into each root of hair. Meena would close her eyes and wish it would never end. As she had got older, she had started to put oil in her ma’s hair for her. The first time she had suggested it, her ma had cried. At the time, she didn’t know why. She understood now.

The days dragged endlessly here. Amar went to work and Asmita tended to stay inside or go to a friend’s house. Countless times Meena had put on a pair of shoes and walked out the front door. Except she never made it past the front yard before turning around and heading back inside. Thoughts would litter her mind on the short walk from the door to the end of the yard. Thoughts that she couldn’t shake.

She sometimes saw neighbours in their front yards. She felt their eyes staring at her, judging her. She was a foreigner in their country. This was their land. She was encroaching on it. In their eyes, she was no better than the British. Yet, when Amar left for work, nobody stared at him. When Asmita went to her friend’s house, she often saw the Kenyan neighbours wave at her. They had even given Asmita some of the ripe fruit from their garden. So why did she feel everyone watching her whenever she went to leave the house?

She picked up the bottom of her saree and strode to the mango tree. As she thumped down on the ground underneath it, revelling in the shade, she thought about her new country. Nairobi was a beautiful city, reminiscent of home. She could still pick mangoes off the trees, let the heat melt the coconut oil into her hair, and plant fruit and vegetables. The smell of the neighbour’s vegetable curry was making her mouth water, transporting her back to her parents’ home in Delhi. Although some of the spices were different, the aroma remained near enough the same. She thought she could smell cassava leaves in it. Fresh vegetables decorated with dozens of spices, all perfectly combined to make your mouth water at the sight of it. She also realised that Kenyans ate roti too. They were more alike than they realised.

As the sun peaked in the sky, she leant her head against the strong bark of the tree and closed her eyes. Her thoughts drifted back to where they had left off in the kitchen, her sister wiping her tears after discovering she was no longer a part of her family.

Parvathi held her hand and kissed her face. ‘Let’s go back to Ma. She might change her mind.’ Meena looked at her sister with pure adoration. How could she understand? She was too young to know that this was life for women in India. Parents didn’t want purposeless people in their house. More mouths to feed. They wanted their children married off, making families of their own, leaving them in peace. She couldn’t tell Parvathi that. So, she returned to the dinner table and stated: ‘No, I refuse.’ Her father had looked up in a mixture of relief and shock. She knew he didn’t want her to go; she could persuade him to let her stay.

Her ma, on the other hand, shook her head slowly and said, ‘We don’t have a choice, beti. You’re too old to stay with us anymore. The neighbours are talking. You need to start your own family soon.’ Meena’s stomach tightened with the overwhelming sense of betrayal. One of her sisters, Priya, had married last year but that was to a local boy in the next village. She saw her sister all the time, wandering in and out of the house, staying for meals. Sometimes alone, sometimes with her husband. She had known this day would come, had been to the wed. . .