Om Shanti, Babe Read online

  ‘Cassia, you have something bothering your mind. I would very much like to know what it is.’

  I opened the window wider. The warm air rushed over my face, making my ears pop.

  ‘Cassia, please do not stick your head out of the window. It is very dangerous; stones may fly up in your eyes.’

  Now he sounded like my dad, seeing disaster around every corner. How dare he act like my dad! Dad was one of the good guys, not like Call-me-Creepy.

  ‘I saw you at the hotel site, doing deals with the developers,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Ah yes! That was very good fun.’

  ‘Fun? Do Mum and Saachi know?’

  ‘Actually, it was Saachi’s idea. Mostly she is a very sensible lawyer, but every now and then she has an attack of the Secret Sevens. I can only imagine this is what happens when you are raised in a house full of old English children’s books.’

  ‘You mean you weren’t investing in the hotel?’

  ‘Oh no, but they believed I was a rich man from Dubai.’

  ‘You were spying on them!’

  ‘Oh, yes, I wanted to wear a false moustache, but your mother and Saachi would not hear of it.’

  ‘So was it you who found out about Jonny Gold?’

  ‘I learned just enough for Saachi to put the pieces together.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt really embarrassed. I’d thought he was deceiving everyone, but really he’d been helping all the time.

  ‘Are you angry that your Mr Gold was not who you expected, Cassia?’

  I thought about Jonny Gold’s songs about rainforests and icebergs, and the things he said in interviews about the environment. I wondered if he meant any of it, or if it was all just a publicity stunt. Jonny must have known about the protest, but he didn’t seem to care. Maybe he should have listened to his own lyrics because, it seemed to me, that Jonny had galloped away from his soul somewhere along the way.

  ‘No, not angry exactly, I feel a bit stupid, that’s all. And it makes me want to stop the hotel even more.’

  ‘If you are serious about helping Saachi, Cassia, then perhaps we should do more than just visit the elephants. We should ask for some help.’ He stroked the stone statue sitting on the dashboard, and at the next junction he turned the car up a narrow track which led into the forest.

  He pulled up outside the elephant reserve and found a place to park. We unloaded the picnic and sat on a patch of grass in the shade. While I was setting out the food on a rug, Call-me-V told me about the Hindu Elephant God, Ganesh. He said that Ganesh rode around on a tiny mouse to show how you should keep your ego small and not let your own sense of importance boss you around. Ganesh was like the patron saint of business people and writers.

  But the really big thing about Ganesh was that he was in charge of making and getting rid of problems. He even had a special crook like Little-Bo-Peep, to hook away bad karma. He explained that karma is actions, the stuff you do that brings rewards and punishment. I laughed when he told me that Ganesh’s belly was so big because it held the past, the present and the future, like eggs, inside it.

  ‘I have no such excuse, Cassia,’ Call-me-V said, rubbing his own stomach. ‘My build is on the healthy side, but the reasons are laid out on the tablecloth, as you can see!’

  ‘Would Ganesh help me, even though I’m not a Hindu, or even from India?’

  ‘Ganesh has travelled around the world for over 2000 years; I’m sure if you are asking nicely he will at least listen.’

  I wondered if it was really that simple, that you found the right god and then asked them to sort things out. Even if it wasn’t the way it really worked, I liked the idea that that you could put stuff that bothered you into a question. Maybe making it a saying-it-out-loud thing was the first step to changing things yourself.

  We finished eating, tidied up the picnic and went into the elephant reserve. We’d arrived at bath-time and, lying on her side in a pool, was a baby elephant.

  She slapped her trunk from side to side, spraying water into the air. She looked like a guest at an elephant health club. The Mahout, who looked after the elephants, was using a coconut shell to scoop water on to her back. He greeted Call-me-V, then handed me a lump of coconut husk.

  ‘It is a privilege to wash an elephant, Cassia. They are sacred animals, so make the most of it,’ Call-me-V said.

  Feeling very honoured, I greeted the baby elephant and did the hands-pressed-together bow as a sign of respect. Then I rolled up my jeans and waded into the warm muddy water. Dunking the brush in the bath, I started scrubbing at the baby’s leathery skin. Clumps of dark hairs sprouted out of her back. I touched one with the tip of my finger.

  The elephant’s body was warm and I could feel her chest expanding under my hands, as she sighed and snorted with pleasure. I scrubbed the crease behind her ears and she nuzzled my arm with her trunk.

  ‘She is liking you,’ said the Mahout, smiling.

  ‘What is not to like? This is a very promising young person. She cares about her family and her friends, other people and the environment,’ Call-me-V said, smiling, as though he was proud of me.

  I felt strange hearing him say nice things about me, especially after I’d been so suspicious of him.

  ‘Yes, I have heard from Saachi how you are helping her. She told your mother you have the makings of a very good lawyer,’ he said.

  Saachi thought I had talent! I felt my face go red. I stroked the baby elephant’s head and she reached her trunk up to my face. I’d thought everything in my life was going wrong, but maybe Ganesh had put some good karma my way after all.

  We stayed until the baby elephant was done with her bath, then Call-me-V fired up the Green Goddess and we lurched and bumped our way further up into the hills.

  After a long steep climb, Call-me-V stopped the car at a small tribal settlement. A man in a checked cloth, folded up into shorts, that Call-me-V said was called a dhoti, came out to meet us. They talked together for a bit and then Call-me-V asked if I wanted to see the way wild honey was collected. He got a glass jar out of the Goddess’s boot and we walked up a narrow, tree-lined path.

  We were going to a nest they already knew about, but Call-me-V explained that when they were hunting for new nests, the honey-gatherers would sometimes follow forest birds, who led them to the right place. They rewarded the birds with a bit of the honey in case they took revenge the next time, and led them to a snake’s nest instead.

  The honey man, Mr Kumaran, stopped and pointed at a bamboo ladder leaning against a tall tree. High up, I could see an oval-shaped lump wedged into the cleft of a hollow branch. Mr Kumaran gathered a handful of dried leaves, tied them together with string and started a smoky fire going. The pale grey curls drifted up towards the honey-comb.

  ‘The smoke makes the bees drowsy, so they will not be so quick to sting us.’ Call-me-V explained. Mr Kumaran climbed up the ladder, and carefully cut a small chunk of the honey-comb, leaving the rest of the nest. Bees started to fly around our heads and we moved away, slowly. A bee settled on my hand. I was about to brush it off when Call-me-V stopped me.

  ‘If it breaks its sting, it will die. Just keep very still, Cassia, and let it fly away.’

  Mr Kumaran put the lump of honey-comb into a cloth and held it over the jar. Then he squeezed the cloth in his hands. Golden honey oozed out of the comb and ran over his fingers before drizzling down the neck of the jar. He dribbled a taste on my hand, too. It was delicious, strong and sweet. When there was no more honey left to press, Call-me-V put a lid on the jar and we started the long walk back to the Green Goddess.

  ‘What happens to the left-over wax when all the honey has been squeezed out?’ I said.

  ‘It can be used for many things, like medicine, cosmetics, and of course, candles. But unless it can fetch a fair price, much of it is wasted,’ Call-me-V replied.

  Suddenly I had a wonderful thought. ‘Mr Chaudhury, what are you going to do with the workshop?’ I asked.

&nb
sp; Project Save the Shop kicked off properly as soon as we got back to the house.

  On the drive from the hills, I’d described Auntie Doré’s perfumed candles to Uncle V. He made a whistling-through-his-teeth noise when I told him how much she paid for them. I thought if we could make some out of the local beeswax, and perfume them using the special oils from Mrs Jaffrey’s shop in Kochi, then we would have a great all-Indian product for the shop to go with the new fabrics Lula had designed.

  Uncle V knew about the problems Lula was having with the business and he also knew how much it meant to her. He said we could use the workshop for some try-outs so long as we could find proper instructions on how to make the candles.

  Some of the equipment was still stored in the workshop, but I had no idea how to get from a lump of crumbly beeswax to a beautiful scented candle, and he said he’d rather we didn’t burn the workshop down, experimenting.

  Uncle V explained we would need to work out the costs of making the candles and getting them over to London, too. Even though he thought it was an interesting idea and said I had a good head for solving problems, he reminded me there was no point unless the candles could make a profit, so I would need to get all the figures ready for Lula to see before I got too excited.

  When Priya got back from school that evening I showed her the ‘must do’ list I had written in the car, and she got started straight away on packaging designs. I gave her the bottle of perfumed oil for inspiration and soon she was tearing pages out of her magazines for mood boards. She decided the perfume was “very natural, but with a spicy twist” and should be packaged in something green with a red accent.

  She got her full creative head on and started to explain colour theory to me. It sounded much more scientific than I’d imagined and pretty soon the whole colour wheel thing started spinning too fast, so I left her in order to get on with my own share of the tasks.

  While she was busy sketching, I had a long session on the internet researching the ‘how to’ bit. There was loads online about honey bees and how they were an endangered species in some places. I hadn’t realised how important they were to all the other stuff that we eat, not just honey, but everything that needed to be pollinated, like fruit and berries.

  I was starting to feel a lot more respectful of bees, and just a bit scared about what was happening to the environment, when I found a beginner’s guide to making candles. It didn’t look too complicated, but we had to get it right or the candles would spit and smoke, or even fall apart completely.

  I printed everything off and highlighted the things we would need, like pans to melt the wax, thermometers, muslin to strain out the bits, cotton for the wicks and something to use as moulds. Then, remembering what Uncle V had said, I started researching how much scented candles sold for in the shops. It was a real eye-popper. Most of them weren’t even made of proper beeswax and some of the designer brands were in major double digits for just one candle.

  Uncle V had explained that I would need to work the costs out so that after everyone was properly paid we could double the price for the shop. So now, after scrolling through at least a zillion internet pages, I had an idea of the sort of prices we could charge.

  Because of where the beeswax came from, we would be able to say our candles were totally organic and that would be a big help. I wondered about adding a bit of information about how important bees were to the environment, when we put the candles on the shelves. Then perhaps people would have an extra reason to buy them.

  I went to sleep that night listening to Priya’s pencil scratching on her sketch-book. My head was buzzing with ideas about how our candles would help the shop, create new jobs in the village and encourage pollination too. I’d never imagined I had bees to thank for the fruit smoothies I loved.

  The next morning, I gave Uncle V the equipment list and he went up to the workshop to see what was still there. I wanted to keep the idea secret until I was sure it would work, so we told Saachi and Lula we were doing a school project, and after a super-fast breakfast we set off for the workshop.

  When we arrived, Uncle V was busy fixing up a camping cooker so we would have enough heat to melt the wax down to a liquid ready to strain. I looked at my list, which he had pinned up on the wall. The bit about the budget was highlighted and the word ‘profit’ had a double red line underneath. It was going to be a very long day.

  So much depended on getting the candles right. If this worked, we would have a new product to show Auntie Doré and then she would invest money in the shop to keep it going. If the candles and the new fabric sold quickly, then Lula’s money troubles would get better.

  Thinking about the consequences, I felt nervous. This was so important to Lula and to our shop, but I’d never done anything like it before. How could I be sure it would work out? As I stared at the list again I realised I couldn’t be sure. All I could do was try my hardest, get my friends to help and keep my fingers triple-crossed.

  It was a risk, but the pressure was making me feel really energised. This must be how Saachi felt when she got stuck into a new case – no wonder she loved her work.

  We went to Granny-ji’s for the rest of the stuff we needed. She seemed really excited about the candle project and said it could be ‘the start of a new chapter in my life’. She happily emptied her kitchen cupboards and even dug out aprons for us, but we still hadn’t found the right thing to use as candle holders. Priya’s design needed something natural that would survive the trip to London and wouldn’t melt when the candles were lit.

  Granny-ji pulled on her apron. It had a picture of Ganesh on the front. I remembered what Uncle V had said about Ganesh helping with new projects.

  ‘Dear Mr Elephant God, we need a bit of inspiration,’ I said, putting my hands together and bowing to Granny-ji’s belly.

  I thought about the day in the forest with Uncle V and the baby elephant splashing in a mud bath, her Mahout using a coconut shell to wash her. ‘What about using coconut shells as candle holders!’ I said.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Cass, and exactly right for my design! They could be wrapped in a palm-leaf bag and tied up with red ribbon.’

  It was one problem solved, but now I had to add coconut farming to the list. ‘I think we are going to need more help, Priya.’

  ‘But I thought you were the tree-climbing expert around here.’

  ‘Ha-de-ha!’ I replied, remembering my first day trip up the wrong banana palm.

  ‘Actually, I know some people who might be able to help,’ Granny-ji said. ‘Leave it to me.’ And she hurried us out of the house.

  Once we reached the workshop, Granny-ji took charge. In the time it had taken us to get there, she’d even got busy on the candle-holders and an old man with a machete was standing outside with a bag full of neatly halved coconut shells ready for her to inspect. While she and Priyanka made their selection, I got out the beginner’s guide to candles and set up a production line.

  The shed was really starting to buzz. Nandita plaited the wicks from multi-coloured threads. They looked great, but they needed coating in wax before we could use them. I cleared a space on the work bench, ran a mini-washing line along the wall and found some scissors.

  Granny-ji showed me how to dip the wicks in the melted wax, cut them to size and hang them to cool on the line. Then I helped Priyanka sieve and strain the wax and pour it into a pan. It would take a few melt-and-sieve sessions before the wax was clean enough to use.

  It was very hot in the workshop and every half an hour Uncle V brought in cold drinks. We were all looking a bit crazed. Nandita had a wild smile and bits of wax stuck to her hair, face and clothes. Priya was back stirring the giant melting pot again and muttering like someone doing spells. I could feel twigs sticking out of my hair and I thought there were probably a couple of bees in there too.

  Dev had taken charge of the laptop and played us a mix of motivating music. He was also busy with the figures I had scribbled down with the costs and prices from the intern
et.

  During a cold-drink break I looked over his shoulder. Under headings like Postage and Wages, he had columns of numbers set into a table. At the bottom a row was labelled Profit.

  ‘Wow, that looks amazing! How did you do that?’

  ‘It was not so hard. You did all the research, Cassia, I have just organised it. Now, watch this,’ he said, pointing to a number at the top of the table. ‘This is the price you paid for the beeswax, but of course this price can change. So, if it goes up...’ I saw him double the number and press Enter.

  ‘The profit figure at the bottom has changed too!’ I said.

  ‘It is called a spreadsheet and I think it will be very useful for you.’

  ‘Dev, you’re a genius, thank you.’ I threw my arms around his shoulders.

  ‘It is certainly very impressive, young man. Are you interested in business as a career choice?’ Uncle V had wandered over and was looking at the screen. He changed a couple of the numbers and nodded his head approvingly as the spreadsheet converted them into profit.

  By lunchtime we were on the third and final melting and I added a few drops of the perfumed oil to each batch. Then Priyanka poured a little of the molten wax into the shells and I pushed in a length of weighted wick. We wrapped the moulds in banana leaves so they would cool, nice and slowly, then we escaped from the shed and ran down to the sea.

  Uncle V and Granny-ji guarded the door of the workshop all afternoon and wouldn’t let us in until the sun went down. When we got back from the beach, I was practically hyperventilating with tension. What if the candles hadn’t worked? What if we lit one and it just collapsed or, even worse, exploded?

  At last, we were all standing in front of the workshop and Uncle V opened the door. The scent of the perfumed oil and beeswax drifted out into the evening sunshine. At the far end of the shed, watched over by Uncle V’s little Ganesh figure, the neat row of candles wrapped in their packaging of palm leaves looked perfect. But what would they be like inside? I took a couple of steps forward and then stopped, suddenly unsure about what to do next.