He wished more than anything that – rather than suffering creaking joints and ailing eyesight – he’d started losing his hearing first. In his family, where each of his daughters liked to talk a thousand decibels louder than the average human, that would have been particularly useful.
‘What are you reading, darling?’ Mukesh asked Priya, as Rohini roamed the house, searching from top to bottom, like a sniffer dog, on the lookout for the next thing to complain about. The living room was deadly silent.
‘Little Women, Dada,’ she replied, her eyes remaining fixed on the page. ‘It was one Ba recommended to me. She said she read it when she was a very little girl. Dad bought it for me last week.’
‘I haven’t heard of it,’ Mukesh said, honestly, but he made a mental note – now that he was a library member, he could and should pay attention to these things …
‘It’s a very famous book, Dada. Everyone knows it,’ she said, still not looking up, but her eyebrows were arched in a mock-accusatory, surprised frown.
‘What is it about?’ Mukesh asked, a little nervously – remembering her words from the other day: ‘You don’t get books, Dada … You just don’t care!’
‘Shhh, Dada, I’m trying to read it. I’ll tell you another day,’ Priya snapped in a sweet kind of way, and Mukesh did as he was told. Naina used to be a bit like that when she was reading too – maybe one day he’d understand.
He remembered evenings, when the children had gone to bed, he’d be reading the newspaper beside Naina, who was leafing through the pages of her book at breakneck speed. He’d try to engage her in conversation, looking over, waiting for her to realize he was watching her.
‘Mukesh, what are you doing? You know I am concentrating,’ she would reprimand, smiling all the same.
‘I just wanted to read something to you from the paper. It is very interesting.’
‘Mukesh, I am just getting to the good bit. Shh,’ she would say. She was always getting to the good bit. At first, Mukesh thought that perhaps books had good bits every two or three pages, and then he started to wonder whether it was just an excuse.
He would watch her, tucked up in her blue and white nightie, her reading glasses with large frames resting neatly on her nose, and her black hair pulled back into a small bun at the back of her head. He could see her in his mind’s eye at 20, at 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, too. The same ritual, the same response. For a moment, he felt like Henry, from The Time Traveler’s Wife, flying through the decades to visit Naina in all those moments of her life.
At the time, he had never wondered where she went when she was within the pages of her book. He just loved seeing the concentration on her face. Sometimes she would smile, just slightly, from the corner of her mouth. Other times she would throw her head back and chuckle, creasing her eyes, and tapping Mukesh on the shoulder as though he was in on the joke. At the time, seeing how happy she was had been enough. But now she was gone, he wished he’d tried harder to be with her in every single moment.
‘Papa,’ Rohini called. Her voice was close, in his ground-floor bedroom next door. ‘Can you come here?’
Mukesh looked at Priya, hoping she would give him some excuse to stay exactly where he was, but she was lost in the pages of Little Women. Her expression was so very Naina.
‘Okay, coming,’ he mumbled, scooping himself up from the chair, both arms pushing.
He stood in the doorway; Rohini was standing by a cupboard, one hand on her hip, the other hand pointing towards a trickle of sari flowing from a closed cupboard door onto the floor.
‘What has happened here?’ Rohini asked, as she opened the door. She gasped theatrically. Everything was a bit of a mess, folded, but out of shape.
‘Vritti and I folded this all perfectly after Mummy …’ she paused, ‘for Mummy. What happened? Have more people come round to take something to remember her by?’ Rohini’s voice went high and squeaky on the final three words.
‘No, I was just looking through because …’
‘All those masis, her friends, they were always jealous of Mummy, always wanted her saris. No wonder they used the excuse of giving condolences to come round like vultures … Good friends, ha, but they still want her stuff …’
A memory of Naina – dressed up for the mandir – flashed into Mukesh’s mind. ‘What do you think? Effortless chic?’ She’d pronounced it ‘shick’.
‘Well,’ Mukesh said to his daughter, ‘your mummy always had the nicest saris.’
‘Yep, and luckily an eye for a bargain – otherwise these masis would be robbing us blind. So, Papa, you’re telling me you did this? Help me tidy this up, can you?’ Rohini said, not unkindly, and Mukesh wandered in as told. He sat on the bed, waiting for Rohini to pass him something to fold, but instead she just got on with it, admonishing him every so often for making such a mess.
As Rohini pulled out each garment, even the ones that were actually fine and didn’t need refolding, he caught the familiar whiff of Naina once more. Good whiffs. He could smell her perfume again, and this time her shampoo. Forgetting, for a moment, he looked over his shoulder, hoping and praying Naina had come to say hello.
These were the saris Naina had worn regularly, for the mandir or a trip to the shop – they were saris people came to associate with Naina: patterns, brocade, paisley. Others had jewels, sequins. They were beautiful, often simple. As Rohini tucked the last sari away, she ran her hand across the fabric, feeling the detail with her fingertips.
‘I wonder when Mummy last wore this?’ she said out loud. Her voice had softened, no longer Admonishing Inspector Whirlwind. Mukesh didn’t reply. He knew what she really meant was: Had Mummy known she was dying when she last wore this? Had she known it was going to kill her sooner than we all expected? Too soon.
Mukesh watched in silence as a small tear, almost imperceptible, ran down his daughter’s face. He stood where he was, wanting to reach out to her, knowing she would shrug him off if he did. ‘I’m sorry, Rohini. I was going through her things. I think I was looking for her books. I wanted to read to Priya. I’m so sorry for making a mess.’
Rohini looked at her father; her eyes brightened, wiping away her tears, pretending they’d never been there at all. ‘Papa, that’s okay. But you know Mummy always got books from the library. She didn’t own any. There’s no space here.’ She gestured around the room, the whole house. It was strange how now it felt as though there was no room, but all five of them had lived here once, living busy, bustling lives. Now it was just him, and there was no space at all. Every corner was full to the brim with memories.
Mukesh nodded. ‘I know, I thought that. But I just … I wanted to find a book for Priya. She’s very quiet, and she doesn’t like the television, my David Attenborough documentaries … they are very educational you know.’
Rohini stood up and shuffled over to her papa, tapping his shoulder gently. Mukesh was grateful Rohini knew that if she gave him a hug he would burst into tears. He hated to cry in front of his girls. She left him in the room, the door wide open. In Rohini language, he knew that meant: ‘I’ll give you some space, but just call me if you need me.’ She might have been his bossy daughter, but she could be kind too.
Rohini insisted on making a full thali (she’d conveniently brought her own ingredients, even though Mukesh had insisted she didn’t need to) and the three of them were now tucking into badh and kadhi. Priya’s favourite.
‘Rohini, beta, you treat me so well.’ Mukesh scooped some up with his fingers. Rohini never made food quite as thiki as Naina had, which was perhaps a good thing as he couldn’t deal with the spice so much now anyway.
As soon as she’d finished eating, Priya wasted no time in jumping up from the kitchen table and headed back to the living room, to dive back into her book.
‘Rohini,’ Mukesh said, ‘is Priya always this quiet? Her head always in books?’
‘She just likes to read, Papa, it’s fine. Mummy did that all the time, and she definitely wasn’t quiet.’
‘Yes, Papa, Priya does other things. Have you ever asked her?’ Rohini wasn’t looking at him when she said this, but he felt the sting as though her eyes were boring right through him.
‘Well, no, but …’ Mukesh stammered.
‘She has two best friends, Papa, Christie and James,’ Rohini continued. ‘They’re very nice, and quiet like her.’
‘She has those two friends to visit?’
‘Papa, kids don’t do that these days. They play together at school. In the break times.’
Mukesh wondered whether ‘these days’ was a thinly veiled way of saying ‘you’re so old, Papa!’ He thought of the group of boys who were often out playing on his road, laughing and shouting and sometimes saying bad words with the kind of enjoyment you only get when they’re new to you, recently learned. Those boys were out there almost every day, when it was sunny, even in this day and age when people were scared of letting their children live lives at all. Rohini, this time, was wrong.
He thought of Priya, sitting in the living room.
She was lonely. Her ba had died when she was 9; she had been old enough to really feel her loss. He knew what it was like to lose your best friend, your life partner, but he’d never allowed himself to wonder how Priya would have felt losing her best friend too. Naina understood her – when Priya was quiet, Naina had helped her open up. How did Priya feel now that she was gone?
Rohini shuffled to the living room; he followed behind, until the phone trilled. Mukesh diverted his path, slowly, creakily, trying to prove to his daughter he didn’t need to be completely looked after.
‘Hello?’ he said, not recognizing the number as he picked up the phone.
On the other end of the line, he heard his friend Harishbhai yapping away without even uttering a greeting.
‘Bhai! You must help me. Something very, very urgent has come up. Sahilbhai has dropped out of the mandir’s sponsored walk. You must step in. I told them immediately I knew Mukeshbhai would do it, he is a good man, his Naina would have put him forward in a moment. You are going to help, yes?’
Rohini was watching intently, her brow furrowed. Mukesh’s first instinct was to put the phone down immediately – to tell Rohini it was telesales, but no matter how annoying Harish was, he couldn’t be so rude.
‘Harishbhai, please, what do you mean?’
‘Mukeshbhai, my friend, Sahilbhai has sprained his ankle. The walk is in a week’s time, he cannot take part, and we do not want to lose any of his sponsorship.’
‘But no one will ask for their money back, surely? It is charity.’
‘You never know, bhai, not everyone is so generous like you, me, Naina, ne?’
‘So, you need someone to fill his spot …’
‘Ha, precisely. You can do it?’ Harish asked, but they both knew that this was not a question.
‘Bhai, my back. You know. Bad back.’
Harish continued talking, as though Mukesh hadn’t spoken at all. He signed off with, ‘Back schmack. Thank you – we meet at the temple next Saturday at eight in the morning. Thank you, bhai. Thank you.’
Mukesh looked at his daughter, who had now turned to Zee TV and was bopping her head in time with the theme music.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, absently.
‘Your fua, Harishfua.’
‘What does he want?’ Rohini looked up at her father now, disdain on her face. She disliked Harish as much as Mukesh did.
‘He wants me to fill in for Sahilfua in the mandir sponsored walk next Saturday.’
Rohini laughed. Mukesh remained straight-faced. Rohini stopped laughing.
‘You know it’s ten kilometres this year?’
Mukesh gulped: he hated walking for anyone other than Naina. She used to have a little book about the best walks in London. She would always complain that they lived in the capital city of England and had barely ventured outside Brent in all their years. Besides, on Saturdays he usually just took the day very slowly, called up his daughters one at a time, spoke to his grandchildren and caught up on Gardener’s World (even though his garden was nothing more than paving slabs – he liked how nice and easy it was to maintain) and then Blue Planet, again. He didn’t know if he was up to breaking his routine quite so drastically. He’d already ventured out to the library … throwing the sponsored walk in the mix was bound to be one step too far.
‘Papa, it’s nice really. They want to get you involved.’
‘Why would they want me involved in anything? In ten kilometres? Why not wait for the five one?’
‘Maybe because they think you need cheering up.’
‘Very funny!’
‘Do you?’
‘No. I’m a widower. Lots of widowers are lonely, bored, boring. I’ve got you and Priya, the girls, and the twins. I have my routines. I’m fine.’
‘Papa, just go. Don’t go too far if you can’t handle it. You’re not too old, are you?’
Mukesh straightened himself up, pulled back his shoulders, puffed up his chest. He’d once seen his son-in-law do this before a jog. ‘I can do the walk. I just don’t want to – I don’t have time!’
Rohini tried to hide a smile.
‘I can!’ Mukesh tried not to look offended.
‘Right …’ Rohini said, giving her daughter, now snoring gently in the armchair, the once-over. ‘I think it’s best we head back. It will take us a couple of hours. And Priya has some studying to do.’ She gently shook Priya awake – she rubbed her sleepy eyes, and for a moment, she was the little girl Mukesh had taken to the park on Fridays after nursery, the little girl who had sat on his lap and watched Christmas films, the little girl who had fallen asleep reading a picture book in her ba’s arms. He knew, as she grew up, she wouldn’t want to spend any time with her old dada. Especially if they had nothing in common. Time was running out, wasn’t it?
‘You can both stay here if you want,’ Mukesh said. ‘I don’t want you driving back too late, not if you are sleepy.’
‘No, Papa, it’s nicer to be home.’
Her words stung – he hadn’t expected it. It had been years since Rohini moved out, but he still thought of this house as her home.
‘Good luck for your walk next Saturday – have fun,’ Rohini continued, as she flung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Do you have everything?’ she asked Priya, sweeping her palm over the girl’s forehead, removing some straggly hair from her eyes. Priya nodded. As they wandered out the door, Mukesh knelt down with difficulty to say goodbye to Priya, his little girl who was not so little after all, but she wandered straight past him and jumped into the car, ready to go home. He held a smile that he didn’t feel as he waved them off, and as he closed the door, he felt more alone than ever.
Mukesh shuffled into bed that evening, in the bedroom he had once shared with Naina, mattress and bones creaking. He whispered, ‘Jai Swaminarayan’ and rested his head in the very centre of his pillow, looking up at the ceiling, the dying sunlight creeping in through the cracks in the curtains, casting an orange glow on the paintwork. He closed his eyes for the night, praying and hoping he would wake up with Naina next to him. He knew, if he was going to finally get to know his granddaughter, to earn her trust and her respect, he might have to start making some changes. The library was the key, he just knew it … but the sponsored walk, it couldn’t hurt to have a go, could it?
Chapter 6
ALEISHA
IT WAS A RELIEF to be out of the house today, even if Leilah was acting as if she was totally okay – scrubbing the already spotless kitchen from top to bottom. Aleisha walked along the high road, weaving in and out of people wandering every which way, ignoring men selling knock-off phones, past the stadium, almost empty at this time of day with no match, concert or anything going on. The traffic, like always, was heavy here. Cars tooted. She could smell the fumes; the taste made
bile rise to her throat.
She wandered past the terraced houses, once white but now grey with pollution, and the Hindu temple, in all its marble grandeur – a huddle of people, young and old, congregated in the forecourt, speaking passionately, joy and sincerity combined. She sat on a wall opposite and watched for a while, picking her nails. A few of the men here, chatting away, were wearing a red and yellow string around their wrists. She thought of the old man from the library. He had been wearing a bracelet just like that, she remembered. The huddle dispersed and she trudged to Stonebridge Park station, the heat sending prickles over her skin.
It was the middle of the day. Everyone on the platform seemed aimless. Some would be going to their jobs, shift-workers, something she could sympathize with. Others would be doing what she was doing – wandering with no agenda, no destination, because there was nothing else to do on this too-hot, sticky day.
Then someone caught her eye – a guy. He had a beanie on his head … in this heat? He must be sweltering. He had a wash of carefully curated stubble on his face. His eyes were a sharp, vibrant green. She watched him for a while. His bright coloured T-shirt was too big, hanging over his jeans. He stepped onto the train coolly, like he had nothing to prove and no one to prove anything to. Aleisha couldn’t say why, but she was interested in him, intrigued. She stepped onto the train too, without registering where it was going until the Tannoy announced the final destination: Elephant and Castle. The guy was sitting, his knees far apart, in the middle of two seats, just because he could.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled, slouching into the train seat. He would have signal for a little while now until the Bakerloo line train went underground. She pulled out her own phone and swiped without looking at the screen. Her eyes were directed above the phone to her left, to the man, the boy.
She ran one hand over her hair, and shuffled deeper into her seat, eyes still on him. He glanced up for a moment, just a moment, and their eyes made contact – small and insubstantial.
The Reading List Page 6
