BEEP. ‘Good morning, Mukeshbhai. It is Nilakshiben.’ Mukesh nearly jumped out of his seat, his eyes automatically flying up to the photograph of Naina on the wall. ‘I have bought some ingredients for brinjal bhaji so I can come round maybe one day next week? Maybe Saturday? Teach you! Hope you have a lovely weekend.’
He hadn’t expected to hear from Nilakshi. He looked up at his photograph of Naina once more, looking for a sign as to what to do. Was she upset? Angry?
He sighed and tried to settle back into Rebecca. He was in his own armchair, with four and a half lamps around him, taken from different rooms in the house, all placed at various heights. The half a lamp was a USB-powered book light he could clip onto the book itself – it was Priya’s, a gift from Naina. This corner of his living room currently looked like it was one of those ironic, trying-to-be-cool hipster bars that Vritti was always showing him on Instagrab, which she called ‘eenspo’ for her own small chain of cafés.
It was no use, Nilakshi’s call had unsettled him; how was he supposed to read about an intruding new wife right now? He flung down Rebecca and called Harish back in a bid to distract himself, agreeing to go to the temple this evening, for Abhishek, puja and food. It had been so long since he’d done this – he only ever went to the temple with Rohini or Deepali, or sometimes Vritti, just because they made him go. He didn’t like being there. Because being there reminded him of Naina, of how he was only half a person without her.
‘Looking forward to seeing you this evening, bhai!’ Harish bellowed. Either he was deaf or still unsure of how modern telephones worked. Mukesh forgave him anyway. He’d done that too until Vritti and Rohini had complained and said the volume on their handsets didn’t go down low enough for a conversation with him.
‘Ha, yes, thank you for convincing me. It will be good for me.’ Mukesh tried to sound like he believed it.
‘Fantastic, my friend. I see you later, bhai!’ Harish shouted.
Mukesh held the phone away from his ear and said goodbye.
After a few hours of reading, Mukesh looked up and gave a little jump when he saw the four main characters from Rebecca sitting opposite him on the sofa. Mrs de Winter, the new wife and narrator, who was completely blurry because she was never really described. Could he trust her? Mr de Winter, the very wealthy young gentleman who seemed charming at first but had an edge … No, he didn’t like him. Then there was Mrs Danvers, that nosy, distrustful, judgemental lady who hated Mrs de Winter just because she didn’t compare to Rebecca, dead … but far from forgotten. And there was Rebecca herself – a ghost, sitting on Mukesh’s sofa, staring at the portrait of Naina above the television.
Mukesh inhaled sharply, rubbing his eyes, but just as Rebecca stood up, looking as though she was reaching out towards him, a car horn tooted and all four characters vanished into thin air. Mukesh took a deep breath, holding himself as still as possible. He hadn’t imagined that a book, set so far away, could affect him so much, could feel so real – it was chilling.
The car tooted once more. Harish. Mukesh looked at his watch. Right on time.
The car horn tooted again, thirty seconds later.
Impatient, as always.
Sometimes Harish thought he was a cool, swish 40-year-old in a cool, swish car, with places to be, people to see, too important to wait a few minutes for his friend to shuffle his slippers off, collect his shoe bag for the temple, and slip his Velcro trainers on his feet. But Mukesh let him wait and moved extra slowly. Or at least, that’s the excuse he gave himself. Really his stiff legs wouldn’t let him go much faster than this anyway … the sponsored walk had proved that to him.
Harish’s car was big, and always shining, even in the smoggy, dirty London air.
‘Mukeshbhai!’ Harish shouted through the car window, leaning over the passenger seat and pushing the door open to welcome Mukesh inside.
Before saying anything, Mukesh slammed the door shut behind him. He sighed. His back ached. His legs felt cramped in this car. ‘Bhai, lovely to see you.’
When they parked up at the mandir, Harish tapped his dashboard lovingly, and got out of the car much more swiftly than Mukesh could manage.
They wandered to the building side by side, but Mukesh fell behind. It looked glorious in the light, with the sun bouncing off the domes, revealing the intricate carvings in its shadows. It was beautiful, and he didn’t often appreciate it from this angle. It was surprising, seeing this masterpiece of a building nestled among houses, a school, a few car parks here and there, and the North Circular with all its tooting cars and angry drivers, oblivious to the peace that lay just behind.
It was lovely, unexpected, and it was what he loved so much about London. Variety. Contradictions and contrasts.
Harish was far ahead of him now, and he didn’t turn round, didn’t even notice Mukesh’s absence. So caught up in his own little world.
Mukesh took his time. At moments, he felt as if his legs might give way – being here, without his daughters, without Naina, felt like a different experience altogether. At the entrance, he passed through the body scanner. He always wondered whether the security person could actually see his nude bits. He hoped not. He blushed at the thought. It wouldn’t be very Hindu of them to do that, would it?
He was given the all clear, his keys and his belt, and he turned to the left. He imagined Naina by his side, turning to the right, to the ladies’ shoe racks. As he glanced over, he spotted Indira. Indira was always on her own, he’d never seen many people speak to her. Everyone knew that once Indira started talking, it was almost impossible to stop her. Other than that, he didn’t know her very well, but Naina had always insisted they make an effort with her. He waved, but he let his hand fall to his side quite quickly when she just nodded back in response.
After Abhishek, where Mukesh and Harish poured holy water over a brass statue of Swaminarayan to collect their blessings, they quickly left the peace and tranquillity of the ritual behind, and headed straight to the noisy sports hall where the food was served. The men and women’s sides were separated by a net partition. Harish raced to get his food and grab them a table, while Mukesh took his time, said hello to everyone serving (‘Mukesh, it’s so lovely to see you here to eat after so long!’), but he joined Harish soon after, his plastic plate teeming with delicious food and bright colours – khichdi khadi, jalebi, puri, buttata nu shak, papdi. They ate in silence; Mukesh noticed himself trying to peer round the curtain to catch a glimpse of Nilakshi, whom he’d seen a few moments earlier – he used to peer round the curtain to get a glimpse of Naina and his girls. That’s when the grumpy, stern, judgemental housekeeper Mrs Danvers came into his mind once again. She appeared opposite him, next to Harish, wearing, strangely, a sari and chanlo, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She was frowning, shaking her head, eating her food with her hands just like he was.
Mukesh blinked several times, trying to banish the image of this strange lady who didn’t exist, but nothing was working.
‘Bhai,’ Mukesh said to Harish, desperately trying to keep a grip on reality, his eyes running from Harish to a scowling Mrs Danvers. ‘How is Meenaben?’
‘Oh, she is very good. Very good. Of course, tonight is her night off from me, so I am sure she is happier than ever. Happy to be apart from me!’ Harish chuckled to himself, with a mouth full of food. The imaginary Mrs Danvers looked over at her neighbour and pulled a face of disgust. Mukesh thought this might be the only thing he had in common with the horrible housekeeper of Manderley.
He pictured Naina on the other side of the curtain, serving food to Mrs Danvers herself. ‘I have not forgotten her,’ Mukesh said to himself, but he didn’t know if it was for his own benefit or Mrs Danvers’, to tell her that he was not ever going to forget Naina; no one, not even Nilakshi, could replace his wife. Suddenly, Mrs Danvers picked up her plate and wandered away to the other side of the hall.
Harish was still talking. Mukesh didn’t have a clue what he’d just said, but his response of
‘My God, ne?’ was apparently just what Harish had been hoping for.
‘Meena wondered if you want to come for dinner. It has been ages, bhai.’ Harish seemed to have noticed that Mukesh was elsewhere. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. Mukesh responded with a shake-nod of the head.
‘Of course. Whenever!’
‘Saturday? My eldest is home too so that will be nice. He will like to see you.’
Saturday was no good. Saturday 6 July. It was the day Nilakshi was going to come over. ‘I am busy.’
‘Seeing Rohini?’
Mukesh shook his head.
‘Priya or Deepali’s twins? I haven’t seen those little ones in ages. Not since—’
Mukesh shook his head.
‘Vritti? Has she found a husband yet?’
Mukesh shook his head. He didn’t want to lie, but he was very grateful for the double questions. Perhaps Harish wouldn’t know which one he was answering.
‘Ah, I am so surprised. She is such a lovely, pretty woman. She reminds me so much of your Naina. What are you doing, then? Have you joined a chess club? Cricket club?’ Harish chortled, slapping his stomach. ‘Imagine! Mukesh, doing cricket!’
‘I am having dinner with Nilakshiben,’ Mukesh said it quickly, matter-of-factly, making sure to enunciate the ‘ben’ clearly, to prove there was nothing more than a brotherly-sisterly friendship between them, uttering it loudly so even Harish’s selective hearing could pick it up.
‘Who is Ben?’
Mukesh blushed. ‘No, bhai. Nee-lak-shee-ben.’
Harish frowned for a moment, and then his eyes widened. ‘Oh, Bhagwan! You are dating? But Naina?’
Mukesh went fuchsia pink. ‘No, bhai, bhai. You totally misunderstand.’
At that moment, that gruesome Mrs Danvers skulked back from the other side of the hall, her eyes boring into Mukesh.
‘But she is Naina’s friend! You are a widower!’
‘No, Harish!’ Mukesh held his hands up in defence, a warning, to him, to Harish. A pleading – please, please listen. ‘We are just friends, catching up. Nothing like that at all.’
And he meant it. It was nothing like that. But this is why he felt so weird about it. They hadn’t even spent more than a few hours together and people were already putting them down as widow-adulterers. Adulterants? Adulterists? Mukesh shook his head, it didn’t matter either way, because that is not what they were.
Mukesh picked his plate up and scraped the leftovers into the bin. He could feel Mrs Danvers following him every step of the way as he stormed out of the hall, and then out of the mandir into the open air of Neasden. He pulled the book out of his tote bag. Rebecca. For a moment, he thought the name Naina was emblazoned on the front instead. Why was this book doing this to him? What did it want from him?
THE READING LIST
JOSEPH
2017
JOSEPH HAD BEEN COMING to the library since he was little. When his mum had to work during school holidays, she’d drop him off here, encouraging him to finish his homework or read ahead for the following year. Now he came to the library after school on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, even though he was old enough to be at home by himself. He had his favourite table, which was mostly unoccupied because it wasn’t quite as tucked away as the others. It was close to the librarian’s desk. Joseph enjoyed the gentle murmuring from the few people who would come and take books out. It helped him concentrate. He liked the library. It was peaceful. And no one from school ever came here.
One day, he was sitting in this exact spot when someone actually sat down opposite. He didn’t look up – he’d made that mistake before when a youngish man had started asking him questions about his schoolwork, and Joseph hadn’t known how to make it clear that he wanted to get on with his work in peace. As usual, he kept his head down, his eyes on his page.
He noticed from the person’s hands, as they placed a book on the table, that they were older. The skin was a little bit looser, a little like his mum’s hands. He glanced up to see what the book was, trying to get a glimpse of the cover, but he was too late, the hands had whipped the book open. He turned back to his homework.
Bullying and Peer Pressure. He hated PSHE homework, but it had to be done. He hated the lessons too, mainly because he had to sit next to Moe Johnson, who despised Joseph. ‘What are you meant to do when someone is bullying you, eh, Joey boy?’ he’d sneer. ‘Tell someone?’ He taunted Joseph for going to the library after school. Once, he’d followed him all the way there, calling him a wuss, a sissy, a loser, a nerd, a geek, a suck-up. As soon as Joseph was inside the doors, though, he was safe. Moe would never be caught dead in here.
Bullying and Peer Pressure. Where was he meant to start? The first question was, ‘What is the definition of bullying?’ and he felt as if Moe Johnson had put the question there specially to mock him. If Moe didn’t lay a hand on Joseph, it wasn’t actual bullying, was it?
Then there was the second question, ‘How do you know if someone is being bullied?’ People covered up so many things.
Joseph put his head on the table. When he looked up, he noticed his paper was a mash of wet, soggy circles.
The stranger opposite him, with the slightly wrinkly, not-very-wrinkly hands, took a piece of paper out and began rummaging through their own book, running their fingers over the words. They stopped, tucked the piece of paper inside and pushed the book across the table towards him. Joseph raised his gaze just slightly, so he was looking at the book, but he didn’t make eye contact with the mysterious stranger. He didn’t want to talk right now, not when he had silent tears streaming down his face.
Life of Pi. The cover was a sea of blue and one giant tiger, colourful and bright. He could see the dog-eared note peeking out between the pages.
Joseph didn’t pick up the book. He left it on the table, as though he hadn’t even noticed it, and moments later the stranger opposite put on their jacket, packed their stuff away, and off they went. Joseph never saw their face.
Joseph had never been a super bookish person; he hadn’t really read reading books since he was small, he had too much schoolwork these days. But as he pulled the book towards him, turning it over in his hands, he ran his eyes down the words on the back cover. It was about a boy – 16 years old – stranded on a boat with a tiger, a hyena, an orang-utan and a zebra. How strange. He turned the cover back over – he saw the boy, curled up at one end of the boat, hugging his knees tightly. Joseph had never been on a boat with a tiger before. But he knew that feeling, the feeling of wanting, needing, to be as small as possible, invisible. He laid the book on the table. Somehow, he knew this book had been left here deliberately: for him.
In a heartbeat, he shoved his PSHE homework into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. He marched the book over to the self-service machines. He desperately wanted to be at home now, so he could curl up with the book and find out what the stranger intended for him to discover.
At home, Joseph opened then slammed his front door, and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He tucked himself under the covers, the duvet resting on his head as he sat cross-legged on his bed, and opened the book to where the scrappy bit of paper had been left.
He pulled it out – being as gentle as he could with the paper – and scanned it. It was a list. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight books. With one of them circled.
Life of Pi.
His book.
Chapter 15
ALEISHA
SHE TURNED THE FINAL page and took a deep inhale. She hadn’t noticed the hours passing as she sat in the deserted library, her head between the pages. It was the first time she’d read freely, without doubting herself, without wondering if she was taking the story in properly, without thinking about the outside world at all.
Putting The Kite Runner back on her desk, Aleisha covered her face in her hands. She could feel her pulse racing, she could feel her heart beating as though it was going to blast out of her chest, and her head hurt – she was so glad the
library was empty. If anyone spoke to her in real life, she might just burst into tears.
She picked up her phone, wanting desperately to message someone instead, to talk without actually talking, to tell someone about what she’d read. She wondered if Rachel would know the book, but she hadn’t messaged her for a few weeks and texting out of the blue about a book would be weird. Then she thought of the woman in the shop, and then that guy, Zac … had he said he’d read it? She was surprised to find her mind wandering to him again.
She pictured Amir and Hassan, two best friends, as close as brothers, running around Kabul flying their kites – Hassan, who was so kind, and so loyal to his friend, who would do anything to protect him, and to make him happy; and Amir, who enjoyed Hassan’s friendship and his loyalty, yet still treated him unkindly in the small ways that children do, without thinking. Amir spent the rest of his life regretting what he did to his best friend, finally understanding everything Hassan had sacrificed for him when they were both just children. But Amir spent the rest of his life trying to be good again. And, if Amir’s story showed Aleisha one thing, it was that – no matter how terribly you have behaved in the past – you should do everything you can to be good. Amir and Hassan’s friendship had literally broken Aleisha’s heart; she hadn’t known she could feel this bereft because of a story, some words on a page.
To Kill a Mockingbird and Rebecca had been good, but at points she’d felt as though she was reading them maybe more like schoolbooks. She was reading them looking for a message, searching for what she could talk to Mr Patel about.
But The Kite Runner – she’d lived and breathed this book for days. When she was at home with Aidan, and he’d been asking her how her day was, her day was nothing outside of the world of the book.
‘I’m reading The Kite Runner,’ she’d told him. ‘It’s literally all I can think about.’
‘I’ve seen the film,’ Aidan said. ‘It’s so fucking sad, how are you coping?’
The Reading List Page 14
