All the Tomorrows

by Nillu Nasser

  He rummaged around his neck. “This is the only thing I have of hers. It is yours if you want it.”

  She took the glinting necklace from him and saw it was a locket. She squinted at it in the streetlight, unclasping it to discover the miniature photographs of his son and a baby inside. It made all the difference he had offered this to her. His assurances went some way to appeasing her jealousy of the dead woman.

  “Jaya?” He quivered, and she knew her power over him.

  “Yes?”

  “How can you love a man like me?”

  The answer came forth, unencumbered, the easiest thing she had ever said. “Soraya interrupted our love story. You let her. But it wasn’t just you, Akash. It takes two to love. And I’m ready. Did you ever think it wasn’t about you? This is about me. My ability to determine what happens in my life. I’m in control, and I like it.”

  A silence grew between them while she collected her thoughts and tried to put them into some sort of order. She failed, and in the end, only her intuition came to her rescue, the feeling that if she didn’t forgive him now, it would be she who suffered.

  “Be warned, Akash, it’s all or nothing. I won’t be beholden to empty promises. If our love story is to be resurrected, we won’t smother it behind closed doors and under tradition. We’ll wear our scars proudly.”

  “I don’t understand.” His brow wrinkled and she was hit once more by the urge to touch him, to smooth it out.

  “I have been suffocated by tradition. I want love on my own terms. If we’re to save it, truth will be the oil of this relationship. The first time, I made up a person in my head you could never be. This time, we’ll lay ourselves bare. Every flaw, every secret. We’ll rekindle our love, but we’ll live apart until I’m ready. I’ll always have the freedom to do as I wish. I won’t wash your clothes simply because you demand it, or cut papayas at dawn.”

  “I understand.” His eyes were full of love and she almost couldn’t stand it, the distance between them. She had to be strong, but still she doubted. Were they in love with the idea of love, or was this the real thing? She couldn’t be sure without risking her heart again.

  “I have witnesses here,” said Jaya. The click-clack of Ruhi’s heels echoed in her head as Ruhi and Firoz stepped out from behind the palm trees. They came to stand by her side, solemn as mourners at a funeral. “If you can agree to these vows of my choosing, we can begin again.”

  “Jaya, are you sure about this?” said Ruhi, her words a whisper masked by the night breeze.

  Jaya coaxed her eyes away from the contours of her husband’s face. She still needed to learn how time had changed him. “Sometimes we shut our eyes and fall. I’ve been falling for years. This time, I’ll embrace it.” She slipped her wedding ring, tired yellow gold, from the pouch. She held the wedding band between her thumb and forefinger, toying with it. “It’s not happiness I expect. I expect a disaster. We won’t go into this with blinkers on. Whatever the outcome, I’ll be changed, and to change is to move forward. And maybe, just maybe,” she addressed Akash, “you’ll prove yourself to be the ideal husband. Not to my family or friends, but to me.”

  “Does this mean what I think it means?” He trembled.

  She nodded.

  He fell to her feet, kissing her shoes, there where her toes were missing. She bent, touching his bony shoulders, feeling her heart swell for the second chance her father had almost stolen from them. “Make no mistake. This is a vow we’re taking. Ruhi and Firoz can attest to that. They will hold me and you to account if we deviate, if our love disappoints. This is your trial by fire, and if you falter, I will leave and I won’t look back. There’ll be no coming back.”

  Tears streaked down his cheeks and he looked up to the sky to mouth something Jaya couldn’t understand.

  “Do you have vows of your own to add?” said Firoz.

  “No,” said Akash, smiling through his tears. “Once Jaya’s parents spoke for her. Now her words will bind us. It is enough. It is everything.”

  “Then you agree?” said Jaya.

  “I agree, Jaya. We’ll rebuild our lives and I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

  She handed him her wedding ring and the four of them stood, in a semi-circle by the night roses while Akash gently took Jaya’s hand and swivelled the ring into place. Her hand tingled where he had caressed it. Her breath caught in her throat while he pricked his thumb on a thorn, and used a drop of blood to mark her forehead, just under the hair line, with the ancient symbol of marriage.

  She took a vine from the bush, wordless, and fashioned it into a ring for his finger. He extended his hand and it quivered like a leaf in the wind. The vine sat at the base of his hand, green, the colour of life. She wondered how long it would last. It soothed her to see how emotional he was, this man who had taken so much from her. She would have to learn to read him again, a new language, a new terrain.

  Chapter 42

  Akash could not deny the pull he felt to the temple. His faith in the gods ebbed and flowed, but he experienced it most in grief and gratitude. This time, joy drove him to prostrate before Shiva. Only when he approached did he notice the Shivaratri celebrations in progress, marking the day Lord Shiva married the goddess Parvati. Surely it had to be a sign from the heavens that his rejoining with Jaya fell on the same day?

  He rang the ghanta as he entered the temple. The bell sounded out, reverberating high and clear across the temple, an Om sound that beckoned him to a spiritual plane. Inside, he joined the swaying throngs chanting Om Namah Shivaya and offering flowers to a smooth cylindrical stone representing Shiva, The Blue-Throated, who saved the world, whose cosmic dance was the source of creation, preservation and dissolution. He closed his eyes and, with every breath, sent a burst of gratitude to the heavens.

  Afterwards, he returned to sleep on the floor of Janghir Saheb’s store. He cradled his ring finger and its adornment to him, and a wholesome sleep came to him that had eluded him for years. Shadows did not haunt his dreams. He saw neither a burning Jaya, a withering Soraya nor an accusing Arjun. His fears rested, locked away by Jaya’s trust in him.

  His journey to this point had all been in search of love, and he understood now that only by facing his past, reconciling with it, could he build something of value. He’d survived his years on the street by walking towards a mirage of his perfect love, when he he’d perhaps had it all along.

  Even now, Akash recognised he paled in comparison to Arjun, a man who had managed so successfully what he had failed at: marriage, business, raising a family. Perhaps his journey would have been easier, had he been able to buy love, to shower Jaya, Arjun and Leela with gifts. But, no. He had fallen prey to his vanities before, and he was determined to be the best man he could be for Jaya, to live up to the ring on his finger, to build a life of joy and companionship, make up for his errors in the past, and walk into old age hand in hand. Without the hope of love, everything paled.

  They had been reconciled for one night and already his stomach churned at the thought of losing her, of never having his fill of her laughter and her touch. He’d believed she was dead for so long, that this seemed to him like a delicious, precarious dream that might disintegrate at any instant. They had plans to meet tomorrow. He wanted them to sit together in the fading light and reminiscence about the times they shared and the times they were apart. He wanted to find some meaning in it all. But first, there was work to do. He hadn’t forgotten Tariq. Zahid was still free, and Akash wanted revenge.

  Jaya had been looking forward to attending Firoz’s class all day. Work had been tiresome, with endless alterations to costumes for Tara’s forthcoming production. Jaya had cut, tacked and stitched, remaining patient with the performers. All the while she had willed herself here, to the quiet of Firoz’s studio, the comfort of the canvas and the joy of the friendship that had blossomed with Muna.

  Firoz greeted her with a smile as she arrived. He fizzed with enthusiasm and enfolded her in a hug.


  “You see these pink pants? They’re my happy pants!” he exclaimed. “I am so happy for you, Jaya. Last night—last night was beautiful. You cut out a piece of your past and you remade it to work for you. That, that is living.”

  She laughed. His enthusiasm was infectious. So often over the years he’d been the sunshine to her dark cloud. It felt good to have a reason to celebrate together. Still, nobody apart from her inner circle—Firoz, Ruhi and Akash himself—could know she’d reconciled with Akash until she had worked out precisely what that meant and how to tell her parents. For now, at least, her ring hung around her neck on the chain Akash had given her, suspended side by side with his locket.

  She considered briefly how her parents might react to the news, whether they would be happy for her or horrified. There would be time to dwell later. She tossed the anxiety from her mind.

  At the near end of the studio sat Muna, already using a pencil to draw fine lines on the canvas, biting her lip in concentration. Jaya crossed the floor to sit at the easel next to Muna, briefly wrapping her arms around the younger woman from behind as she passed. She flattered herself to think they might have passed as mother and daughter to the unknowing eye.

  “Hello, you,” said Jaya.

  “Hi,” smiled Muna, pretty in a mauve salwar kameez with blue beading.

  “You look beautiful. Careful you don’t splash paint on your outfit. Firoz has some aprons at the back if you need one.”

  “I’m okay. I inherited enough clothes from my mother-in-law not to have to repeat an outfit in my lifetime,” said Muna.

  Jaya picked up her palette and squeezed colour on to it.

  “I guess I’m lucky to have inherited her things. She had no daughters.”

  Jaya picked up her brush and drew strokes, trying to replicate Akash’s face. The image of him in the rose garden—the one she had seen for decades, of him entwined in another woman’s arms—had been replaced by one of an older Akash renewing their marriage vow. She wanted to capture his face. She needed to expel his likeness onto the page just in case he didn’t stay and she was left with nothing.

  She leaned forward and the locket and ring dipped close to her palette. She tenderly held them before placing them inside her blouse. She smiled at Muna, content, before picking up her brush. “It’s addictive coming here, isn’t it? You can’t keep away.”

  “I’m lucky Arjun doesn’t mind me leaving the baby with him.”

  Jaya froze. “Your husband is called Arjun?”

  “Yes, why?” said Muna, tilting her head to study her work.

  Firoz paced nearby, greeting each and every one of his class.

  Jaya’s heart raced. “Your mother-in-law, was she called Soraya?” The locket hung heavy between her breasts.

  Startled, Muna turned to Jaya. “How did you know? Have you been to the restaurant? Such a small world.”

  Jaya fumbled for the chain and slowly drew out the locket. The ring clinked next to it.

  “What’s that?” said Muna, her brow furrowed. She reached out her hand to touch the locket. “I’ve seen one of those before.”

  Other students traipsed through the studio, rustling bags, saying hello. Jaya was grateful for the bustle. She opened the locket and the air stilled around her as she offered it to Muna to look inside.

  “Jayaji, why have you got a picture of my husband and baby in your necklace?” asked Muna, pale and quiet under the bright studio light.

  “Because I followed your advice, Muna. I went after my happiness. And the man I love, the one I spoke of to you, he gave me this. He is Akash, Arjun’s father, and the woman who stole my husband from me gave him this locket. She was Soraya.”

  Akash busied himself at the store, hauling out rubbish to the containers in the alleyway. The bins smelt like someone had pissed against them and he made a mental note to wash them when he had a quiet moment. He’d have to be careful not to damage his makeshift ring. He glanced down at his finger, his heart swelling with pride, matched only by Janghir Saheb, who was preening like a peacock at his shop’s imminent opening. Inside, the aisles gleamed, stacked to the brim with canned and boxed goods, snacks of every description and even a fresh fruit and vegetables corner overflowing with guavas and mangoes, okra and onions, green beans and bulbs of garlic. If only Tariq had been here to witness it.

  Akash made his way back inside. Low strains of Asha Bhosle from the tired CD player filled the shop. A low laugh curdled his contentment, sending fear darting up his spine. Akash turned, slowly, for fear his eyes would corroborate what his ears had told him.

  “We’ve been looking for you. I should have known you’d be here. That the old fool would trust you after what you did,” said Zahid, flanked by his brutes from the beach, looming large and menacing in the doorway.

  Akash thought hard and fast. Was Zahid really trying to pin the blame for Tariq’s death on him? He had to get away. He knew what Zahid was capable of. Akash’s hands were empty. He had no weapon. The shop was deserted apart from him and Janghir Saheb, who was in his back office. The workmen had completed their jobs.

  “I’m going to deliver you to the police. My friends there will see to it you will never harm anyone again, you scum.” Zahid’s bald head gleamed.

  A movement in the corner of his eye gave him a glimmer of hope. Janghir Saheb emerged, upright and intent.

  “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way,” he said.

  “Good. The sooner this dog is locked up the better,” said Zahid, edging his way towards Akash.

  “Run, Akash!” shouted Janghir Saheb, lifting his cane into the air and running at the men, surprisingly agile for a man of his age. “Run!”

  Akash did not need telling twice. He darted down the aisle, heading for the back exit, but at the last moment he circled back round, fearful for the old man. Rice and ready-made chapatis, tomatoes and cans of soda flew from the aisles behind him as the men gave chase. His heart beat thundered like the hooves of a horse, rattling in his chest. They were bigger, but he was faster. He had something to live for.

  A crash behind him. He hurled a glance over his shoulder. There lay one of the henchmen amongst an assorted pile of groceries, a spray of flour in the air, his face grim. Akash rounded the last aisle, anxious for Janghir Saheb, already sorry for the damage that had been done, the misfortune he had attracted. The old man had cornered Zahid’s other brute against the freezer. He groaned with every sharp hit of Janghir Saheb’s cane, able but unwilling to strike his elder. Relief drove tears to Akash’s eyes.

  “Go! What are you waiting for!” shouted Janghir Saheb.

  Akash nodded, unable to speak, his lungs burning. He jumped over the threshold and burst into the open, only to be nearly run over by a passing swarm of cycles. A young boy called out an admonishment in rapid-fire Hindi. Akash barely processed him. His gaze swept to the alley. He had to finish this once and for all. He knew what was in the bins. He launched himself towards the container, sensing Zahid hot on his heels, his steps heavy, determined.

  “You can’t escape me, dog. I told you once before you are my bitch. I can do whatever I want to you,” said Zahid.

  He was mere yards away, almost at Akash’s back. A flick behind him, like a spring mechanism.

  Akash veered round. He had found what he needed.

  Zahid held a blade. It glinted in the sunlight.

  Akash didn’t want to die in this reeking alley. He looked down for the symbol of hope on his finger. Help me, Jaya. His thoughts reached out to her as if she were his goddess.

  Zahid hurled himself at Akash, plunging the knife towards him.

  For a second, Akash saw Tariq’s dead face, his gap-toothed mouth wide open, imagined insects crawling into the orifice. Then he swung the plank of wood in his hand into Zahid, with force, seeking to do damage.

  The knife scattered across the dirty paving, and still Akash did not stop. Sirens sounded in the distance. He cut through the air with the plank, landing on Zahid’s bulbous nose, his
portly belly, his back, his legs. The other man crumpled to the floor, moaning, bloodied, but alive.

  Suddenly Fortes was there, her baton raised, yelling at Akash to stop. He let the plank fall from numb fingers. His world widened to the policewoman, Janghir Saheb, and men handcuffing Tariq’s killers. Fortes dragged Zahid to his feet and carefully retrieved the fallen knife.

  Fortes’s voice. “Zahid Khan, I am arresting you for the manslaughter of Tariq Khan...”

  A pause. Someone next to him. “Mr. Choudry. Mr. Choudry, it’s okay now. We have them. We have them now, Akash. Can you hear me?”

  Akash slowly focused on Fortes’s face, let her words filter through. “Yes, I’m okay. Can I talk to him before you take him away?”

  “Two minutes,” said Fortes. She nodded to her man.

  He hauled Zahid back into the alley. Zahid looked at Akash through swollen eyes, venomous even in defeat.

  “You are going to pay for what you did,” Akash quietly said.

  “We’ll see about that,” said Zahid, spitting a gloopy ball of blood at Akash. It hit his shoulder, slid down.

  “Are you more of a man because of your strength, because you crush the weak? Did no one ever love you?” said Akash, turning away. He had heard enough.

  Behind him, Zahid was not finished. “You think you’re worthy by just being born? What have you done? What have you achieved? You, the small man with illusions of grandeur.”

  Fury coursed through Akash’s veins as he spun around. “You killed a man. You killed my friend.”

  “You deserved it,” said Zahid.

  “Well, that’s our case signed, sealed and delivered,” said Fortes. She laughed. “It’s not usually that easy. Well done, Mr. Choudry.” She shook his hand.

  “Wait, wait, I didn’t—”

  Fortes motioned for her colleague to take Zahid away.