She sips the caustic drink and catches fragments of the maudlin chatter.
I can’t believe she’s gone.
I spoke to her that morning.
The damp winter months were too hard on her lungs.
I’ll miss her samosas and tamarind sauce.
I wonder what will happen to the shop now? Should we sell it? Should we keep it?
Heat rises from the drink into Kavita’s cheeks. Sinking into the broken-in couch, she reflects on Nani, the closest thing she has ever had to a grandmother, having never met her own.
They would sit, drink tea, eat snacks—bhajis and tamarind sauce or fresh dhokla with coriander chutney. Nani would ask if they had good jobs, if they made enough money, when they were going to buy a house, when they were going to start a family. In turn, Kavita would ask: What was the sea voyage like from Bengal to South Hampton? Was it frightening to be a widow in a foreign place, or unexpectedly freeing? How had the community changed over the years? Nani would answer in her meandering singsong way, as though displaying a long-forgotten family quilt that had been packed away in a suitcase for safe keeping, each golden line of her story as rich as the finest zari work.
Kavita reaches for Nirav’s hand, and squeezes.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I’m just thinking about Nani. She changed so many lives. You know, if she hadn’t immigrated, you and I would never have met.”
He smiles partway. “That’s true, isn’t it?”
Their reminiscing is interrupted when a man Kavita doesn’t recognize enters the room. He is wearing a blue jacket and dark pants and looks to be middle-aged, as hinted at by his grizzled temples. Another family friend who has come to offer his condolences, Kavita assumes. She greets him, warmly.
As he passes, he flashes her an accusing glare. Points with his eyes to the whiskey in her hand, and sneers, “That better not be for you,” then turns away from her in disgust.
The welcoming smile drops from Kavita’s lips. A blink breaks her momentary paralysis. Puzzled, her eyes dart from the glass in her hand, to the stranger’s hairless crown, and back to the glass again. What did he just say? she thinks. Who is he?
Sheepish, she places her scotch on the coffee table, and avoids the man’s pandit-like gaze.
“Just ignore him,” Nirav whispers.
“You heard what he said?”
“Just let it go, all right?” The next moment, Nirav’s father introduces him to the strange man. Nirav stands, shakes hands, and tells him what a pleasure it is to meet him, with a wide grin.
Kavita sits in silence, unnamed, without being introduced.
She wonders if this her punishment for roguish behaviour, being out of place, disrupting their customary order of: women over here, men over there?
Quietly, she excuses herself and ventures next door to see if she can find better company among the women.
Maya sits hunched on a chair close to the doorway, frowning and texting on her mobile. Kavita leans on the wall beside her, clears her throat, and waits to see if any conversation might flow between them. Maya keeps her eyes fixed on the glowing screen in her hands, her thumbs moving with impressive speed.
“Kavita, dear,” Mrs. Stone says from the opposite corner of the room. “Come and say hello to everyone.”
Crossing the room, Kavita slowly makes her way along the line of women seated on the floral settee, folding her hands in namaskar and greeting them with a slight bow.
At the far end, she finally meets someone she knows, Nisha Auntie, Dilip mama’s wife. She is a plump woman, with waist-length black hair, puffy from years of brushing out its disobedient curl, which she always wears in a long braid draped over one shoulder. She is wearing a purple cotton sari and grey cardigan. During their last visit, this same auntie pinned a charm into Kavita’s sweater to help ward off the dreaded evil eye, a loving gesture as steeped in caring as it was village superstition. Kavita is happy to see her.
“How are you, Kavita?” Nisha Auntie asks, her grin warm and genuine.
“I’m fine, thank you, Auntie,” Kavita replies. “And you?”
“As well as can be expected, haan?”
Kavita nods.
“Have you learned to speak Bengali yet?”
“No, Auntie, not yet.”
“Ahh,” Nisha Auntie nods, an expression of slight disappointment on her face. “And tell me, how are your parents? How is their health?”
“As well as can be expected,” borrowing a line from Nisha Auntie.
“When will they be visiting us?”
The question comes as a slight shock. Kavita’s parents are in no shape to make the journey and bear the exhaustion of visiting from house to house. Nevertheless she answers, “Maybe next year.”
“And how about your brother?” Nisha Auntie goes on. “How is Sunil?”
Although Kavita hears the words, she doesn’t understand their meaning, as though Nisha Auntie has suddenly switched to Bengali. She must have misheard.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your brother,” Nisha Auntie repeats. “How is his health? Will he be marrying soon? I know some nice girls.”
Before Kavita has a chance to respond, a hand claws her elbow and thrusts her out of the room. In the solitude of the foyer, Mrs. Stone whispers deeply into her ear, “No one knows about him.”
Then she leaves.
14.
MINUTES PASS. The sounds of the house fall to the background of Kavita’s shock. All she can hear are the senseless words spinning inside her head, over and over, and over and over.
What was happening? How could they not know about Sunil’s passing? Why did Mrs. Stone rush off without explaining?
Part of her has an urgent need to tell Nirav what has happened. See his eyes bulge and the symmetry of his face screw with confusion. Hear him voice all the questions that are spinning inside her skull. But he is still anesthetising his feelings with the men, and after her shame-faced retreat, she can’t bring herself to breach their clubhouse again.
The other part of her wants to hide.
“Kavita!” Mrs. Stone summons.
Oh no.
“Kavita?”
I can’t go back in there.
“Ka-vi-ta!”
I need to get out of here.
15.
“Kavita!” There is no escape. “Don’t just stand in the hallway, dear!”
Nor any confession of sin.
Her legs feel numb. How can she stumble back into that room and pretend something very wrong didn’t just happen? What if someone else asks about Sunil? Is she supposed to tell them in passing that he died months ago? Or worse, pretend he is still alive? She doesn’t know what to do. And there is nowhere else to go.
She suddenly realizes she is shaking. She balls her hands into fists to squeeze the quake into submission.
That is the moment she notices a deep emptiness, cold and spherical, like a hollow globe of ice, behind her navel, where she has been looted of something—something important. What was it? How does she get it back? What is the cold space that has replaced it, as frigid, lightless, and lonely as a den made of snow.
This can’t be happening, she thinks. None of this makes sense.
The den of snow is limitless; its chill, endless.
She wraps her arms around her stomach.
She is alone with it.
Alone.
16.
WHEN HER NAME IS CALLED again, Kavita knows there is no other choice but to go back into the room. She stabs her nails into the scar on her palm. Forgive me, Bear, she begs him, hoping he will understand.
Once in the front room, she leans against the wall beside Maya, which somehow feels like a less hostile place than it did earlier.
“Kavita,” Mrs. Stone says. “There you are, d
ear. You wouldn’t mind fixing us a brew, would you? Two sugars in mine, ta. Oh, and there’s a box of cream teas on the counter.”
“I take three sugars,” Maya tells Kavita, eyes glued to her mobile.
Without a word, Kavita retreats to the safety of the kitchen. Through the thin wall, she hears the men chatting, toasting, clinking glasses. Mechanically, she goes about making tea.
When it’s ready, she smooths out the creases of her face until she is blank, and carries out a tray of tea cups and cakes, bowing in front of the ladies as they help themselves. As she stoops in front of Mrs. Stone, the tray begins to rattle in her hands.
“Ah, bless,” Mrs. Stone says. She slurps a sip. “Goodness, Kavita, are you all right? I must say, you do look a bit peeky, dear. Not coming down with flu, I hope. The last thing I need at the mo’ is a sore throat to go with my runny nose, goodness me!”
After the tea is passed around, Kavita slips back into the kitchen with the empty tray, until Mrs. Stone calls upon her again. She doesn’t know how long she can maintain this state of shaky, forced calm, how long she can suppress the rumblings beneath her skin.
Back in the front room, she takes a seat beside Maya, who shifts ever-so-slightly in the opposite direction.
“My tea’s too sweet,” Maya says, flat.
Kavita sits, mutely, knifing her nails into the scar on her palm. While it doesn’t hurt as much as she would like, as much as she knows she deserves, for now it will have to suffice.
Meanwhile, the words continue to funnel in her head, a bedlam she fights to contain within her statue of a body, as she trembles in ways no one else can see.
17.
HOURS LATER, they drive back to the Stone’s. As soon as they enter the house, Kavita tries to pull Nirav aside and tell him what’s happened, but he has to write his speech, and he is in a mood. It can wait a little longer, she tells herself.
Soiled with travel, she craves a shower, and the solitude of the washroom. She grabs a change of clothes and slips upstairs. As soon as she locks the washroom door, the words surge back to her with even more virulence, as if they have absorbed every bit of the force she used to push them down, and now they are pushing back—they are pushing her over.
No one knows about him.
No one knows about him.
No one knows about him….
She runs the shower, undresses, and steps into the bath with a shiver. She stands facing the stream, wanting the water to pour into the chill she has been holding in her belly, but even at full strength, the water isn’t hot enough to melt away the frigid feeling.
As trickles trace her skin, she hugs her nakedness, and the words brim out of her in short, convulsive cries. Maybe if she lets them out this way, they will slip down the drain like dirty water and return to the rotten underground place where awful things belong.
But it doesn’t work. No matter how she tries to empty herself, the words remain, as if they are a part of her now, like Anchor and Blaze and Gloom. And the nameless den of snow.
No one knows about him.
No one knows about him.
No one knows about him….
Gloom settles upon her back. Its weight curls her spine. She sinks to her knees and presses her palms against the tub, trying to resist its dark power, which feels heavy enough to crush her into the floor.
18.
WHEN THE WATER FINALLY runs cold, she wakens, trembling. She lifts herself out of the bath and wraps herself in a towel that has been warming on the radiator. As she sits on the toilet, waiting for the quake in her flesh to still, she wonders, bleakly, what in the world she is going to do with herself while Nirav finishes his speech.
The feeling side of her wants to bury the incident in dreams within dreams.
The thinking side of her lectures she is overreacting. Why does she always have to be so soft? Doesn’t she know her perspective is skewed by her emotions? Doesn’t she know people who feel too much are usually wrong? No? Well, they are, it assures her. She has probably misunderstood the whole situation, so she should keep calm, and wait for a reasonable explanation. It repeats: be reasonable. Nirav will help her get to the bottom of things and then she will see how silly she has been. Everything is going to be fine. Now, it tells her, snap out of it, and get back out there, and for the love of God, be useful.
Wait for a reasonable explanation, she coaches herself. Everything is going to be fine.
Kavita finds Nirav seated at the oblong dining table, hunched over a spiral notepad with a pencil in his hand. He scribbles something, crosses it out, and then rubs his forehead, as if the friction might summon a muse. As she passes, she touches his shoulder. He keeps rubbing his forehead.
Mrs. Stone is seated in the living room watching a show on television. Kavita presumes that Nirav’s father and sister are in their bedrooms.
As she looks at Mrs. Stone, Kavita feels the words resurge, the way they had in the shower, but quickly sandbags them with her reason-based mantra: Wait for a reasonable explanation. Everything is going to be fine. Be pleasant and helpful and a good daughter-in-law.
“Mrs. Stone,” she says. “I was thinking about making dinner for us.”
“Brilliant, brilliant,” says Mrs. Stone without taking her eyes off the television. “And another brew when you’ve got a minute, dear, would be lovely. Ta.”
Kavita lingers in case Mrs. Stone might add a please or a thank-you or perhaps the reasonable explanation she has been strenuously awaiting.
“Something else, dear?”
“N-no. The tea won’t be long.”
Kavita passes Nirav on the way to the kitchen.
“It’s too bloody loud in here,” he huffs, then marches off to his bedroom upstairs.
Kavita goes about making tea, concentrating on each step as a way of quietening her mind. She gets out cups, PG Tips, cubes of sugar, and pint-sized jug of milk. Meanwhile, she considers that perhaps it’s a good thing Nirav went to his room. Maybe Mrs. Stone means to explain everything to her over a nice cup of tea.
Back in the living room, Kavita hands Mrs. Stone a steaming cup. “Ah, lovely.” Mrs. Stone takes a loud slurp. “Really, really nice, dear. Much improved. I think you must have forgotten the sugar in mine last time. Never mind, never mind!”
Kavita sits and sips. Sips and waits. The mantra begins to fail her. She recites it again.
Wait for a reasonable explanation. Everything is going to be fine. She feels a bit calmer. Now, tells herself. Be pleasant and helpful and a good daughter-in-law.
“I guess I’ll get dinner started.”
“There’s a Jamie Oliver cookbook on the counter if you need a dash of inspiration. He makes a lovely curry, you know.”
As Kavita rises, the mantra fails her again. Blaze flashes like oil in a pan. I don’t need Jamie Oliver to teach me how to cook Indian food, thanks.
Back in the kitchen, she scours the small fridge and the cupboards for ingredients. She is always surprised to see a washing machine under the sink, where she expects to find a dishwasher. By the end of her rummage, she has gathered together cauliflower, potatoes, onions, the necessary spices, and a pack of ready-made rotis.
First, she chops the onion. Blaze guides the knife. The pieces get smaller and smaller until they resemble grains of rice. Next, she moves on to the tomatoes. When Blaze is finished with them, they are jam.
She is about to start hacking the cauliflower, when Mrs. Stone enters the kitchen, the slap of her chappals announcing her arrival. This is it, Kavita thinks. She sets down the knife, orders herself to smile, and clasps her hands behind her back, an inviting pose.
Mrs. Stone places her empty cup in the sink. “Going up for a bit o’ kip before dinner. See you in a bit, dear.” The false smile drops from Kavita’s lips, as she watches Mrs. Stone exit the kitchen and disappears upstairs, her blue sari swaying in ti
me with her unhurried gait.
Kavita stares at the cauliflower. There is nothing more to do now other than finish cooking dinner. Mrs. Stone has been through a lot, she reminds herself. A nap will do her good. Maybe later she will have more energy to explain the mix-up. Yes, Kavita reasons, these conversations are best had when everyone is well-rested.
She grips the knife and attacks the cauliflower. That evening’s aloo gobi will be more purée than sabji.
In the hot pan, she fries the onions and tomatoes. Adds salt, pepper, curry powder and cumin. Coaxes the masala to release its peppery perfume with a stir. Breathes in the warm and familiar bouquet. For the moment, she isn’t in some unfamiliar neighbourhood in Greater London any longer. The aroma sails over the Atlantic, back home, where it is safe.
19.
WHILE THE SABJI FINISHES in the pan, Kavita rinses basmati, grates cucumber for raita, and chops tomatoes, onions, and coriander salad. She even decides against serving the frozen rotis and rolls out pinches of dough instead. Then she sets the table, cleans the dishes, and lights a rose-scented incense stick that was already waiting for fire in a holder on the kitchen windowsill.
What else? she thinks, as she stands in the middle of the kitchen. What else can she do to maintain this state of forced calm. What else to distract away from the corkscrew of doubt twisting her gut, that whispers to her during the occasional lull in her chores: What if there is no reasonable explanation?
Chores, chores, chores. More of them. Now. She could take out the trash, or reorganize the cupboards, or clean out the fridge, or put a load of washing on. At home, she would have felt comfortable enough to lose herself among these mundane tasks. But she isn’t at home. Home is supposed to be a safe place, but she doesn’t feel safe here. Not safe enough to stop, and certainly not safe enough to be alone with her thoughts.
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