by Preethi Nair
Our innermost conflicts were exchanged across that kitchen table whilst I was chopping ingredients or she was filling bottles. We tiptoed around the very delicate parts of our lives, like Gurkhas avoiding landmines. It’s not that we pretended that these parts of our lives never existed but we never probed, and waited for the other to freely surrender the information.
‘You see, darling, Tom went through an awful lot, more than I’ll ever know. One of the kids at school told him about me working and that. I just kept denying it, but I did it for him. Many times I wanted to sit down and explain it all to him, the whole thing, but I thought he wouldn’t be able to handle it. To be ashamed of your sister is one thing, your mother is quite another.’
‘Not for one moment did I think of telling my children the truth about their father. He is a man who only knows how to cause pain. I remember how I felt when I was told my father left us. Always hankering after him or any affection shown to me. I was riddled with self-doubt. Was it because I wasn’t good enough that he left? I don’t want that for them. I want them to feel loved, not feel like they have to work hard to earn it, to prove themselves.’
‘They’re lovely kids, darling, a credit to you, and their innocence, well, we’ve got to keep it pure for as long as we can. I wish I’d done better for my Tom. He doesn’t believe in himself, he works hard, all hours, and nothing happens and you know why that is, don’t you? He doesn’t believe he deserves good things. All your dreams come to nothing if you don’t really believe they’re possible. What do I say to him? Sweetheart, you deserve the best. Well, look where the money has come from to give him the best. That’s how he feels, he doesn’t have to say it to me but I know that’s what he’s thinking.
‘I hope he meets somebody who understands him. He’s a good lad, my Tom, with a decent heart. I know he’d make a great father.’
Sometimes, however, we said nothing to each other and just let the radio that was playing in the background take us to wherever we wanted it to.
The mango and lime pickles were doing very well and I decided it was time to introduce a new range: apple, cinnamon and chilli. Ripe, sober English cooking apples blended with a mixture of temperamental chillies, a hint of toasted fenugreek and asafoetida for vision, all grounded with lightly fried onions and mustard seeds. In those bottles were a perfect combination of stable West and fiery East. It was an acceptance on my part, an assimilation of cultures, fused together with the coarse sweetness of cinnamon.
I needed to find a name for our brand and after much discussion we decided on ‘The Abundance of Spice’.
What began as a homespun industry became a profitable business with a turnover that was increasing day by day. I think we appeared a lot bigger to some of our clients. If only they knew how we scraped together our equipment: a rickety mixer from a closing down restaurant; pots and pans from the rag-and-bone man who specifically collected them for us, and a set of cooks’ knives bought from a car-boot sale.
One of our main household clients was a man called Ravi Thakker, who ordered forty bottles a month. I don’t know what he did with them but we all had a good laugh imagining him eating pickle for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Maggie said that he was probably so full of forgiveness that he surrendered himself to life and was probably some light worker, humming and chanting on top of a mountain. Tom said he was nice enough, a businessman who lived on his own and ordered so many bottles because he missed home.
On one of his visits, Ravi asked Tom if someone from The Abundance of Spice could come and cook at his home for an evening. He was entertaining some clients and wanted to give a dinner party. He was offering twenty pounds, a fortune to us. ‘Tell him we’ll do it, no problem,’ Maggie and I said. Tom drove me to North London to discuss requirements, menu and guests. I also took a sample of my cooking, packed in a tiffin carrier, to see if it was the kind of food he wanted.
A kind-looking man in his mid-thirties opened the door and smiled, introducing himself as Ravi Thakker. I shook his hand. He was pleasant and put me at ease, offering Tom and I some tea. We sat discussing the preparations. He showed me into a very large, tidy kitchen, which smelt new or had retained its newness because it had never been used. Mr Thakker imported and exported rubber and said he had important clients coming to see him from Malaysia and because he would be entertaining them for the week, he wanted them to have one home-cooked meal. There were six guests coming in two weeks’ time. If the food that I had brought for him was of a good standard, he would give me a call to let me know which day would be best for him. That very evening he called, saying that my food was ‘unbelievable’ and so we came to an agreement.
Maggie helped me with the shopping and Tom drove me there on Thursday morning. We let ourselves in with a set of keys Mr Thakker had left. Tom helped unpack the shopping. ‘You’ll be okay, Nalini?’ he kept asking.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I replied.
‘If he makes you feel uncomfortable, you call me and I’ll come right back,’ he said, as he went out of the door. He stopped, was about to say something else when I interrupted him: ‘I’ll manage, Tom, and I will call if I need you.’
I opened Mr Thakker’s fridge and found a few empty milk cartons, leftover takeaways and a stock of my pickles alongside some naan bread. I laughed. It made me feel proud that my pickles had prime position in the fridge. Then I unpacked my utensils, washed them again, took out the fresh produce and began to chop, grind, blend, boil and fry. The kitchen became vibrant with cooking. I didn’t want to use the extractor fan because I wanted his whole house to be woken with the smell of freshly ground spices.
To start, I prepared dosa; lentil and rice pancakes with a deep potato masala filling, and dhai vada; fluffy dough balls coated with mustard seeds dipped in seasoned yoghurt. Then, chicken biriyani to keep the guests occupied as Mr Thakker talked, finishing with a selection of coconut barfi and payasam so that they could come to a positive agreement. I found the serving dishes that he had and delicately placed the food upon them, garnishing each dish with fresh coriander, and then I changed into a sari so that I could serve the food. The bathroom upstairs was big enough for a family of four to live in and had gadgets that I had never seen. It was all very clean and the towels were freshly laundered, he must have had a maid or a cleaner that came in and kept order.
I set the table. Mr Thakker arrived with his guests at exactly the agreed time. He introduced me politely as Nalini, the cook, and as I heated the dishes, he settled them with drinks. I served the food and went into the kitchen. All the sounds that come with eating and appreciating good food came through the walls. Halfway through the meal, as I was in the kitchen cleaning up, Mr Thakker came in to thank me and said I had done an exceptional job. After coffee was served, I put on my coat, took the envelope that he had left on the breakfast table and caught the Tube home. I opened it and inside was a note with a simple ‘Thank you’ and twenty-five pounds. The train ride home was spent thinking of how the children could spend the money. I got home and they were asleep. I slipped out with ten pounds in an envelope and pushed it through Maggie’s door.
The next morning Satchin and Maya spent the fifteen pounds five times over with a list of requests. They then went off to school and Maggie came around to help bottle pickles. The phone rang and it was Mr Thakker asking why I had left without saying goodbye and thanking me once again. He asked if I could come the following month and do the same. I put the phone down and Maggie smiled. Tom came in later that morning to collect boxes for delivery and Maggie told him but he did not seem too happy. ‘I thought it was just a one-off, Nalini,’ he said as he left.
On Sunday, we took the children to Brighton. They couldn’t decide exactly what they wanted to do with the money so I decided to open a Post Office account for each of them. Satchin liked this idea, he was practical with everything he did and meticulously planned every detail. The money would be in his account five years later and he would draw on the interest. Maya wanted to withdraw it the ver
y next day and buy silk fabrics and tailoring scissors. That was Maya, impetuous dreamer, even at ten. I could guarantee that she would buy the scissors and fabric, make a creation that she would display for a day. To a certain degree, I gave them the freedom to make their own choices whenever they could.
The business was doing well enough for me to hire someone else, Mrs Khan. She was the mother of one of Maya’s friends who I had met at the school gates one afternoon. Though her face was covered by a scarf, I could tell she had been crying, so I went up to her and tried talking to her. She spoke very little English but managed to tell me that she had lost her job at the sweet factory and her husband would be annoyed, there was little money as it was. I told her she could start with us the next day.
Farida was quiet, she said very little and worked hard. At first, Maggie was unsettled by the silence but eventually got used to it, understanding that it was just her way. The pickles did not work on her. Maggie and I tried so desperately to get her to inhale the aroma or taste but she didn’t trust us and was frightened, too frightened, so that she had completely closed down. Even the slightest noise would make her cower. Maggie tried explaining but she didn’t seem to want to understand and then she gave up, saying what was the point of giving someone hope when you knew they were never going to use it. It worked out well in other ways because after school, the two girls would come home and play together, whereas normally Fatima would be at home on her own. After she finished, Farida would take Fatima home.
I was saving for a deposit to put on our own house. I imagined it with every conceivable detail from the size of the bedrooms to the colour of the walls and curtains. The children and I would talk about it before we went to sleep. Maya wanted her room done up with pink polka dots and Satchin wanted racing car wallpaper. It wouldn’t take long, I promised them, maybe another year. I could possibly do it in six months but I didn’t want to save so they had to go without things.
Mr Thakker continued to employ me. It was over an hour’s drive so he always made sure he sent a cab to collect me and take me back home. Making food for him and his guests was a bonus for me. I loved how he understood the detail that went into the preparation of food and how much he appreciated it. Every month, I would go and learn a little more about him, just through the instructions that he left me on the kitchen table. His notes were neatly written; considered words, that were not hastily thrown on paper or which ended abruptly, with a scrawled signature. If he made a mistake, he would simply put a line through it and not seek to mask it or erase it. The notes became more informal as time went on. He ended them with ‘Ravi’ and not ‘Mr Thakker’.
Six months later, Ravi asked me to prepare dinner for two people. I went a little later than normal as there wasn’t so much work. He arrived home around six o’ clock but there was no one with him. To my astonishment, he held out a bunch of yellow roses. ‘For you, Nalini,’ he said. ‘To thank you for everything,’ and then he invited me to sit down and have dinner with him. I wanted to run out of the house and leave, yet a huge part of me also wanted me to stay. I was flattered. We sat down and he served.
He told me how his family had come to England after being thrown out of Uganda. A few years later, his parents left to join his brother in America. Ravi stayed to make a go of his new business which was what he had been doing for the last seven years. It employed ninety people worldwide. I thought he would continue talking about himself but quite suddenly he asked me about myself. His first question was how long I had been with the company and if they were good employers. ‘Very good … the best,’ I replied. He said it was important to work for good people and I told him that it was my own business and so the boss had to be good or she would be fired. He looked surprised and I explained that it wasn’t quite the multi-national he thought it was, more of a cottage industry. Then, as he was eating a brinjal, I said I had set it up because of my children. The brinjal almost fell out of his mouth.
‘You’re married!’ I could have said yes and finished the sentence with, ‘my husband left us,’ but I didn’t. It took just a second to say, ‘my husband died’. He said he was sorry and we talked about the children and the business. It was getting late, he called me a cab and paid the driver to take me home. As I said goodbye, he kissed me on the cheek. I felt like I was sixteen again. The journey back went quickly as I replayed the conversations we had, and tried to contain the emotions I felt.
Maggie asked me the next morning how it went and I said nothing about my feelings, maybe because I didn’t want to acknowledge them. I wanted to tell her that Ravi was a gentle, kind and generous man. I don’t mean in a materialistic kind of way but with his time, his patience and in his sensitivity. If I am honest, I thought he was a good man from the first day I met him. As the months passed, his presence gave me a safe, solid feeling. I knew he would never let me down.
We continued to see each other once or twice every month but there were never any more guests. The two of us would sit, eat together and talk. Not about the past or the future but about each other’s lives, the business, Satchin and Maya. When I was around him, I was sure of who I was and I felt I didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but myself. A year later he asked if he could meet my children. I agonised over this. I didn’t want someone to come into Satchin’s and Maya’s lives only to get comfortable and leave, so I said no. He accepted this unquestionably.
‘Do you love him?’ Maggie asked when I finally told her about our relationship.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Do you trust him?’
It was time to introduce him to them.
We never really had guests in the house apart from the children’s schoolfriends and Maggie and Tom. There wasn’t any space or a proper dining-table with chairs. I had always meant to go and get some but we were so comfortable eating on the floor and we needed the space for the pickles. I told them that the man who bought so many pickles, and who I cooked for, was coming to take us out, that he had become a good friend and he wanted to meet them. Satchin seemed fine about it but Maya looked at me and said, ‘We don’t need any more friends, especially a man friend, we’ve got Tom.’
‘Give him a chance, Maya Mol, you might like him,’ I said.
‘No, I’m quite sure. Tom is more than enough,’ she replied.
Ravi came before lunch. Satchin ran down the stairs to open the door for him and showed him up. I introduced him to Maya. Ravi brought her a gift; she just looked at him. ‘Say thank you, Mol.’ She grunted at him while Satchin asked if he had a car, what it was and where he had parked it, insisting that we had better go now to wherever he was taking us as his wheels might not be there if we took too long. Ravi laughed, looked at the flat crammed with bottles, and said, ‘real cottage industry’. Satchin offered to show him the rest of the flat, which didn’t take very long as there was only the kitchen and bedroom, all packed with boxes full of condiments and fruit.
We drove into the city. I realised I had never taken my children to properly see it and that day, it seemed so beautiful. We drove around Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London and then we went to Madame Tussauds. They loved it. Ravi then took us to Pizza Hut near Oxford Circus. He talked to them and Satchin talked non-stop, not really giving Maya the chance to say very much, but both of them seemed to like him.
He came every two weeks from then on, arriving at the time he said he would, and then it became every Sunday. Maggie really liked him but Tom was never around when Ravi was there, he was always busy delivering orders.
‘Stay, Tom, come and get to know him,’ I said one Sunday.
‘I know what his sort are like and so should you,’ he replied.
I was furious, how dare he! He didn’t even know Ravi. I said nothing; I wasn’t even going to reply to that. The silence would tell him that he had hurt me.
Tom and I grew more distant; even with the children, he did less and less, but he chose to put that distance between us and he didn’t want to see how much they
missed him, how much we missed him. It’s not that Ravi came and took his place; he never gave Ravi a chance or he would have seen what a good person he was. He was nothing like Raul.
One Sunday, we went to Ravi’s house and as the children played in the garden, he asked me to marry him.
So many thoughts raced around my mind and I wanted to say ‘yes!’ but it could never be as easy as that. How would the children feel about it? What about the business? Maggie? Tom? How would Ravi’s parents feel about him marrying a woman with two children? How did he feel about Maya and Satchin? Did he love them like they were his own? I stood back on the patio and watched my children play; they looked so carefree. I could offer them most things, but something was missing, they deserved more, they needed a good father. I looked at Ravi and told him that I needed to talk to the children before making a decision.
When we arrived home, the three of us sat on the bed and I asked them how they would feel about Ravi being their new father. Satchin was so happy and asked if we would be moving to Mill Hill. Maya said nothing.
It was so hard to communicate with Maya. Maya never shared her thoughts with any of us, except perhaps with Maggie. Maggie and Maya had some sort of pact so whenever I tried to probe Maggie, she said nothing. I know that the person Maya showed us was not really the person she was, but it was impossible to get through to her, there were no ways to communicate. My cooking did not work on her, she did not really eat the food I prepared, just played with it and spread it around the plate to make it look less and then hid the rice and vegetables under a piece of popadom. Nor did she sit in the kitchen as I did with my mother, only if Maggie was there. Sometimes, I thought I was not the mother she wanted and other times, I felt these were my insecurities and I tried not to linger on them too long.
I held Maya tightly and told her everything would always be all right, that I would love her always, no matter what. She looked at me and there was sadness, plain sadness, in her eyes. ‘Talk to me, Maya Mol, tell me what you are thinking. If you don’t want me to marry him, I won’t.’