by Preethi Nair
I smelt my childhood as it went into the cauldron; sticky monsoon days; damp walls; cherry blossom; spicy pickles; the urine-stained mattress; the Trebor factory; lamb stew with dumplings and bar fires. As the cauldron cooled, the odours vaporised in the air so that none of it seemed to matter. We bottled a sense of understanding and I was grateful for the place that I had come to.
‘I have to go out for the afternoon, Maya, to get a few things for Ammu’s play. You’ll be okay in the shop pouring the mixture into bottles, won’t you? There won’t be any customers, I’ll keep the closed sign up and lock the door.’
‘Do you want me to go instead or come with you?’ I asked.
‘No, no, you stay here,’ Amma replied.
She picked up her coat, kissed me and left.
So I stayed, pouring ladles of pickles from the cauldrons, filling empty jars, putting the lids on top and covering them with elaborate pieces of sari material cut into small circles from red silks, blue chiffon, cream cotton. I took the fabric glue and elastic bands to attach them to the lids. Looking at my mother’s bronze Goddess sitting comfortably on her own handmade shelf, I was thinking how familiar she looked and remembered my Ammamma. Smiling, I began counting how many bottles I had filled and forgot where I was at, when the bell went. I thought Amma had locked the door and put up the closed sign.
‘Hello,’ a voice came. ‘Auntie? Auntie, are you there?’
A familiar, gentle voice. I went out to the front to see who it was.
‘Suri,’ I screamed. I ran over to him.
He looked at me with disbelief. ‘Maya,’ he whispered. ‘Maya!’ He spoke my name like nobody could.
I held him.
‘Maya, what are you doing here?’
Fighting a barrage of tears that ran down his shirt, I replied, ‘I came to see my family to tell them I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Suri.’
‘No Maya, you don’t have to say sorry to me, ever,’ he held me tightly.
We were whisked back for that moment into simple innocence and love. He wiped my tears and touched my lips with his fingers.
‘Shhhh,’ he whispered.
Solid as ever, he had grown into the man he had looked certain to become.
‘I wrote some awful things, I didn’t mean it, not any of it.’
I didn’t want to be pulled apart from him or for him to move away. ‘Maggie died, you know?’
‘I know,’ he said, slowly releasing me. I wanted to grab his hands and pull them back. ‘Your mother called to tell me. I’m really sorry, you know, about everything.’
‘It wasn’t you, Suri, I wasn’t angry with you, there were just so many things happening at the time. I want to explain.’
‘It’s all in the past, your mother tells me you’re happy now, living in Spain and about to get married.’
No, Suri, I wanted to shout as I searched for a ring on his finger. But I didn’t say anything and I don’t know why. Perhaps it was fear or maybe because things don’t stay with you if you don’t feel you truly deserve them.
‘Did you become a doctor?’
‘Almost there.’ He stared at me. ‘Does he make you laugh?’
No, I thought, and it doesn’t matter because he’s not around.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He makes me laugh.’
‘Good, because that’s important.’
‘Does she make you laugh?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ he replied.
There was silence and in those seconds he waited for me to say something but I didn’t.
‘Listen, Maya, I have to go, it’s been … it’s been just the best seeing you. And I wish that … I wish you every happiness.’
‘Take care,’ he said as he let go of my hand. He turned his back to leave. I wanted to stop him, to tell him that I wasn’t getting married and the only person who I had ever really loved was him. But I couldn’t.
I called Enrique later that week to tell him that I wasn’t coming back to Spain. He began by telling me that Marcos was calling three or four times a day, asking for a telephone number or an address. ‘I told him where to go, Maya, I’m glad you came to your senses finally,’ he said. ‘Now listen, what about this London office of mine? Who can I get to run it for me? More than an office, I think, I need a boutique,’ he continued in his flamboyant manner. ‘The pay is very good because that is all these designers think of. You know what their first question is? Not what does the job entail, who are your clients, but …’
‘How much?’ I interrupted.
‘You’re on what, three hundred and fifty thousand pesetas? I’ll double it,’ he joked.
The process of acceptance and forgiveness for me took many, many months. I came to accept the past and all those I had hurt unintentionally and learnt to forgive those who knew no better and had hurt me. Sometimes there is no point in trying to figure out why; it is better to accept and to move on. Amma and Ravi helped me set up the boutique in Bond Street and I ordered the most beautiful fabrics from India with the money Maggie had left me. She would have loved it, all of it. I spent hours and hours designing, cutting patterns and making outfits. Whilst I was cutting and sewing I learnt to find the pace and my own sense of contentment. Four months passed and the shop was ready to open. Amma had organised the priest to come in and bless it.
He came early that morning and blessed it, imparting no wisdom, just smiling, breaking a coconut and saying a prayer. I was ready to open.
Ammu was the first to arrive with Amma and Ravi. She had made me a good luck card and asked me to design a pink taffeta outfit that she had drawn.
‘But, Shorty, what about something else, like …’
‘No,’ she exclaimed. ‘Just like this one, with the sleeves puffing out like this.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘Let me measure you up.’
‘There’s no point because I want it at least two sizes bigger so you can take it down when I need it.’
‘That’s not how I work, Ammu.’
‘Mayo, aren’t you supposed to do what your clients tell you? I’m your client, don’t you want my custom?’
I sighed.
‘And can I have a receipt?’ she asked.
‘But you haven’t paid for anything.’
‘Dad, will you give me some money to give Mayo a deposit?
‘There,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you back at home but I’ll come back to be fitted in four weeks, that’s how it works, isn’t it?’
I laughed and they left.
The bell went again, ‘What is it now, Shorty? I suppose you want a discount,’ I asked from beneath the counter where I was searching for a box of invoices.
‘Ehmm, just wondering if you sold any purple Farah trousers?’ said the voice.
‘Suri, Suri,’ I shouted, bumping my head as I got up.
‘Ahh, you need a doctor to take a look at that. Come here.’
A warm hand touched my forehead, the other rested on my waist.
‘How did you know, today of all days?’ I asked.
‘I got an anonymous tip-off from a squeaky little voice, who told me pretty much everything and then ended the conversation by saying, ‘‘bye Suri, I’ll see you soon.’’’
‘Maya, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me when I saw you back then that you weren’t getting married?’
‘Because, because I had to let go and trust.’
He touched my face, holding it in his hands, and began kissing my eyes, my cheeks and then my lips. It felt like the first time, like I had finally, finally come home.
Suri and I were married the following year, in the month of Shravan. I know my brother and Maggie were there, not because that is what I wanted to believe but I saw luminous stars on the ceiling and a little Indian girl carrying a rag doll very like the one Maggie had made for me.
Amma and Ravi stood proudly next to us as did Suri’s parents and my sister Ammu who was a kind of bridesmaid, kind of because in Keralan weddings you don’t really have them, just a sim
ple exchange of garlands and rings. She stood there with us, in a pink taffeta meringue that I made for her, with flowers and ribbons bouncing everywhere. I knew that in years to come she would look at the photographs with distress. It didn’t matter.
Suri and I held hands and walked around the fire that the priest lit for us. He said a prayer, took out his tin of sandalwood and left his blessing on our foreheads.
Amma made the wedding feast and she served Suri and I. ‘From left to right,’ she said serving on the banana leaves and as she was doing this I heard a grandmother and a granddaughter running along the beach, laughing, and someone, somewhere whispered to me:
‘I will always, always be there for you, even on the days of doubting.’
My biggest thanks goes to whoever is responsible for allowing me to catch a glimpse of universal magic and for bringing together some amazing people who have made this book happen.
Thank you to my family and friends, to the ‘sunflower ladies’, especially to Tricia Stewart who continues to inspire me, to all the team at HarperCollins and finally to my friend and agent Diana Holmes, thank you for believing in me.
If you enjoyed One Hundred Shades of White, check out these other great Preethi Nair titles.
A novel of painting, pretence and the strange ways in which truth makes itself known, from the author of One Hundred Shades of White. Nina’s lost her job, boyfriend and faith in her guru in the space of 24 hours. Unable to tell her parents what has happened, she puts on a suit every day and pretends to go to work.
What she’s really doing is escaping to a studio, where she begins to paint for the first time in years. But when her work is spotted by a top gallery owner, she cannot admit she is the painter, and pretends to be the agent instead. Meanwhile at home, she’s agreed to an arranged marriage to keep the peace. There are too many layers of pretence and something has to give way — but at what cost to Nina? This novel is based on the author’s own experience of self–publishing her first novel. To lend it credibilty, she invented Pru, a pushy publicist. Pru went on to be shortlisted for the PPC Publicist of the Year Award, but her cover was blown — it was Preethi all along.
Buy the ebook here
’Tell me about your dreams, and if you have dared to follow them.’ This is the challenge for three members of the Vishavan family. Evita (real name Molu, but she’s always had a tendency towards the theatrical) is stuck in a 9–to–5 job until she hears the irresistible beat of a drum, summoning her to follow her dream. It takes her to faraway places and people, but the rhythm of change is also to be found closer to home.
Sheila and Bali have raised Evita as their own child. Yet their sadness has kept them apart; holding on to their separate secrets, they have rejected the possibility of following any dreams. Neither expects the disruption that follows Evita’s return ... From remote villages in Kerala to the heart of contemporary London, this is a story of discovery, love and what might happen if you dare to live your dream.
Buy the ebook here
About the Author
PREETHI NAIR is a one woman whirlwind. After writing her first novel Gypsy Masala and failing to find any interested publishers, unbeknownst to family and friends she resigned from her job and ploughed her savings into self publishing and self promoting her book. She did not go unrewarded and actually won the Asian Woman Achievment Award. Preethi managed to secure a 3 book deal with HarperCollins. Her second novel One Hundred Shades of White published in 2010.
About the Publisher
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