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Chapter Fifty-Five

Shantal

‘S hantal, is the chai done?’

I am notoriously awful at making tea. I stand to the side as Anjali’s mum, my Janika Aunty, stirs the concoction she’s prepared. Janika Aunty widens her eyes at me, as if to say, Make it convincing . I nod furiously, even though Ma won’t see from where she’s standing, waiting at the door for him – Navin. ‘It’s … it’s almost there!’

Janika Aunty uses a spoon to bring a bit of the chai to her red-outlined lips. She’s the polar opposite of my mother, that’s for sure. I like to think that the similarities stop at their upbringing in a half-Guyanese, half-Punjabi family. Vaani Mangal is quietly rebellious, traditional yet caring, urging us to take the path our heart yearns for, at least up until Sonia’s death. Janika Ramcharan is flamboyant, with the dress sense and taste of a film actress. Her doting Delhiite husband has the kind of patience that you find only once in a blue moon, and her eccentricity is the same kind of rare. They are a match made in heaven. Their chaos is the reason I grew up so close to Anjali – as much as she loves her parents, she loves our calm just as much.

As if on cue, my cousin thunders down the stairs and envelops me in a hug so forceful I almost knock over the saucepan of chai . ‘Anjali!’ I yelp, but she’s undeterred by even her mother’s squeal. She squeezes me tight, and then pulls back with a gasp.

‘You’re making chai ? For a man ?’ she echoes the obvious, her thick black curls bouncing around her face. ‘When did this happen?’

‘A month ago.’ My smile is tight, and I pray that she won’t notice it in all the hustle and bustle. ‘You know, we’d been waiting for something, and I guess this is it.’

‘This is your for ever.’ She exhales, the gravity of it all knitting its way through her eyebrows. I know exactly what she’s going to say next before she can even open her mouth. ‘But then … what about the one …?’

I shake my head, gritting my teeth, a gesture she quickly catches on to. Her brow wrinkles. ‘No,’ I say.

The doorbell rings before she can ask me anything else, and my grip on her arms tightens. Anjali tries to give me a reassuring smile, as her mother beams. ‘Damn if that boy doesn’t love the chai , I’ll tell you.’

I try to chuckle at Janika Aunty’s joke, but Anjali doesn’t look amused, leaving me to help set the table. I love Anjali. I’m supposed to be a sort of mentor to her, someone who can guide her now that Sonia isn’t there to fill that role for both of us. But I can’t help feeling like no matter how much I try to set the example, it is she who truly guides me. There’s nothing like seeing the disappointment in her eyes when she leaves for the dining room, nothing like the weight of reality crushing young dreams, to tell you that what you’re doing is so wrong.

Navin Kumar, as I and my entire family have known since we moved to Clapham, is straightforward. He is tall, with carefully combed hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and warm eyes. I remember crushing on him when we were younger, before I realized my type was the kind of men I’d never realistically be in a relationship with. Now, he is grown up, sitting between both of his proud parents at the dinner table across from me. We’ve laid out chai and fried pholourie , conversation is light, happy. Neither of us meet the other’s eyes. I don’t know if everyone else thinks I’m just being coy, but I’ll let them continue to assume.

‘Navin, where are you working now?’ asks Ma, her eyes alight with interest.

‘Over at St George’s. I’m in the foundation programme now, FY2, so almost done …’

A glance from Ma: He’s a doctor. He’s just perfect. Do you like him?

I can’t quite bring myself to reply.

‘That’s so wonderful,’ I reply once he’s explained it all, willing a smile to cross my face.

‘And what about you?’ he grins, tipping his head towards Ma and Babu. ‘I hear you’ve made an impression in the sports world already.’

‘I work for a company called Conquest, with professional teams, mostly football, on weaving new training techniques, new technology into their regimens. It’s athletic training meets data analysis, essentially.’

Navin looks genuinely intrigued as he nods. ‘That’s absolutely excellent.’

He talks so eloquently. So unlike Darien. No overuse of the word ‘bro’, no cursing under his breath, no terrible jokes. Annoying habits that eventually become lovable. Little things.

And all those little things build up until part of me wants to tear my soul open and tell Navin everything now, before it is too late.

‘You will look wonderful together at Navin’s hospital galas,’ Mrs Kumar pops in with a wink later in the afternoon, once all the plates have been cleared and the cups of chai emptied. She pulls a large gift bag from beside her, reaching into it to pull out a neatly folded stack of navy blue fabric.

That part of me that wants to resist and be honest and be happy? That part is dumb. This is for more than myself. I watch my parents beaming, tearful for the first good reason in months. In almost a year. Ma’s eyes are expectant, Babu’s eyes proud. I can’t say no. I can’t turn this down, I can’t; I cannot deny them the hope they’ve been waiting for all this time.

So the larger part of me wins, is compelled to keep lying. I smile the same smile that Navin does, and I pour every ounce of fabricated contentment I have into it to convince everyone that this is where I want to be, that I am willing to do what it takes to support this marriage.

I look down at the silk saree in Mrs Kumar’s arms. Navin looks nervous but nods happily nevertheless. Anjali, god, I can’t even look, because it will break me. Her parents are both already gleeful.

I squint at the saree, and I realize it’s not unfamiliar. It’s identical to the one I wore in Imola. It reminds me of a set of constantly humoured eyes that sparkle with all kinds of trouble, the sweetness of his voice when he calls my name. It’s been a month since I left. I want to know what he’s up to, where he’s gone. Yet I’m here, a motion away from sealing this arrangement out of numbness and grief and guilt.

It’s like a bad omen. I’ve always been particularly superstitious. But this time, I’ve got to get over it.

My fingers hover over the silky stack as I accept it and place it on my lap, my heart thundering when I remember the way Darien so gently adjusted the pleats as they threatened to slide off my shoulder. His lips against my skin. Every single second, every way that he has touched me, ways that may be invisible but that will remain for ever.

‘Thank you,’ I say with a small smile.

From beside his mother, as the parents start chattering excitedly about engagements and parties and going to Dubai – where Navin and his family spend winters – Navin returns my smile: the same size and all. Following one conversation with him, I can tell he is the kind of well-brought-up Guyanese son who’s always wanted a well-brought-up wife, one who would attend work parties, hold poojas in the house, fast on all the holidays, smile, stay happy through the turmoil that may come her way.

He’ll never know I’m not that wife, because I’ll spend every minute I can making sure I appear to be that wife. As long as it keeps Ma and Babu glowing the way they do when they watch us together now.

The second the Kumar family has left, I run up to my room in the house. Tears stab at my eyes. I know Darien will be living his own life now, free to do what he likes, because as much as he says he will be mine till the end of time, he deserves to enjoy himself. I wonder if he is out partying before the race like he did before all the others, and if he is, if he has found some other woman there. A part of me hopes he has, that she compels him to move on from what is happening here, but the rest of me knows that would break me.

I crawl into my bed in my dress, reaching across to my nightstand. I pick up the white teddy bear sitting there. It’s André, the one Darien had given me back at the beginning of the season. I still have the note that he’d written with the bear. You deserve your flowers.

Maybe Darien is right. It’s possible we will find other people and other forms of solace. But none of those will be one another. This is the truth, that I will keep him close to my heart, and, unknowingly, Navin will be burdened with this unspoken secret.

Biting back my emotions, I hold the bear against my chest, hug him so tightly that the charm of my necklace scratches the now-empty heart in his hands, and I can almost feel Darien beside me with his calm smile and happy eyes, smell the hints of his cologne that still linger on André the bear’s fur.

‘ DIDI! ’

Anjali bursts into my bubble of silence, flying through the door, immediately grabbing the remote from the nightstand. ‘ DIDI! Turn on the TV!’

‘Anjali!’ I yelp, tucking the bear away in a rush of silky dress fabric and flying blankets. ‘What the hell!’

‘Quick!’ My cousin tugs urgently at my arm. ‘Come on, see!’

She stabs at buttons, thumb pounding the down arrow and then clicking on the broadcast of the Formula 1 race.

‘No,’ the word immediately leaves my lips. ‘No, no, no, we’re not doing—’

‘ Didi ,’ she says more forcefully. She squeezes my shoulder, meets my eyes directly. ‘Just see him.’

And there he is.

He’s sitting in the car, Darien. He is parked in front of that big P1 board that indicates that he’s won the race, and my heart swells with pride at just the notion. He removes his steering wheel from the cockpit before using the halo to haul himself to his feet on the chassis.

I press a hand to my chest, and then over my mouth as I realize what he’s doing.

The crowd is roaring around him, the team pumping their fists beyond the fence, and he hoists his steering wheel straight up to the sky, pointing to something written on the back that I don’t need to be able to read to know well.

He pushes his visor up, and his eyes are squeezed shut as he holds that wheel up like it’s the trophy he hasn’t yet received, as tears fill my eyes miles and miles away.

‘You left him, Shantal?’

Anjali’s voice bears a stab of pain that I had not expected, along with my name leaving her mouth in full. It’s always been didi , the honorific. This sounds so foreign.

I turn to her, and her lower lip wobbles, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. I’ve never been more ashamed than I am when I nod.

‘Shantal …’ Anjali, in all her innocence, can still afford to live in this rose-tinted version of how the world works, but now, that same innocence drives poison-tipped arrows between my ribs, making it harder for me to breathe with every word she says. ‘If you keep wasting your time searching for a name for this feeling … let me tell you, you’re never going to find it. Because look how much he loves you.’ She gently taps the gold macaw bracelet that Darien had given me, his mother’s bracelet, still on my wrist. I haven’t removed it since we parted ways. Conflicting emotions cross her face as she lets out a small sigh. ‘Look how much you love him .’