The Reading List(17)

He remembered evenings, when the children had gone to bed, he’d be reading the newspaper beside Naina, who was leafing through the pages of her book at breakneck speed. He’d try to engage her in conversation, looking over, waiting for her to realize he was watching her.

‘Mukesh, what are you doing? You know I am concentrating,’ she would reprimand, smiling all the same.

‘I just wanted to read something to you from the paper. It is very interesting.’

‘Mukesh, I am just getting to the good bit. Shh,’ she would say. She was always getting to the good bit. At first, Mukesh thought that perhaps books had good bits every two or three pages, and then he started to wonder whether it was just an excuse.

He would watch her, tucked up in her blue and white nightie, her reading glasses with large frames resting neatly on her nose, and her black hair pulled back into a small bun at the back of her head. He could see her in his mind’s eye at 20, at 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, too. The same ritual, the same response. For a moment, he felt like Henry, from The Time Traveler’s Wife, flying through the decades to visit Naina in all those moments of her life.

At the time, he had never wondered where she went when she was within the pages of her book. He just loved seeing the concentration on her face. Sometimes she would smile, just slightly, from the corner of her mouth. Other times she would throw her head back and chuckle, creasing her eyes, and tapping Mukesh on the shoulder as though he was in on the joke. At the time, seeing how happy she was had been enough. But now she was gone, he wished he’d tried harder to be with her in every single moment.

‘Papa,’ Rohini called. Her voice was close, in his ground-floor bedroom next door. ‘Can you come here?’

Mukesh looked at Priya, hoping she would give him some excuse to stay exactly where he was, but she was lost in the pages of Little Women. Her expression was so very Naina.

‘Okay, coming,’ he mumbled, scooping himself up from the chair, both arms pushing.

He stood in the doorway; Rohini was standing by a cupboard, one hand on her hip, the other hand pointing towards a trickle of sari flowing from a closed cupboard door onto the floor.

‘What has happened here?’ Rohini asked, as she opened the door. She gasped theatrically. Everything was a bit of a mess, folded, but out of shape.

‘Vritti and I folded this all perfectly after Mummy …’ she paused, ‘for Mummy. What happened? Have more people come round to take something to remember her by?’ Rohini’s voice went high and squeaky on the final three words.

‘No, I was just looking through because …’

‘All those masis, her friends, they were always jealous of Mummy, always wanted her saris. No wonder they used the excuse of giving condolences to come round like vultures … Good friends, ha, but they still want her stuff …’

A memory of Naina – dressed up for the mandir – flashed into Mukesh’s mind. ‘What do you think? Effortless chic?’ She’d pronounced it ‘shick’.

‘Well,’ Mukesh said to his daughter, ‘your mummy always had the nicest saris.’

‘Yep, and luckily an eye for a bargain – otherwise these masis would be robbing us blind. So, Papa, you’re telling me you did this? Help me tidy this up, can you?’ Rohini said, not unkindly, and Mukesh wandered in as told. He sat on the bed, waiting for Rohini to pass him something to fold, but instead she just got on with it, admonishing him every so often for making such a mess.

As Rohini pulled out each garment, even the ones that were actually fine and didn’t need refolding, he caught the familiar whiff of Naina once more. Good whiffs. He could smell her perfume again, and this time her shampoo. Forgetting, for a moment, he looked over his shoulder, hoping and praying Naina had come to say hello.

These were the saris Naina had worn regularly, for the mandir or a trip to the shop – they were saris people came to associate with Naina: patterns, brocade, paisley. Others had jewels, sequins. They were beautiful, often simple. As Rohini tucked the last sari away, she ran her hand across the fabric, feeling the detail with her fingertips.

‘I wonder when Mummy last wore this?’ she said out loud. Her voice had softened, no longer Admonishing Inspector Whirlwind. Mukesh didn’t reply. He knew what she really meant was: Had Mummy known she was dying when she last wore this? Had she known it was going to kill her sooner than we all expected? Too soon.

Mukesh watched in silence as a small tear, almost imperceptible, ran down his daughter’s face. He stood where he was, wanting to reach out to her, knowing she would shrug him off if he did. ‘I’m sorry, Rohini. I was going through her things. I think I was looking for her books. I wanted to read to Priya. I’m so sorry for making a mess.’

Rohini looked at her father; her eyes brightened, wiping away her tears, pretending they’d never been there at all. ‘Papa, that’s okay. But you know Mummy always got books from the library. She didn’t own any. There’s no space here.’ She gestured around the room, the whole house. It was strange how now it felt as though there was no room, but all five of them had lived here once, living busy, bustling lives. Now it was just him, and there was no space at all. Every corner was full to the brim with memories.

Mukesh nodded. ‘I know, I thought that. But I just … I wanted to find a book for Priya. She’s very quiet, and she doesn’t like the television, my David Attenborough documentaries … they are very educational you know.’