The Reading List(39)
A year ago, Nilakshi had lost both her husband and son in a car accident. Nilakshi’s husband, Prabhand, had been a kind, but reserved man. He kept himself to himself, but Mukesh always remembered his smile – it would light up a room. His son, Aakash, had inherited that same smile but used it all the time – he was a charmer; so intelligent too. Losing both of them, in one go, it had devastated the whole community. The sadhus had known Prabhand very well and led the temple in prayer for him after his death. Mukesh had attended, because Naina would have wanted him to, and because Mukesh missed Prabhand’s smiling face already. Nilakshiben had cried, sitting far back, while men who had never even known her husband or her son sat right at the front, under the gaze of the sadhus. He had felt sad for her, but had never known what to say. When Naina had passed away, Nilakshi and Prabhand had both been a great comfort and support to Mukesh. Mukesh felt ashamed, knowing he had never been as much of a comfort for Nilakshi when she needed it most.
‘Mukeshbhai,’ she walked next to him, smiling – she was keeping a very brisk pace for someone so small.
‘Nilakshiben,’ he smiled back. ‘It is lovely to see you.’
‘Yes, what a surprise! I didn’t expect you to come to this.’
‘Harishbhai persuaded me to walk in Sahil’s place. He has hurt himself somehow.’
‘Ah. Of course. Harish is very persuasive! And persistent.’ She gave him a look that said, ‘you know what I mean’.
‘I missed a few satsaangs recently. Meenaben is upset with me. So, if it’s okay, can I walk with you? She wouldn’t dare venture up here.’
‘Sure. But remember Harish is still very close by. Meena tells him everything.’
‘I expect she does. But he is easier to handle.’
The sponsored walk took in the sites and sounds of Neasden and Wembley, plodding through residential streets full of houses once painted a maroon-red, now a dusty brown, huffing and puffing up and back down the footbridge that crossed the North Circular, allowing them to enjoy the beautiful view of its everlasting traffic jam, with the stadium’s halo floating in the distance, and past rows and rows of shops, fruit and vegetable stalls, money-exchange shops, and chicken shops already crowded with people. Mukesh took the walk slowly, but surely. At one point Nilakshi had to clutch his hand and pull him gently along. But the view, of the stadium, of the Wembley skyline – it felt as if he was discovering Wembley anew. Naina had always loved to walk. Now, despite the dull ache in his calf muscles, he could see why. He was in pain, he was not fit enough for another three kilometres, but he was so proud he’d even got this far.
Nilakshi was encouraging, kind, chatting away as they walked. She made him feel as though he might be in some way capable of finishing. With each step, he felt the book in his bag spurring him on. And he kept listening out for Naina too, telling him he was doing well. But Nilakshi was here walking beside him, and Naina was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Mukesh’s mind flew to Rebecca – the story of the new wife coming in to replace the old, living forever in the dead wife’s shadow … he shook the thought from his mind. These books … they were playing havoc with his imagination.
He tried to keep his mind one step ahead. He tried to channel his positivity into moving each limb, one at a time. He tried to hold onto this feeling of being alive. Until reality, and his breathlessness, soon caught up with him. ‘Nilakshiben,’ he said, bending down, his hands on his knees, ‘I think I will have to stop here and get the bus home.’
‘You will miss out on the certificates. And most importantly the prasad!’
Mukesh shook his head, ‘I think prasad is the last thing I need right now – all that sugar might give me a heart attack.’ He looked to the floor. His legs were on fire. He was breathing as deeply as he could, but the air filtered into his lungs in rasps. He couldn’t finish the walk, but he had walked … further than he’d been in a long time, and he’d been around people, so many people, for longer than he had in years. This was progress, wasn’t it?
‘Mukeshbhai,’ she said, ‘I will go and talk to Harish and let him know. He will understand.’
She wandered off. Mukesh watched as people slower than him overtook, smiling and waving. The majority were men, now lagging behind, where once they had been at the front, separated from the women. They were wearing cotton linen trousers, sandals with Velcro straps and good soles. The outlines of their vests were visible under their bright temple T-shirts. Mukesh knew this look well – it was a look he liked to sport himself – the accepted uniform of the over-60s Hindu male.
He watched for Nilakshi’s light blue Punjabi trousers in the sea of white and cream and navy. He couldn’t see her. She was too far away now. Unable to take another step, he sat himself down on the wall of someone’s house, separating their unkempt front garden from the busy dual carriageway in front. Mukesh felt every car pass – a brush, a whoosh of air, of wind, hot and sticky and stale – polluted. He hadn’t really believed it until now but he could taste every bit of smoke, every fume, as it entered his lungs.
He thought of Naina again. Is this what had killed her? Dirty air? He’d heard somewhere that bad air had carcinogens. Cancer-causing things.
He remembered her booming laugh when he’d come downstairs with a T-shirt on back to front. Suddenly, the memory was replaced by an image of her in the hospital, a ghost of the woman she had been.