The Reading List(82)

He wanted to tell her that reading had helped him find something to pass the time, some way to connect with others, a reason to get out of bed and out of the house.

Naina would have got on with her life, like the matriarch of the March family, but Mukesh, ever since Naina left, he had shut himself away. He had let his daughters look after him, content with his discontented life. Mukesh took a deep breath. Until now, he thought to himself. Was he more like Marmee now than ever before? Yes. He was. He knew he was different. He was doing so much better now.

His stomach rumbled, the words about the Marches’ great big Christmas feast running from the pages into his fingertips and spreading through his body. He could smell the food, the piles of roast potatoes, the sweets and cakes too. He was thrown back to the Diwali dinners Naina had used to make: stacks of sweets, gulab jamun, barfi, mithai, everything he could ever want. They hadn’t had a Diwali dinner like that since she’d been gone. If they did celebrate together, it was usually just takeaways now. But, he resolved silently, today he was going to make a feast for his family – Priya and Rohini were coming over tonight for dinner. He was cooking for three. He thought of the March sisters, of Marmee – they oozed positivity, despite everything they were going through; they proved again and again that where there was a will, there was always a way.

He took a deep breath, and pushed himself up from his chair. He was going to make dosa. He could do this.

And the brilliant thing was that now he believed it too.

I’m so proud of you Mukesh, Naina whispered. Now, you better get shopping!

He didn’t need telling twice.

Mukesh made his way up the hill – it took him longer than normal, but not as long as he expected, considering his aches and pains. When he reached the high road, there were hordes of football fans with blue and white coloured scarves around their necks, and blue football shirts on. He only ever saw this many white faces in Wembley when there was a football match or a concert or something, walking everywhere, cars tooting them to get out the way. Mukesh kept as close to the buildings and the shops on his left as he could, trying to keep away so as not to be trampled down, though they just seemed to be singing cheerfully and waving and sploshing beer cans around, signalling a blue and white team win. When he finally found refuge in the shop, Nikhil greeted him.

‘What do you want today, Mukesh?’

‘I’m making something different! Dosa!’

‘Dosa! Are you sure you are ready?’

‘Mhmm,’ Mukesh sounded more confident than he felt. Dosa was his favourite meal. Naina used to prepare it for him every other Friday night. And when the girls were teenagers, always out gallivanting in the evenings, she would make it just for the two of them. When she made it for the whole family, she never had a chance to sit down and eat with them, as she could only make one dosa at a time. ‘Naina used to make the very best dosa you ever tasted and I really want to make them too. It won’t be the very best, but I hope I might make it quite nicely.’

‘Yes, Nainafoi made me them for my packed lunches sometimes.’

‘Did she?’ Mukesh beamed.

‘If she had leftovers. And if Mum needed help when she was working nightshifts.’

Naina always used to say making dosa was easy, but Mukesh knew she was wrong. Easy for her was like Everest for him.

‘Let me get all the ingredients for you. Wait here.’ Nikhil left his spot behind the counter and began to rummage around the shop at breakneck speed. Just watching him whizz by made Mukesh feel tired and out of breath. His heart was racing and he didn’t know if it was because he was stressed watching a youngster move so quickly, or because he was really absolutely completely awfully nervous about making dosa for Priya and Rohini.

He ran through the steps in his mind, as clearly as he could. Did he know how to make dosa? Did he know how to make it properly? As the images in his mind’s eye began to whirr through his brain, suddenly, looking around the shop, the products shimmied their way off the shelves, closing in on him, the bright colours of the different packets, the reds, the pinks, the blues, all blurred in his vision.

‘Nikhil!’ Mukesh called.

‘Yes, Mukesh?’

‘Mane paani joie che?’

‘Yes, one second. You need water right now?’

‘Ha, please, beta.’

Mukesh clasped his hand to his chest, his breathing laboured. Nikhil, in a flash, had pulled him up a chair that had been hiding behind the desk, and just as swiftly brought him a stainless-steel cup of cold water.

‘Bas.’

Mukesh sipped slowly.

He tried some of the yoga breathing that Vritti swore by. In, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out.

And eventually, breath by breath, he began to feel better. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t Nikhil’s. It was Naina’s. Reminding him he could do this.

Mukesh watched as the clock turned five. They weren’t here yet.

Mukesh watched as the clock ticked to five fifteen. They weren’t here yet.

Mukesh watched as the clock tocked …

The doorbell rang. Here they were!

Mukesh stood up more quickly than he could physically manage. He’d left his stomach on the chair, and his body walked off without it.

He opened the door, wiping his sweaty-nervous palms on his trousers.

Priya ran in, clasping To Kill a Mockingbird to her chest. His heart lifted like it was as light as air.