died. There was only a small fraction of Sita’s lifespan when her family was whole. She scribbled more items onto the itinerary. Her last trip to India had been nearly thirty years ago. In his explanation of the stages of grief, Russ had said that some people experienced an intense desire to turn back time. Although Sita prided herself on being too pragmatic for such wishes, she also hoped that her daughters found India just as she had left it.
There was something else Sita wanted to tell her daughters. It was a confession of sorts, for something she made up her mind to do after Russ left her bedside. She would have to find a suitable moment to tell them. It was not appropriate to write it down; she’d have to lower her voice and prompt her daughters to gather closer. They’d dismiss her at first, of course. ‘Mum, don’t be silly,’ Rajni or Shirina would say. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Jezmeen would retort, because to Jezmeen, nothing was real, not even on a woman’s deathbed. Then they’d begin to protest, telling her she didn’t know what she was saying. That was by far the most frustrating thing about being terminally ill – everybody thought she was thinking through a haze of fear, a desperate need to cling to life. But death was the most certain thing in the world. To prove to her daughters that she was indeed being serious, she’d tell them to open the drawer and take out the jewellery pouch. Have a look inside. You see? Now, please don’t argue with your mother.
I would prefer that you take this journey during a cooler time of the year, but since Rajni can only travel during school holidays, you will need to go to India in July/August. Book your tickets and hotels quickly – I know my last trip to India was well over twenty years ago, but the last-minute bookings were very expensive.
Rajni was not built for fainting spells. Moments after Anil told her about the girlfriend, she considered pretending to faint, but she knew she’d throw her arms out at the last minute to break the fall. Nobody took a woman seriously if she staged her own collapses. A feigned faint, ha-ha.
So she stared at Anil as simple mathematical sums populated her mind:
36 – 18 = 18
The girlfriend was 18 years older than Anil.
36 ÷ 18 = 2
The girlfriend was exactly twice Anil’s age.
43 – 36 = 7
The girlfriend was only seven years younger than Rajni herself.
This last fact made her light-headed. The overpowering smell of half-eaten fish wasn’t helping. For dinner, she had baked three pieces of salmon because Omega Threes were supposed to make everybody live to a hundred. This girlfriend of Anil’s, did she know about the nutritional benefits of Omega Threes? Probably not.
‘Mum, come on,’ said Anil. All Rajni could do was shake her head. No, no, no. Tonight was supposed to be special: their last dinner together before she went off to India. If Anil had chosen this occasion to tell them about his girlfriend, then she was supposed to be … well, a girl. Somebody who called her Mrs Chadha and whose parents regarded Anil with a reasonable amount of suspicion until he won them over with good manners and clean fingernails.
Anil turned to Kabir. ‘Dad,’ he said in a slightly desperate way that made it clear to Rajni that they had already discussed this matter without her. Guilt rippled across Kabir’s expression. He stole a glance at Rajni.
‘You knew about this?’ Rajni asked Kabir. ‘For how long?’
Kabir had thin lips, which almost vanished when he was unhappy. ‘He came to me this morning,’ he said. ‘You were packing for your trip and I didn’t want to disturb you.’
Dinner time – morning = a whole day.
Rajni fixed Kabir with the kind of stare usually reserved for naughty students called into her office. ‘And how do you feel about this? Care to share your opinion?’
‘Obviously, I’m concerned, but Anil is old enough now to make his own decisions.’
‘Concerned? Concerned is how you feel about old Mrs Willis next door when she’s struggling to put her bins out. This is our son, Kabir. He finished Sixth Form mere weeks ago and now he tells us he wants to move in with a woman twice his age!’ Where did Anil even meet a thirty-six-year-old? A horrifying thought struck her. ‘She wasn’t a teacher of yours, was she?’
‘God, no,’ Anil said. Rajni let out a sigh. Thank goodness. She had always worried about Cass Finchley, a music teacher who swayed too suggestively on the edge of the dance floor while chaperoning school formals.
Kabir cleared his throat. ‘Anil, your mother and I just know you have a bright future ahead of you. We don’t want you squandering it on some … fling.’
‘It’s not a fling,’ Anil said. ‘We’re serious about each other.’
‘I’m sure you feel that way now, but there will be problems, son.’ Rajni used to find it touching when Kabir called Anil ‘son’. It was old-fashioned and charming and it brought a rush of warmth to her heart. Now he said the word like he was losing grip on its meaning.
‘There’s nothing we can’t work out, innit?’ Anil said.
‘Nothing?’ Rajni echoed.
Anil shrugged. ‘We’ve got the same cultural background. We get each other. People are always saying that’s the main thing.’
‘You’re from completely different generations. She’s a grown woman. You’re a boy! You might as well be from different planets.’
‘Nothing,’ Anil repeated tersely. With his jaw clenched like this, he looked so much like Kabir that Rajni wanted to suspend the argument and run for her camera. They say photos of the first-born child always outnumber those of subsequent children. As Anil was their first-and-only born, Rajni documented him thoroughly with no fears of sibling inequality. Their home was a shrine to Anil’s childhood: portraits and finger paintings, pencil marks on the wall charting his growth over the years.
Crises about Anil’s future were becoming an annual milestone. Last summer’s fight had been about Anil’s declaration that he wasn’t going to apply to university – he wanted to be done with education after completing Sixth Form. ‘They don’t teach you nothing you can’t learn on the internet these days, don’t they?’ Anil said. Rajni, head spinning from all the double negatives she had spent a lifetime correcting in her son, had left the room. When she returned, Kabir said he would talk some sense into Anil. It took months, but they finally arrived at a compromise: Anil would apply to university, but he could defer for a gap year. He was supposed to get a job during that time (his parents’ hope being that the gap year would help him to recognize the limitations of being without a degree), but then his grandmother had died and left him a small inheritance, turning the gap year into a paid holiday.
‘Think about this for a moment then, Anil,’ Kabir said. ‘She’s surely at an age where she wants to settle down.’
‘That’s why we’re planning on moving in together.’
‘But do you realize what this entails? For her?’
Anil clutched the back of the dining chair in front of him. His news had brought them to their feet, standing
