Mr Gupta was standing behind the counter, giving it a quick wipe over with the damp cloth kept on the shelf underneath. For a brief moment the store was empty, and Chandu had taken the opportunity to sweep and wash the floors. It was a favourite task of his, the clean smell from the wet tiles reminding him of his home in India, and his now-dead mother, who had washed the floors of their house every day to keep the plentiful bugs at bay, and her family safe.
‘How I love this smell,’ said Mr Gupta to his employee and friend for the umpteenth time. ‘I know I say it each time, but it never fails to move me.’
‘Yes, I was thinking the same thing.’ Chandu rinsed the mop in the bucket then began to swish it back and forth again, making sure it went right up to the edges to remove the dust and dirt that lurked there.
‘I have decided to go to night school,’ he added, the words slipping out with some relief after having held them in for so long.
Mr Gupta stopped what he was doing and looked up. Chandu hadn’t mentioned this before, and the matter-of-fact statement came as rather a shock to his employer. Was he thinking of leaving the store? Interestingly, his initial reaction to the declaration wasn’t panic at having to manage the store alone or find another employee. His initial feeling was sadness at the potential loss of his friend who had worked with him for so long
Chandu wondered if Mr Gupta had heard him and repeated the sentence, this time on its own and a little louder, the swishing of the mop momentarily ceasing.
‘I have decided to go to night school.’
‘Yes, I heard you. Please tell me more, Chandu? What is it that you propose to study?’ he asked, refraining from asking how it might affect the store, nor declaring his fears about how he would manage if Chandu eventually left.
‘I intend to take a course in teaching English to foreigners,’ explained Chandu. ‘People who wish to learn English. I hope to teach Indians, but it may be for all sorts of foreigners from different places. I had thought to study for a degree, and may do so in the future, but for now I am happy with this. Please do not worry. I will continue my duties here. I may need a little time in the day when I am qualified, but we shall see.’
Mr Gupta slowly let out the breath he was holding. ‘I am very pleased that you are taking up further studies, Chandu. You will be an excellent teacher.’ Unlike me, he thought. He would probably be impatient and would become frustrated if people didn’t learn in the way he wanted, or at the correct pace.
‘And if you need time in the day, then you must have it. Meera and I will support you in any way we can, you know that.’ There, he had said the right thing even though his heart felt heavy. The loss of Babita had affected him deeply too, although if Chandu was aware of this, he chose not to say. To lose Chandu as well, albeit to a college or university, would be too much to bear.
Before further discussions could take place, the door opened, accompanied by the usual jangling bells. Mo walked in with a list in his hand, his clothes and dark hair well splattered with paint. As he got nearer, Mr Gupta could see that there were splashes on his face too and did all he could to suppress a smile. He liked the man who he now knew was a doctor at the practice on the other side of the park. He was good humoured, friendly, and always took great interest in the whereabouts of Delilah. Mr Gupta approved of this, and if he had to make a match for Meera’s niece, he couldn’t think of anyone better. Dr Meghani would be a good influence on her and would make her happy, unlike Harish Hope who would be sure to break her heart. He would bet one hundred pounds on it. Suddenly unsure of the idea of betting so much of his hard-earned cash, even if it was only in his head, he reached over to touch the till. No, he wouldn’t bet on it, he decided, but that aside, he still believed that his prediction was correct. The boy needed no one, unlike the doctor, who clearly needed a good wife.
He knew full well that Delilah was in love with Harish but was quite sure that Harish didn’t in any way return that affection. He liked him very much. He was bright, friendly, and always polite, but perhaps like his mother, he seemed set apart somehow, distant, and altogether different. He didn’t understand it, yet knew it was so. He couldn’t imagine him marrying anyone, and that was the truth. Delilah now, he could very much imagine her in a stable and settled relationship. She would thrive…
Chandu’s thoughts had been running along similar lines. He too had noticed Delilah’s affection for the pleasant young man who was now a member of the English aristocracy. The title suited him, and he had little doubt that he would be successful in his new position. However, like Mr Gupta, he also thought that he was rather like his mother. He’d only met Rani once when she’d come over for a visit, and thought her a charming and very beautiful lady, but he preferred people of a more down-to-earth nature. If he wished anything for Delilah it would be someone who would fit into their lives easily, someone who would happily spend time with them, enjoy their company and just be one of family. In Mo Meghani he could see all those qualities, in Harish Hope, none. Perhaps he was being too harsh, but family was important, and although Delilah was still young and perhaps easily influenced, at the end of the day, when she had matured a little, he thought that she would think so too.
‘Good morning, Mr Gupta, how are you today? It smells amazing in here…’
‘I am very well, Dr Meghani. Yes, we were just discussing the smell and have done so many times. It reminds us of India, which makes us rather nostalgic. I think that is the right word?’
‘It is, and please call me Mo.’ He’d asked Mr Gupta to call him by his first name several times before, but the man persisted with his professional name of Dr Meghani. No matter. He would keep asking him to call him Mo, and maybe in the end he might succeed.
‘How are you, Chandu? I could do with a wash down myself!’
‘All good, Dr Meghani. Yes, I see you have been busy painting.’ He smiled and moved his head from side to side, so very Indian, so very him.
Mo raised his hands in despair. ‘What can I say? More paint seems to find its way onto my clothes and hair, than the walls.’ He laughed. ‘There is progress, though, so I will keep on no matter how I look afterwards.’ He peered around him. ‘No ladies today? How is your wife, Mr Gupta, and Delilah?’
Mr Gupta and Chandu exchanged fleeting glances, then Chandu continued with his floor washing, leaving the question to be answered by his employer. He did, however, listen intently for an answer to the question about Delilah. He and Mr Gupta had discussed the doctor’s interest in her on several occasions, and both fully approved of any possible match that might be made, thinking Mo eminently suitable in every way. Both also accepted that an arranged marriage was out of the question, and Delilah would be free to choose for herself, but it wouldn’t be Harish Hope, that was for sure. They were totally unsuited, and as far as he was concerned, that was all there was to it!
‘Delilah is off with friends having adventures and fun as young people do,’ replied Mr Gupta. ‘You know how these things are?’ He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. ‘She will be back soon enough, probably in a few weeks, and I’m sure you’ll see her then.’ He couldn’t stop himself from winking and Mo winked back.
In saying little much had been expressed, both men knowing exactly what was being conveyed, and the meaning held within the words. Right now, they would have to be happy with that.
‘Right then,’ said Mo. ‘I have a very long list here. I need two types of paint, white gloss first and then something for the kitchen. I’m not exactly sure what colour, but when I was last here Delilah mentioned yellow, and I now think that yellow might be just right.’
Hearing this Chandu stepped forward, and it was now his turn to wink at Mr Gupta. He beckoned Mo over to the paint stand. ‘This way please,’ he said. ‘I am the expert of yellow paint. There is a story to be told with regards to this which someday you will hear, but for now I have several suggestions.’ He picked up a tin and held it out in front of him to show his customer the label. Putting it back down he picked up a chart, and both were soon engaged in comparing the various colours and different brands.
Mr Gupta smiled. Meera would be in soon, no doubt laden down with another basket of food. She was working in the store today too which was good because there were several deliveries on the way, and help would be needed to serve the customers. He’d been a little worried about her lately. She seemed anxious and rather distracted, which was unlike her. Whilst he knew that Delilah was the cause of some of it, he thought that perhaps there was more going on than that. He needed to find the time to talk to her and discover what was wrong. Bending down, he pulled out a clean cloth and a tin of polish from under the counter. He had just taken off the lid when he heard the buzzer from the back storeroom door announcing the first of the day’s deliveries.
‘I am just going to check in the delivery, Chandu. Will you be alright out here on your own? Meera will be in soon…’
‘Yes. No problem. I can call if I need help, anyway.’
‘I can help,’ Mo declared. ‘I know the shelves and the stock very well by now. I love this store.’
‘I too,’ said Chandu, ‘and I will remember your offer. One day, we may well accept it! I have worked here for many years. For Mr Gupta, it holds great meaning. Delilah also has great affection for it. OK. This is the paint I would like to recommend for your kitchen. It is called Mustard Yellow, but I always think of it as ‘Sunshine Yellow’. What do you think?’ He held it up for Mo to see.
‘Perfect,’ said Mo. ‘Just what I was looking for.’
Another customer came in and Chandu was soon behind the counter, wrapping goods in brown paper and putting money in the till. Mo wandered around picking up other bits and pieces that were on his list. He had a few days off from the surgery and intended doing as much as he could to get his house straight. After that, he would begin on the garden, and was looking forward to it. Right now, it was a tangled mess of weeds and rubbish, left by the previous owner. It pained him to see it like that, but one step at a time was a good adage when it came to doing up an old house, and he would stick to it to avoid becoming overwhelmed.
Overall, he was happy that he’d decided to build his career in the surgery by the park, and that his life would be in England now. He missed his family very much, but it was easy enough to go back and visit. He breathed in the hardware store smell that he had come to love, and which had become familiar to him, of paint, oil, and the damp, sweet fragrance of the freshly washed floor. Right now, he could ask for no more.
***
Meera was in the kitchen. Today was a baking day and she’d already prepared a variety of cakes, biscuits, and traditional Indian pastries. There were also a few that she’d created herself, which everyone seemed to enjoy. She loved cooking, and whilst engaged in this very creative process, she became so absorbed that the other worries and concerns in her life, like Delilah, and Harish in his stately home, seemed to drift away through the open window, which was a good thing.
Amanda, the owner of the bakery across the road from the store, had recently suggested that each day Meera supply them with a small amount of varied Indian specialities. She had accepted immediately, excited yet nervous about the task, fearful that the things she made might not sell. She also feared open dislike or derision by the customers who used the bakery, mostly local, and who knew her. So far, however, this had never happened, and her fears had proved unfounded.
She had told Mr Gupta about the offer and her acceptance of it, fearful that he might not approve. He wouldn’t stop her, she knew that, but thought he would say she didn’t have the time with her work at the store, their home, and the garden she cared for so much. Perhaps he was right? She was certainly always busy, but helping in the store and keeping house was no longer enough, despite her lack of self-confidence, and the nagging internal voice that said she was without the talent or skill to do anything of her own. In any event, he had said no such thing. He said that although he feared she might overtire herself, she should follow her heart and do what made her happy.
‘I shall support you in your endeavour, Meera. What sort of husband would not?’
The one you used to be, she thought, but didn’t say. There was little to gain from reminding him of how things used to be. The present was what mattered, and he had changed.
She certainly wanted to have an interest and occupation of her own, and had done for some time. The store was his and always had been. She helped and he was grateful for it, but it remained his. Delilah for instance would always have her own career, and no matter what happened in her life would be able to make choices for herself, have her own income, and always maintain her independence, whether she was married or not. She hoped she would marry, but that aside, Delilah would be Delilah and her choices would not be defined by the decisions of others.
She pulled another tray of biscuits from the oven, putting them on one side to cool. They looked beautiful, browned to perfection, and glistening with sugar crystals. She took a deep breath. They smelt lovely too. So be it! She’d agreed to the trial of Indian cakes and would see it through. If it failed, it failed. At least she would have tried and that was what mattered. She would tell Delilah the same if she was about to embark on a new project, so should accept the same advice for herself! A small flurry of happiness began to rise inside her. She would do her very best!
Her thoughts then drifted to Delilah. She had called last night from Wishanger Hall, and arrangements were being made for them to visit that coming weekend. Meera often went into the city, although less so now that Babita was gone. She felt little need, her desire for expensive perfume and makeup lessening, as did her enjoyment when she was shopping alone. She’d been to Oxford quite a few times to see her nephew who was at university there, usually accompanied by Delilah, although not always. She was perfectly capable of catching the train by herself, but for such a momentous occasion, Mr Gupta was coming too. Chandu was going to manage the store by himself on the Saturday with the assistance of a young man who sometimes came in when they were short staffed. He was the grandson of Mr Patel, the carpenter who had once repaired a smashed shop window, broken by vandals who threw stones from their car as they sped past. His name was Romesh, who was happy to earn a few pounds pocket money whilst he studied at the local college.
They were due at Wishanger Hall on Saturday morning. Meera was excited and genuinely looked forward to seeing the young man in his true home at last, after many years of his father and grandfather not taking up the title for themselves. It was a big responsibility for a twenty-one-year-old, and she wondered how he would fare in the long run with such a burden on his shoulders? That it would be one wasn’t in doubt. How could it not be? That aside, she hoped that something good would come from the responsibility, and that he would somehow settle into the role and enjoy it.
He was an unusual boy, but as the son of her best friend now that Babita was gone, she felt duty bound to love him, and soft-hearted to the core, love him she did. The differences between Rani and Babita were varied and many. Despite them not being related at all, she had considered Babita to be family, and by proxy, Chandu too. Rani was not family, nor could she ever think of her as such, but she had loved her from the moment their eyes first met. Many might say that Meera was impulsive, particularly in affairs of the heart, but if they took time and got to know her, they would soon realise they were wrong. Put simply, she was just full of unspent love, and attached herself almost immediately to those she felt worthy.
When comparing the two women, she found much that they held in common, including a particular type of wisdom that only came through having lived many lives. She had no doubt that Rani would have both liked and respected her tiny friend, Babita. What she was less sure of was whether this would have been reciprocated, although was unable to accurately say why.
When she looked into Rani’s large silver eyes, she saw no reflections of herself, as she might have expected. When she had looked into Babita’s large brown ones, she had seen far more of herself than she might have wished for; good, bad and everything in between. To Meera, Babita had been an angel, and in comparing the two, Rani was not. She had however suffered beyond measure, and for the most part was misunderstood, which hurt her friend, and instantly brought to the surface a strong desire to protect her. This was rejected by Rani, yet that very rejection drew them closer together. Babita was fiery and Rani was cool, the comparisons could go on forever…
Friendships were complicated, which might also be why they were also fascinating. She and Rani spoke frequently on the phone to share the events of their daily lives; these conversations providing much enjoyment and comfort to them both. Rani was a dark horse and kept much hidden inside, and to say that Meera wore her heart on her sleeve was a gross underestimation of the reality. Which was best, she wondered, as she popped some cooled cakes into special lined containers, given to her by Amanda at the bakery to transport her goods? Was it better to always show what you felt, to let others see your hurt, love, and whatever else you were feeling, or be like Rani and keep it all in, say little, show little, in fact, often show nothing at all?
Meera shook her head. Perhaps too much analysis was unhelpful and not needed? Perhaps she should enjoy things for what they were? Deciding that she would try to do just that, her thoughts returned to Delilah. Now there was a problem! Thanks to Mr Gupta, she’d realised that Delilah was in love with the handsome but unobtainable young man she had first met four years ago. She also realised it was likely that her young heart would be broken. If so, then Meera would be there to help her pick up the pieces!
Vasu had mentioned the young doctor from the practice across the park on a few occasions. His name was Mohindra Meghani, and she’d seen him once or twice in the store. He had a house in the area and was always smiling and friendly. If they had been instructed to arrange a marriage for Delilah, then Mo, as he liked to be called, would be at the top of the list! He was eminently good marriage material, from a good family who cared about education. Likewise, they would expect an educated girl from a good family to be chosen as his wife. Delilah could hardly do better than that, and the man seemed to be obsessed with her, always asking after her when he was in the store, which was often. If only it was that simple!
With everything now packed into boxes, she stacked them onto the small trolley she’d been given, for the purpose of transporting them the short distance to the bakery. She suddenly felt anxious again and unsure, hoping that Mr Gupta wouldn’t ask about the success of her new venture. To tell him that it had failed and that no cakes were sold would be excruciating.
Of course, if it was successful, maybe one day she might start up a business of her own? Who knew what would happen in the future, a few shelves in her friend’s cake store now – a cake store of her own in a few years’ time? One thing she knew was that anything was possible. Delilah had forged her own path, and to some extent, her future, and so could she! Whatever Mr Gupta thought, she had her own family money, and a doting rich brother who would happily give her whatever she asked for. They still owned land and property in their hometown and had a large bungalow that was empty for most of the week. The only thing to hold her back would be herself!
A few minutes later, pulling the loaded trolley behind her, Meera hurried up the street to meet her future, whatever that might be.