13.

They catch a red-eye flight two days later and taxi onto the runway at Heathrow just after ten a.m. local time.

As they exit the arrivals gate, rolling their suitcases behind them, they spot Nirav’s father and sister, standing to the far right of the crowded rail, waving enthusiastically. They haven’t seen each other since the wedding, almost a year and a half ago.

Maya rushes forward, flings her arms around Nirav, and buries her face in the curve of his neck.

“Isn’t it horrid?” she says. “I haven’t been able to eat a anything all day. I’m sure I’ll faint soon. I’ve been surviving on tea and Hobnobs.”

As Kavita waits for Maya to acknowledge her, she admires her sister-in-law’s hairstyle (pink locks piled in a topknot reminiscent of samurai), makeup (bold cat eye in liquid liner and poppy red lipstick), and outfit (black leather tights and zebra-print faux fur coat), wondering how she managed to muster the energy for such an ensemble while surviving on a meagre diet of tea and Hobnobs. Self-conscious in her jean jacket, faded black cords, and concealer-free face, Kavita touches her hair, wishing it had occurred to her to do more than pull her air-dried waves into a ponytail.

Maya takes a step back and opens her coat. “What do you think?” she asks Nirav. She is wearing a purple t-shirt that says FUCK CANCER in bold pink letters.

“Subtle,” he smirks.

“I’m having a bunch made for everyone. We’ve already donated to a few charities. Everyone’s promised to run in the big cancer relay this year. It’s going to be brill. Of course, you’re going to miss it, like everything else.”

“I’ll wear mine to the funeral,” he winks.

Kavita regards the slogan, impressed by the loudness of their grief, the way it testifies. It’s so loud, it even has t-shirts.

As Nirav and Maya continue their conversation, she shifts her attention to her father-in-law. He looks more or less unchanged. Tall, broad, and alert. A man who has spent his career teaching high school History and Geography in a state of enduring disappointment, evident in his perma-frown. He is wearing a navy pea coat, khakis, saddle-coloured Oxfords, and what she considers a very British-looking newsboy cap, recalling a tirade he had gone on once about baseball caps and how appallingly “American” they were. His uncomfortably blue eyes gloss with rare emotion as he watches his children embrace, yet even now he emits a somewhat annoyed air. A moment later, he shifts his attention to Kavita. Walking toward her, he reaches out his hand. “Well hello, Kavita.” As usual, he speaks without smiling. They shake hands. He isn’t a hugger.

“Hi, Mr. Stone.”

“How was the crossing, then?”

“What can you say? It’s the red-eye.” She scans her father-in-law’s features. She suspects that the almost infected tint to his eyes speaks to how little he has slept in the past few days. “How are you managing?” she asks.

“Oh, you know, hanging in there. The missus is in a bit of haze, of course. But that’s to be expected, isn’t it? How’s my lad?”

Kavita looks sidelong at Nirav. He is forehead-to-forehead with Maya, locked in conspiratorial chatter. “I’m not sure, to be honest. He keeps so much to himself. Sometimes I wish he’d have a good cry and let it out.”

“Heavens, no. That wouldn’t do at all. Kavita, you must understand, my dear, that the Stone men uphold a proud tradition of drinking in lieu of tears, and there’s been a lot of that going on, I can assure you. Fortunately, my wife’s family also partakes in this noble custom. It is perhaps one of the few similarities between our clans. In any case, I’m sure Maya will cry enough for all of us, isn’t that right, my darling?”

“I can’t help it,” Maya pouts. “I’m sensitive.” Locking arms with Nirav, she flashes Kavita a possessive look. “So lovely you could make it, Sis. You look absolutely brill, by the way. Lost a stone, have we?”

Nirav scans Kavita from neck to ankle, forehead wrinkling, as if noticing her weight loss for the first time.

Mr. Stone grins at his children. “Come along, then,” he says, as he walks over to Nirav and grabs his suitcase. “Enough dilly-dallying. They’re already fleecing us with the parking. Spit spot.”

“All right, Mary Poppins,” teases Nirav. “Don’t swallow your umbrella.”

Kavita follows a few steps behind them. The scratch of her suitcase wheels against the ground is the only sound she makes until they reach the car.

They drive from Heathrow to Harrow, where the rest of the Roy clan are gathered. As they drive along the narrow streets, on the opposite side of the road than she is accustomed to, Kavita observes the unfamiliar surroundings—the gloomy sky, the chilling drizzle, the tightly-packed Tudor-style houses, the frequent rotaries, the rundown high streets, the tube stations with their iconic emblem, the quaint pubs with even quainter names: The White Horse, The Castle, The Moon on the Hill.

They park along the street in front of Nirav’s maternal grandmother’s terraced, Tudor-style home, with beams painted periwinkle rather than the customary black or brown, and a front door that is a surprising shade of red. The front garden has been paved over with pink interlocking stones, where Nani’s white Vauxhall is parked.

The cold vapours of the air leach into Kavita’s bones in seconds as they approach the house. November in Ottawa is dreary, but this is another level of autumnal desolation.

A sepulchral chill crawls over Kavita as she expects to see Nani’s thin, beaming face peeking through the doorway to greet them. She pictures her rusty hennaed roots and dark bindi like a beauty spot, and of course, her sari and cardigan uniform.

Nirav’s mother answers the door a second before they are about to let themselves in. Nirav takes after his mother in the length of his limbs, warmth of his complexion, and darkness of his hair. Mrs. Stone is dressed in a navy chiffon sari and black cardigan. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled back into a ratty bun. Smudges of mascara blacken her eyes. Her lips are nude and shrivelled.

“There he is!” She lunges forward and locks Nirav in a constricting maternal embrace. “My boy!”

For a few moments, the air is grave-like around them. When Mrs. Stone finally loosens her embrace, she pulls back, and looks deeply into Nirav’s eyes. “I can’t believe Nani’s gone, Niru. She’s always been there for us. And now, in the blink of an eye, gone. What will we do without her? She held so much together. Now she’s gone and we’re falling apart already.”

Staring at the stone steps, Kavita nods, solemn. She has heard the matriarch’s fabled tale. Widowed at thirty when her husband was killed in a scooter accident, with one daughter and three sons to care for, Nani shook off the shackles of widowhood and used her savings to emigrate from Calcutta to London. For six years, she lived with her cousin and his family while she worked and saved enough money to open a small Asian supermarket on Eling Road. When she could finally afford the passage, she sent for her children.

“Oh, hello there, Kavita,” Mrs. Stone says, at last. “Terribly sorry, dear. I didn’t see you there. Quiet as a mouse, you are. My, you look thin.” A pause while Kavita is swept from ankle to crown. “Nani always liked you, you know. I think she approved of you more than she approved of George, really. Thought Nirav was going back to the culture when he married you or some such. Oh, don’t look at me like that, George!”

Mr. Stone flashes his wife a stern look, nudges his way through the door, and marches across the foyer into the house. Maya follows close behind him, her face pinched, and her nose slightly lifted. “You would think it was their mother who died,” Mrs. Stone sighs. “Well now, don’t stand out in the drizzle. Come in, come in.”

They crowd into the foyer. Shoes are scattered here and there. Coats are piled onto hooks and the end of the banister.

Mrs. Stone wraps an arm around Nirav’s shoulder and leads him into the house. “Now,” she continues, “the men are in the back room. Niru, go and say hello. Kavita, come with me and sit with the ladies,” motioning to the front room.

Kavita peers inside. She recognizes a few of the aunties seated on the floral sofa, sombre in their saris, talking in hushed voices, but most of the other women gathered in the sitting room she doesn’t know. One of the unknown women looks over at Kavita with a cool beam of judgement as only an older Indian woman can give a younger. Kavita instantly feels self-conscious and inappropriate in her faded cords and jean jacket. She wishes she’d had some traditional clothes to wear, but all of her Indian outfits were too offensively cheerful to pack. “Is it all right if I join you in a bit?” she asks Mrs. Stone. “I’d like to keep Nirav company for now.”

“Fine, fine,” Mrs. Stone says. “But don’t be too long, dear. We mustn’t be rude in front of company.” She gives Nirav one last kiss on the cheek, then disappears into the front room.

Kavita finally tunes in to the low murmurs of the house. She follows Nirav to the back room and stands in the doorway. The men are seated in a circle, spread out among the black leather sectional, club chairs, and a few kitchen chairs.

Mr. Stone is seated at one end of the couch, grim-faced, as he swigs scotch. Beside him are Nirav’s three uncles, Dilip, Rajesh, and Sanjay. Tall and bald, Dilip mama, the second eldest, helps with the shop. Tall and round, Rajesh mama, the third eldest, runs a chippy. Tall and slim, Sanjay mama, the baby of the family, works as a clerk at NatWest. The other men Kavita hasn’t met.

Despite the pre-lunch hour, a half-drunk bottle of dark liquor holds a place of honour at the centre of the coffee table, alongside an ice bucket, and a scattering of thick-bottomed tumblers. The din of the room swells excitedly with Nirav’s shy arrival. The men rise to greet him with strong hugs and firm shoulder shakes.

As Kavita tiptoes into the room, the volume lulls, sharply. She feels like a character in an old Western, the stranger who walks into the saloon.

The surprise only lasts for a moment. The men quickly adapt. They sit up straighter, welcome her with timid hugs and dry pecks on the cheek, and clear a space for her on the couch beside Nirav. Before she has a chance to refuse it, one of the uncles pushes a scotch into her hand. And with that, her admittance into their fraternity appears complete.

She sips the caustic drink and catches fragments of the maudlin chatter.

I can’t believe she’s gone.

I spoke to her that morning.

The damp winter months were too hard on her lungs.

I’ll miss her samosas and tamarind sauce.

I wonder what will happen to the shop now? Should we sell it? Should we keep it?

Heat rises from the drink into Kavita’s cheeks. Sinking into the broken-in couch, she reflects on Nani, the closest thing she has ever had to a grandmother, having never met her own.

They would sit, drink tea, eat snacks—bhajis and tamarind sauce or fresh dhokla with coriander chutney. Nani would ask if they had good jobs, if they made enough money, when they were going to buy a house, when they were going to start a family. In turn, Kavita would ask: What was the sea voyage like from Bengal to South Hampton? Was it frightening to be a widow in a foreign place, or unexpectedly freeing? How had the community changed over the years? Nani would answer in her meandering singsong way, as though displaying a long-forgotten family quilt that had been packed away in a suitcase for safe keeping, each golden line of her story as rich as the finest zari work.

Kavita reaches for Nirav’s hand, and squeezes.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m just thinking about Nani. She changed so many lives. You know, if she hadn’t immigrated, you and I would never have met.”

He smiles partway. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Their reminiscing is interrupted when a man Kavita doesn’t recognize enters the room. He is wearing a blue jacket and dark pants and looks to be middle-aged, as hinted at by his grizzled temples. Another family friend who has come to offer his condolences, Kavita assumes. She greets him, warmly.

As he passes, he flashes her an accusing glare. Points with his eyes to the whiskey in her hand, and sneers, “That better not be for you,” then turns away from her in disgust.

The welcoming smile drops from Kavita’s lips. A blink breaks her momentary paralysis. Puzzled, her eyes dart from the glass in her hand, to the stranger’s hairless crown, and back to the glass again. What did he just say? she thinks. Who is he?

Sheepish, she places her scotch on the coffee table, and avoids the man’s pandit-like gaze.

“Just ignore him,” Nirav whispers.

“You heard what he said?”

“Just let it go, all right?” The next moment, Nirav’s father introduces him to the strange man. Nirav stands, shakes hands, and tells him what a pleasure it is to meet him, with a wide grin.

Kavita sits in silence, unnamed, without being introduced.

She wonders if this her punishment for roguish behaviour, being out of place, disrupting their customary order of: women over here, men over there?

Quietly, she excuses herself and ventures next door to see if she can find better company among the women.

Maya sits hunched on a chair close to the doorway, frowning and texting on her mobile. Kavita leans on the wall beside her, clears her throat, and waits to see if any conversation might flow between them. Maya keeps her eyes fixed on the glowing screen in her hands, her thumbs moving with impressive speed.

“Kavita, dear,” Mrs. Stone says from the opposite corner of the room. “Come and say hello to everyone.”

Crossing the room, Kavita slowly makes her way along the line of women seated on the floral settee, folding her hands in namaskar and greeting them with a slight bow.

At the far end, she finally meets someone she knows, Nisha Auntie, Dilip mama’s wife. She is a plump woman, with waist-length black hair, puffy from years of brushing out its disobedient curl, which she always wears in a long braid draped over one shoulder. She is wearing a purple cotton sari and grey cardigan. During their last visit, this same auntie pinned a charm into Kavita’s sweater to help ward off the dreaded evil eye, a loving gesture as steeped in caring as it was village superstition. Kavita is happy to see her.

“How are you, Kavita?” Nisha Auntie asks, her grin warm and genuine.

“I’m fine, thank you, Auntie,” Kavita replies. “And you?”

“As well as can be expected, haan?”

Kavita nods.

“Have you learned to speak Bengali yet?”

“No, Auntie, not yet.”

“Ahh,” Nisha Auntie nods, an expression of slight disappointment on her face. “And tell me, how are your parents? How is their health?”

“As well as can be expected,” borrowing a line from Nisha Auntie.

“When will they be visiting us?”

The question comes as a slight shock. Kavita’s parents are in no shape to make the journey and bear the exhaustion of visiting from house to house. Nevertheless she answers, “Maybe next year.”

“And how about your brother?” Nisha Auntie goes on. “How is Sunil?”

Although Kavita hears the words, she doesn’t understand their meaning, as though Nisha Auntie has suddenly switched to Bengali. She must have misheard.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your brother,” Nisha Auntie repeats. “How is his health? Will he be marrying soon? I know some nice girls.”

Before Kavita has a chance to respond, a hand claws her elbow and thrusts her out of the room. In the solitude of the foyer, Mrs. Stone whispers deeply into her ear, “No one knows about him.”

Then she leaves.