Kavita functioned through the next few days with the rigid mechanics of something made of more metal than flesh. The only time she felt much of anything at all was when she stood over Nani’s casket, but even then she was touched by greater disbelief than sadness, at the greying skin, the artificial plumpness of lips and cheeks, the husk without a soul to liven it, which left her thinking, That isn’t Nani. Nani isn’t here, and made Kavita realize she wasn’t either. To live was to feel. Survival was doing what was necessary to get by.
Now they are at Heathrow, saying their goodbyes at the security gate. She lets them hug her and peck her on the cheek, but she doesn’t feel any of it.
Normally, passing through security makes her anxious, especially in airports outside of Canada, where she somehow feels more conspicuously brown. Today, though, as she walks through the metal detector, and collects her things from the plastic bin, she breathes in ease, as if with every step she senses her humiliation shrink and shrink behind her. It’s over, she thinks. Soon she will be home again. Soon she will be safe.
They stop at a newsagent for water, gum, and magazines. While they wait in line, Nirav says, “I know our reason for coming was horrible. But it was a lovely trip in the end, wasn’t it?”
Dumbfounded, Kavita hides her shock by reaching for a copy of National Geographic from the bottom shelf of the magazine stand. As they wait to pay, she considers how incongruent her husband’s perception is from her own. How you can live a life with someone, and yet, not be living the same life at all.
On the way to the gate, Nirav tries to hold her hand, which she keeps hidden in her sleeve, and she lets out a faint whimper. When he asks her what’s wrong, she tells him she accidentally cut herself while making sandwiches for the wake. Silly bean, he calls her. She needs to be more careful, doesn’t she? He moves to the other side of her and takes hold of her good hand, thanking her for everything she did leading up to the service and after. She was his rock, he tells her. He couldn’t have gotten through it without her. He doesn’t bring up their fight, neither seeking an apology, nor offering one, as if whatever happened has been resolved in silence, as if by virtue of pardoning her, he himself has been pardoned.
At the gate, she flips through her copy of National Geographic and daydreams of jumping into the photos of exotic locales—bathing in the blue waters of Cuba, trekking on the sandy-coloured plains of the Savannah, and sailing the dunes of the Sahara. Of taking flight.