History:
I choose meatspace. I start waking up early, eating properly, spending a minimum of 4 hours a day out of my flat. I allow myself an hour of internet 3 times a day. I build a routine, something I’ve sorely lacked.
I find a job copywriting for an ad firm near me. They let me work from home. I choose to hot desk with them. I get up early each morning and I sit at my desk and write for 3 hours before I have to be at work. The feeling of being surrounded by people again, on coffee rounds, talking about Game of Thrones, standing over each other’s desks and picking apart the finer details of full stops, punchier headlines and puns – it feels electric.
The sounds of my alarm clock barely register over the heavy purrs of Hayley as she lies next to me. I take my laptop into the other room and start writing. It feels forced, then it feels easy, then it feels like the worst thing I could be doing but I’m getting it done.
I get the occasional email from Kitab 2. He asks for me to provide him a reference to reapply to school with. He’s doing an English Literature degree in Bangalore, much to his father’s disdain and wants to write a novel based on his week in London. I reply that I’m happy to. He’s grown on me. My mentor.
I see Dad regularly. He moves into a flat nearby, out of my childhood home. We sell most of the contents and he sets himself up with an Ikea catalogue-style place. Near me, he sees me more often and he’s able to enjoy what he describes as ‘the carnival atmosphere’ of where I live. We go for walks, to the cinema, sometimes to concerts – old Bollywood song evenings where we sit on cushions, sip red wine and listen to the songs of Dad’s for ever ago. He tells me stories about Mum. I tell him stories about Aziz, ones he has never heard.
My news channels become just that, news channels. I close my Facebook account and sign up for a new email address. Before I delete my Facebook account, I do a search for my name and find a third Kitab Balasubramanyam. His avatar is a photo of his torso. We’re growing in legion. I’m not so much a ‘me’ anymore. Time for me to leave. I click delete.
I open the fridge, trying to make a cheese and something sandwich. I notice there are no chutneys. Just a jar of Branston pickle. Perfect, I mouth to myself.
Hayley spends a lot of time at my flat. She doesn’t like her flatmates much. A collection of different herbal teas comes with her, filling one of my cupboards up with box after box.
One afternoon, Dad is over and I’m showing him how to make roast potatoes. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking beers and he looks at me.
‘How is the second novel coming?’ he asks.
I tell him all about it. I talk him through the plot. He asks questions, I make up answers to disguise the fact I haven’t thought of that yet. He gets me to define my audience. He laughs at the right bits, he gasps at others.
We talk for 30 minutes about the book and during a natural lull he puts his elbows on the table. ‘I’d like to see those books, the ones you and Aziz wrote,’ he says. ‘It would be nice to read my 2 sons’ adventures.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sure.’ I go and get them. We spend the rest of the evening acting out the stories in Aziz’s voice and gestures, remembering how he relayed details with his entire body. It feels good to talk about him like he’s not there anymore.
As we remember him, he feels more alive to me than he has done in years.
I’m walking down the high street and a car passes, music blaring. It stands out because it’s not grime or hip-hop like it usually is in this area. It’s a song from the 80s. It’s by Elvis Costello. It sparks a memory. Aziz and I are riding bikes through my old neighbourhood. The roads are empty because it’s the middle of the day. The sun is shining and I’m wearing a t-shirt with Shaquille O’Neal on it. Aziz is wearing a Clash t-shirt Dad hates. Because they’re loud and obnoxious, according to him. And probably have lots of tattoos.
He’s going faster and faster and encouraging me to keep up. I feign a lack of fitness but it’s because I’m scared of speed. Aziz lifts his hands off the handlebars to the sky. He is graceful and in command of that bike. He is practically flying. He turns round to me and I’m close enough to see him wink. He steadies himself and then brakes suddenly swinging the bike round to face me. He starts bellowing at the top of his voice, semi in tune, I join him when I know the words. It’s our favourite song, a tape we found amongst Mum’s things, ‘Shipbuilding’ by Elvis Costello recorded over and over again on one side of a blank C-90 tape … both Aziz and me, with all the will in the world,
‘Diving for dear life
When we could be diving for pearls.’
Some memories will for ever be 3-dimensional.