As he stepped out of his house, slamming the door behind him, the midsummer heat bowled him over. He had worn too many layers again. And he always felt the heat. Some of the other ‘elderly’ people at the mandir laughed at him – when they were too cold, Mukesh was too hot. He worried about underarm sweat patches, though they would often say, ‘Mukeshbhai, why do you worry about such things? We are old now. We don’t mind.’
But Mukesh did not want to be old, and if he stopped worrying about sweat patches, belching in public, that sort of thing, he might stop caring about other more important things too.
He adjusted his flat cap, which he wore whatever the weather, to make sure the sun was out of his eyes. He’d had this cap for fifty years. It was wearing away and wearing out, but he loved it. It had outlasted his marriage and, while he didn’t want to be a pessimist, if he lost it, it would be like losing another fundamental part of himself.
Every week, the walk up the slight hill from his house to the high road got a little bit harder, his breathing a little bit shallower, and one day he would need to order a Dial-a-Ride for the five-minute stroll. When he eventually reached the top of the hill and turned left, he took a deep breath, steadied himself against a bollard, readjusted his mandir-branded canvas bag, which was slipping off his shoulder, and carried on towards his usual grocery shop on Ealing Road.
Ealing Road was a bit quieter on a Wednesday, which was why Naina had nominated it as her shopping day. She always said it reduced her chances of bumping into someone she knew, which had the potential to turn a ten-minute shopping trip into an hour’s social catch-up.
A few people wandered in and out of the shops that had beautiful mannequins showing themselves off in the window, draped in jewels and bright material, but the majority frequented the fruit and vegetable stalls, or hung around near the Wembley Central mosque. Mukesh waved to his neighbour Naseem and his daughter Noor, sitting on a wall sharing a packet of cassava crisps between them. They hadn’t spoken for more than a few minutes since Naina had passed, but whenever he saw Naseem and Noor, they never failed to brighten his day.
Mukesh finally reached his favourite shop, overflowing with all sorts of vegetables, fresh and fragrant, kept in the shade by the awning. It was swarming with shoppers and buggies and children. Mukesh felt a little bubble of panic in his throat. Nikhil was standing in the doorway, as though he had been waiting just for him.
‘Hey, Mukesh!’ Nikhil was 30, and the son of an acquaintance from the mandir. So really, he should have called him ‘Mukeshfua’， meaning uncle, as a sign of respect, but Mukesh let this slide, as he often did. He didn’t want to be fua to this young man, who still had all his original hair, all his original teeth, and was a while away from the muffin-top belly Mukesh had been sporting for the last ten years, steadily maintained by a diet of rice, mung and kadhi. He liked feeling like Nikhil’s friend rather than his doddery old uncle.
‘Kemcho, Nikhil,’ Mukesh replied. ‘Can I have mug, plenty of it – and some bhindi too?’
‘Wonder what you’re making today, eh, Mukesh?!’
‘You know what I’m making.’
‘It was a joke. You know mung and okra don’t even go together, right? Make something different. For once, Mukesh.’ Nikhil mock-rolled his eyes, a toothy grin on his face.
‘You know, young man, you should be calling me fua! I must tell your mother of your rudeness.’ He smiled to himself. Even if he tried, he’d never be able to earn the respect Naina had once had. She had been the public-facing figure in their marriage. She’d run the satsaangs at the mandir on Saturdays, and led the bhajans. The younger ones and her peers looked up to her.
Mukesh watched Nikhil weave his way in and out of the crowds. Finally, he presented Mukesh with a blue bag, teeming with greenery. Okra and mung beans aplenty, but many other bonus vegetables thrown in too. They didn’t call it ‘Variety Foods’ for nothing.
Mukesh said thank you, quite quietly, and jostled back through the shoppers to the street, where cars were tooting and beeping, their windows open and music of all kinds blaring out.
When he reached the top of his road, he began to walk ‘briskly’， helped by the downward slope, unlocked his door, hobbled to his kitchen and unpacked his groceries （bonus veg today: spinach, coriander and a bread roll or two, perfect for pav bhaji, which Mukesh had no clue how to make）。 Finally, he sat himself down in front of the television.
Usually, on a Wednesday, he’d unpack his shopping and then sit on his chair with his feet up, drinking a cup of hot and just-right-sweet chai, as Naina used to make it （now made using ready-mix sachets）， and he’d plonk himself in front of Zee TV or the news, to keep his eyes away from the empty chair beside him, Naina’s chair – and to fill his ears with sound, laughter, and stern conversations, important world affairs, to keep his mind away from the deafening silence that had welcomed him home every day for two years now.