The next night, he tried again. He put Naina’s reading lamp on and turned to page one once more. He flicked through the successive pages, trying to be gentle, trying so hard not to leave his own mark on this book in any tangible way. He wanted this book to be Naina, and only Naina. He searched, forensically, for a clue – a mark on the page, a drop of chai, a tear, an eyelash, anything at all. He told himself that one day he would have to return it to the library – it’s what Naina would have wanted. But he couldn’t let it go. Not yet. It was his last chance to bring Naina back.
He took it page by page, chapter by chapter. He met Henry, a character who could travel through time. Through this gift, he could meet a past or future version of himself, and it was also, importantly, how he met Clare – he travelled in time to meet her when she was just a girl, and returned again and again over the years. The love of his life. And Clare had no choice but to love him, because he was all she had ever known.
He began to see these characters not as Henry and Clare but as love itself – that kind of love that feels fated, inescapable. That’s what he and Naina had. Eventually in the story, Henry leaps forward into the future and learns he is going to die. He tells Clare he knows when it will happen, when they’ll be separated for ever.
As he was reading about Clare and Henry’s tragedy, the phone beside him had begun to trill. It was Deepali. He’d not been able to speak, he could only cry.
‘I knew she was going to die, my beta,’ he said to her, when his voice could finally escape. ‘In the same way Clare knew Henry was going to die in that book. They could almost count their last days together. I had that warning, too. But did I do enough? Did I make her last few months happy?’
‘Dad, what are you talking about?’
‘Your mummy’s book – Time Traveling Wife.’
‘What about it, Dad?’ Her voice was soft, he could hear the pity ringing through it.
‘Henry and Clare … you know … they loved each other ever since they were very young, just like me and your mummy. And they knew when he was going to die. And they lived their lives as best they could, making the most of every moment. I don’t know if I did the same.’
‘Dad, Mummy loved you, and she knew you loved her. That was enough. Come on, now. It’s late, Papa, go to sleep, okay? Don’t worry about it at all. You gave her a good life, and she gave you a good life too.’
Naina had died. But this book felt like one little glimpse into her soul, into their love, their life together. A snapshot of the early days of their marriage when they were still all but strangers to each other. Married, with no idea of what the other one was really like. Naina would do everything – she’d cook, she’d clean, she’d laugh, she’d cry, she’d sew, she’d mend, and at the end of the day, she’d read. She’d settle into bed as though she’d had the most relaxing day, and she’d read. From their first few weeks together, he knew that he loved her, and he’d love her for ever.
I’ll never be lost to you, Mukesh, she said to him then as he gripped the book in his hands. He heard the words. Her voice. The story – it had brought her back – even if just for a moment.
As Mukesh reaches for the remote control to continue today’s routine, his hand collides with a book. The Time Traveler’s Wife was staring up at him from the sitting-room table. Time to go to the library, no excuses, the book whispered to him, in a voice that sounded uncannily like Naina’s. It was time to leave this book behind, to move forward. Now, it was time.
After a few deep breaths and a little stretch of his legs, he stood up, tucked the book into his canvas bag, checked his pockets for his bus pass, and headed straight out of the house, up the hill. He crossed the road at the traffic lights to get to the closest bus stop. He waited, struggling to read the timetable.
A young woman was standing next to him, with a messy bun and a huge mobile phone, held in two hands.
‘Excuse me, where on earth is the library and which bus would I need to get, please?’
The woman sighed and began to tap the screen. He had irritated her, he would have to find out another way, but, squinting, he couldn’t make out any detail on the map. He would be here for ever.
‘You’ve got to get the ninety-two from here,’ the woman said suddenly, making Mukesh jump. ‘It’s in the Civic Centre.’
‘Oh, no! Surely there is another one. The Civic Centre is so full of people. Too too busy for me. Can you check again?’