The wedding is over.
Parties were had, prayers were said, and after the reception on Wednesday night, Jasminder left for her new husband’s house. It’s only five minutes away, in the next suburb, but we all bawled our eyes out during vidai.
Now it’s Thursday morning and there’s no sleeping in. Dad offered to drive back with me but I said I’d help with the post-wedding clean-up before heading home this afternoon. All hands are needed on deck. Hansa gives me a list of tasks, asks me to wake Nani.
I knock and enter the room with a steaming mug and a plateful of warm puri, the local newspaper folded under my arm. The room is shadowed by curtains, and smells of old lady and incense. Nani is snoring gently. A little shrine to Guru-ji is in the corner, a small pile of poetry books by the bed.
‘Nani-ji?’ I set down the mug and plate and paper on the nightstand as she stirs. ‘Hey, I’m sorry to wake you.’
‘Daya?’ Nani blinks up at me. ‘Daya, is that you?’
It’s the unexpectedness of it that cuts: I’m not ready. The sound of my mother’s name slices through me, and I jerk, turn to the window.
‘Oh, I had a dream…’ Nani says, her voice sleepy. ‘Of you, Daya, with your baby girl…’
I ease the curtains back. I try to be sensible about it: seeing me just after waking, with my hair loose like this, it’s understandable Nani is confused. Everyone says I look like Mum.
I’m still blinking the wet out of my eyes when I turn and smile at her. ‘Nani-ji, it’s Amita. It’s me.’
‘Hm?’ Nani sits herself up. ‘Oh goodness, where are my glasses?’
I give them to her off the nightstand and she fumbles them on.
‘I’ve brought you breakfast in bed,’ I say lightly, swallowing hard and keeping up my smile. ‘I’m sorry to wake you but you said nine o’clock.’
‘Indeed I did.’ Nani settles herself on the pillows, arranging the blankets. ‘Thank you for waking me. Will you share some puri with me?’
But her voice still sounds odd: tentative and polite, as if she’s not sure who she’s talking to. I sit on the side of the bed near her quilt-covered legs.
‘Nani-ji, I’ll be happy to share with you.’ I tilt my head to catch her eye. ‘Nani, it’s Amita. Do you remember?’
She looks at me, her eyes focusing behind her glasses. Then her expression clears and her voice becomes more natural. ‘Amita! Oh, Amita, you are a sweet girl. You’ve brought me breakfast! Yes, yes, this is good. But where is your mug?’ She beams as I pass her the tea.
‘Oh, I’ve already had mine.’ The fear in my stomach is a cloudy-white lump. ‘This is just for you.’
Watching her sip, I suddenly feel awful. I wanted to spend time with Nani while I was here in Mildura. It’s the thing that was on my mind when I drove up, more than mehndi and saris and celebrating. But I got caught up in the wedding whirl, and been as neglectful of Nani as everybody else. And I’ll be going in a few short housework-filled hours, without doing what I came here for.
‘Here’s your newspaper, Nani-ji,’ I say, unfolding it with a guilty flourish. ‘You can read it while you’re –’
I stop because I’ve seen the headline. It’s not the lead story, but it’s still on the front page.
Police raid nabs drug offender.
I scan the paragraph at the top of the article, stand up. ‘Nani, I’ll be back in just a sec, okay?’
While Nani looks at me, bewildered but mollified by her tea, I slip out of the room, yanking out my phone. I tap a quick text –Pls contact hospital immediately for test results– and hit Send. I go to the bathroom, splash water on my face, squeeze my hands together. While I’m standing at the sink, I get a reply.
Available @4pm for meeting re: test results.
First comes the relief: I heave a giant sigh. Then I realise the timing’s perfect – right about when I’m leaving Mildura. I can see Harris and get details about what the hell happened on the way home. I text backOkand return to Nani, hoping her quiet presence will calm me before the day’s craziness rolls on.
*
‘…so that was basically it. I spent six hours in the lock-up yesterday, and by the time I got back to the house, I couldn’t say I was feeling hugely sympathetic towards police process.’ Harris grimaces. ‘Anyway, Snowie passed word around last night that we should all chill until we get news from above.’
Icy breeze off the river whips my hair around. The sky is like smoky quartz, the river a dull sluggish reflection: it’s as if Tuesday’s spring brightness never existed. Harris and I lean against the Pitbull’s bonnet, which at least keeps our butts warm.
‘Okay, I’ll let Dad know,’ I say. ‘You probably could’ve called him from Mildura station, but it doesn’t sound as if he would’ve been much use to you anyway.’
