My cheeks warm. ‘Nick’s not alone. He’s got the rest of his family, and he’s got me.’
‘But you are not walking together anymore,’ Nani points out.
I grin ruefully. ‘No, we’re still broken up, last time I checked. We get on better as friends.’
‘So he looks for a new life and someone of his own. Amita, you cannot stop the tide. It is a normal thing, this leaving.’
‘I know, Nani-ji. But I just…’
‘You will miss him.’
I think about it. ‘I’ve got other mates, but Nick’s my best friend at the hospital. It’ll be hard without him.’
‘Most certainly it will be hard. But if his family is here, he will be back. And if you are a true friend, you will want him to be happy. Do you believe he will be happy in the city?’
I don’t have to think too hard about that. ‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Yes, I think he’ll be great in the city.’
‘Then go to him and give him a gift of parting and wish him well. Maybe it is his destiny to be in Melbourne. You cannot stand in the way of destiny.’
‘I guess.’ I try to smile. Then I think of the residency and my face falls. ‘So what’smydestiny?’
She answers quickly, with utter certainty. ‘To meet a handsome Sikh man at your cousin’s wedding, and fall deeply in love, and give your Nani many great-grandchildren for cuddling.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘I think you should talk to Jas about the great-grandchildren before you talk to me.’ I try not to sigh into the phone when I continue. ‘Everyone really wants me up there for the wedding?’
‘Of course they want you here! What a thing to say. I want you. Hansa and the girls want you. Apu wants you here also.’
‘That’s…nice.’ Apu is my grandmother’s pet name for my grandfather, Anupam. Who died before I was born. Before Nani ever moved to Australia, in fact. She talks about my grandfather a lot, which isn’t unusual. What’s unusual is that, in our most recent phone calls, she’s started talking about him as if he’s still alive and well and chatting to her on a daily basis.
‘The wedding is in a month,’ Nani goes on. ‘That is barely time enough to prepare. And I want you to come to gurdwara with me and help with langar.’
‘Tell me the dates again and I’ll see what I can arrange with work.’
She tells me, after finding her glasses. I see her in my mind’s eye as though she’s right in front of me: a slightly shrunken-looking woman in a pale peach-coloured salwar kameez, with grey hair pulled back in a tidy braid. Her glasses will be balanced on her nose and she’ll have her feet up on a cushioned footstool in front of the wing-backed chair in the lounge room. I gave her the footstool three years ago for her sixty-eighth birthday. A cup of tea will be settled on the little table at her left.
‘And Mehndi Night!’ she exclaims. ‘You must come to Mehndi Night or your cousins will miss you.’
I think my cousins will do fine without me, but I agree to come to Mehndi Night anyway because it’ll be one of the more enjoyable activities related to the wedding.
We chat for a bit longer before saying our goodbyes. Resting the phone back in its cradle, I think about how Nani talked about my grandfather. She wasn’t acting like this last month when I visited. But that was a month ago.
I need to try to visit her every fortnight like I used to. Stay on top of things. Last year, with exams followed by the CNA course straight after, I was often too exhausted on the weekends to drive to Mildura. But that’s no excuse. Nani and the family depend on me.
Suddenly I’m filled with a desire to see Nani. Her arms are bony, but strong when they hug you. Her eyes are always a little starry. I hope she’s not tiring herself out with all the flurry over this wedding business.
Dad lets himself through the front door and a flare of sunlight invades the hall, illuminates the spot where I’m sitting.
‘Hey, you’re here,’ he says, taking off his sidearm. That’s always the first thing he does when he comes home. ‘Thought you’d be out with the camera.’
‘Not yet.’ I pull my bag onto my lap as I sit up. ‘Just finished on the phone with Nani.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’m a bit worried about her.’
‘What, is she not all right?’
Dad frustrates me sometimes. It’s like he can’t bear to say the word ‘sick’. In both our minds, sickness leads inevitably to something worse. For Dad, the aversion to talking about it, even thinking about it, is more severe. It’s made it hard to get straight answers out of him about his heart condition, and it’s wearing at times, considering I work in a hospital.
