I can feel my heart rate even as I let my eyelids flutter open. The first red light is just going on. I take the clutch, my composure returning in small waves. She’s here, even when she’s not. She drives with me, every lap.
And when the five lights go out, I’ve never been more certain of my motivation than in that moment. Because my father might’ve left, but his faith endured through the gift he’d given me. Her strength.
I pick my way into fourth, then dart around Peter and Miguel to wind towards a precarious P2 going into the first curve. My start poises me to get close to Diana, up next in P1. The chase is grating, with Afonso calling out modes lap after lap. We drive similar cars, but she has a full trophy case, finesse, a World Championship. That’s enough to prolong this endeavour, about ten laps deep as it is before I get even remotely close enough to claim a healthy dose of DRS on the straight. It’s exactly what I need for my front wing to skirt closer to Diana’s rear one.
‘Good gap, go ahead,’ Afonso announces.
I bear down on the gas, my car shooting into the curve so abruptly that I come side-by-side with Diana.
Instead of using the straight, I keep level with her down the next stretch of track, and the second we hit the turn, I brake as late as I can, swinging my Heidelberg out in front of her Revello in a ballsy move that’ll certainly get me both good and bad press after. It’s worth the hassle. It brings me up into P1. I hold on for dear life, taking the race to the very end, defending with everything I’ve got when Diana creeps up on me two laps before the finish.
When I cross the line for the last time, retrieving my flag for the victory lap, part of me thinks Brazil is happier than I am. The audience is roaring, on their feet in ecstasy, waiting for mycelebration, while I raise a hand their way, assuring them I’ll do something.
Will she see it? Somehow?
Maybe not.
I take the chance anyway.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Shantal
‘Shantal, is thechaidone?’
I am notoriously awful at making tea. I stand to the side as Anjali’s mum, my Janika Aunty, stirs the concoction she’s prepared. Janika Aunty widens her eyes at me, as if to say,Make it convincing. I nod furiously, even though Ma won’t see from where she’s standing, waiting at the door for him – Navin. ‘It’s … it’s almost there!’
Janika Aunty uses a spoon to bring a bit of thechaito her red-outlined lips. She’s the polar opposite of my mother, that’s for sure. I like to think that the similarities stop at their upbringing in a half-Guyanese, half-Punjabi family. Vaani Mangal is quietly rebellious, traditional yet caring, urging us to take the path our heart yearns for, at least up until Sonia’s death. Janika Ramcharan is flamboyant, with the dress sense and taste of a film actress. Her doting Delhiite husband has the kind of patience that you find only once in a blue moon, and her eccentricity is the same kind of rare. They are a match made in heaven. Their chaos isthe reason I grew up so close to Anjali – as much as she loves her parents, she loves our calm just as much.
As if on cue, my cousin thunders down the stairs and envelops me in a hug so forceful I almost knock over the saucepan ofchai. ‘Anjali!’ I yelp, but she’s undeterred by even her mother’s squeal. She squeezes me tight, and then pulls back with a gasp.
‘You’re makingchai? For aman?’ she echoes the obvious, her thick black curls bouncing around her face. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A month ago.’ My smile is tight, and I pray that she won’t notice it in all the hustle and bustle. ‘You know, we’d been waiting for something, and I guess this is it.’
‘This is your for ever.’ She exhales, the gravity of it all knitting its way through her eyebrows. I know exactly what she’s going to say next before she can even open her mouth. ‘But then … what about the one …?’
I shake my head, gritting my teeth, a gesture she quickly catches on to. Her brow wrinkles. ‘No,’ I say.
The doorbell rings before she can ask me anything else, and my grip on her arms tightens. Anjali tries to give me a reassuring smile, as her mother beams. ‘Damn if that boy doesn’t love thechai, I’ll tell you.’
I try to chuckle at Janika Aunty’s joke, but Anjali doesn’t look amused, leaving me to help set the table. I love Anjali. I’m supposed to be a sort of mentor to her, someone who can guide her now that Sonia isn’t there to fill that role for both of us. But I can’t help feeling like no matter how much I try to set the example, it is she who truly guides me. There’s nothing like seeing the disappointment in her eyes when she leaves for the dining room, nothing like the weight of reality crushing young dreams, to tell you that what you’re doing is so wrong.
Navin Kumar, as I and my entire family have known since we moved to Clapham, is straightforward. He is tall, with carefully combed hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and warm eyes. I remember crushing on him when we were younger, before I realized my type was the kind of men I’d never realistically be in a relationship with. Now, he is grown up, sitting between both of his proud parents at the dinner table across from me. We’ve laid outchaiand friedpholourie, conversation is light, happy. Neither of us meet the other’s eyes. I don’t know if everyone else thinks I’m just being coy, but I’ll let them continue to assume.
‘Navin, where are you working now?’ asks Ma, her eyes alight with interest.
‘Over at St George’s. I’m in the foundation programme now, FY2, so almost done …’
A glance from Ma:He’s a doctor. He’s just perfect. Do you like him?
I can’t quite bring myself to reply.
‘That’s so wonderful,’ I reply once he’s explained it all, willing a smile to cross my face.
‘And what about you?’ he grins, tipping his head towards Ma and Babu. ‘I hear you’ve made an impression in the sports world already.’
‘I work for a company called Conquest, with professional teams, mostly football, on weaving new training techniques, new technology into their regimens. It’s athletic training meets data analysis, essentially.’
