They drive from Heathrow to Harrow, where the rest of the Roy clan are gathered. As they drive along the narrow streets, on the opposite side of the road than she is accustomed to, Kavita observes the unfamiliar surroundings—the gloomy sky, the chilling drizzle, the tightly-packed Tudor-style houses, the frequent rotaries, the rundown high streets, the tube stations with their iconic emblem, the quaint pubs with even quainter names: The White Horse, The Castle, The Moon on the Hill.

They park along the street in front of Nirav’s maternal grandmother’s terraced, Tudor-style home, with beams painted periwinkle rather than the customary black or brown, and a front door that is a surprising shade of red. The front garden has been paved over with pink interlocking stones, where Nani’s white Vauxhall is parked.

The cold vapours of the air leach into Kavita’s bones in seconds as they approach the house. November in Ottawa is dreary, but this is another level of autumnal desolation.

A sepulchral chill crawls over Kavita as she expects to see Nani’s thin, beaming face peeking through the doorway to greet them. She pictures her rusty hennaed roots and dark bindi like a beauty spot, and of course, her sari and cardigan uniform.

Nirav’s mother answers the door a second before they are about to let themselves in. Nirav takes after his mother in the length of his limbs, warmth of his complexion, and darkness of his hair. Mrs. Stone is dressed in a navy chiffon sari and black cardigan. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled back into a ratty bun. Smudges of mascara blacken her eyes. Her lips are nude and shrivelled.

“There he is!” She lunges forward and locks Nirav in a constricting maternal embrace. “My boy!”

For a few moments, the air is grave-like around them. When Mrs. Stone finally loosens her embrace, she pulls back, and looks deeply into Nirav’s eyes. “I can’t believe Nani’s gone, Niru. She’s always been there for us. And now, in the blink of an eye, gone. What will we do without her? She held so much together. Now she’s gone and we’re falling apart already.”

Staring at the stone steps, Kavita nods, solemn. She has heard the matriarch’s fabled tale. Widowed at thirty when her husband was killed in a scooter accident, with one daughter and three sons to care for, Nani shook off the shackles of widowhood and used her savings to emigrate from Calcutta to London. For six years, she lived with her cousin and his family while she worked and saved enough money to open a small Asian supermarket on Eling Road. When she could finally afford the passage, she sent for her children.