Despite the pre-lunch hour, a half-drunk bottle of dark liquor holds a place of honour at the centre of the coffee table, alongside an ice bucket, and a scattering of thick-bottomed tumblers. The din of the room swells excitedly with Nirav’s shy arrival. The men rise to greet him with strong hugs and firm shoulder shakes.

As Kavita tiptoes into the room, the volume lulls, sharply. She feels like a character in an old Western, the stranger who walks into the saloon.

The surprise only lasts for a moment. The men quickly adapt. They sit up straighter, welcome her with timid hugs and dry pecks on the cheek, and clear a space for her on the couch beside Nirav. Before she has a chance to refuse it, one of the uncles pushes a scotch into her hand. And with that, her admittance into their fraternity appears complete.

She sips the caustic drink and catches fragments of the maudlin chatter.

I can’t believe she’s gone.

I spoke to her that morning.

The damp winter months were too hard on her lungs.

I’ll miss her samosas and tamarind sauce.

I wonder what will happen to the shop now? Should we sell it? Should we keep it?

Heat rises from the drink into Kavita’s cheeks. Sinking into the broken-in couch, she reflects on Nani, the closest thing she has ever had to a grandmother, having never met her own.

They would sit, drink tea, eat snacks—bhajis and tamarind sauce or fresh dhokla with coriander chutney. Nani would ask if they had good jobs, if they made enough money, when they were going to buy a house, when they were going to start a family. In turn, Kavita would ask: What was the sea voyage like from Bengal to South Hampton? Was it frightening to be a widow in a foreign place, or unexpectedly freeing? How had the community changed over the years? Nani would answer in her meandering singsong way, as though displaying a long-forgotten family quilt that had been packed away in a suitcase for safe keeping, each golden line of her story as rich as the finest zari work.

Kavita reaches for Nirav’s hand, and squeezes.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m just thinking about Nani. She changed so many lives. You know, if she hadn’t immigrated, you and I would never have met.”

He smiles partway. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Their reminiscing is interrupted when a man Kavita doesn’t recognize enters the room. He is wearing a blue jacket and dark pants and looks to be middle-aged, as hinted at by his grizzled temples. Another family friend who has come to offer his condolences, Kavita assumes. She greets him, warmly.

As he passes, he flashes her an accusing glare. Points with his eyes to the whiskey in her hand, and sneers, “That better not be for you,” then turns away from her in disgust.