Mrs. Stone places her empty cup in the sink. “Going up for a bit o’ kip before dinner. See you in a bit, dear.” The false smile drops from Kavita’s lips, as she watches Mrs. Stone exit the kitchen and disappears upstairs, her blue sari swaying in time with her unhurried gait.

Kavita stares at the cauliflower. There is nothing more to do now other than finish cooking dinner. Mrs. Stone has been through a lot, she reminds herself. A nap will do her good. Maybe later she will have more energy to explain the mix-up. Yes, Kavita reasons, these conversations are best had when everyone is well-rested.

She grips the knife and attacks the cauliflower. That evening’s aloo gobi will be more purée than sabji.

In the hot pan, she fries the onions and tomatoes. Adds salt, pepper, curry powder and cumin. Coaxes the masala to release its peppery perfume with a stir. Breathes in the warm and familiar bouquet. For the moment, she isn’t in some unfamiliar neighbourhood in Greater London any longer. The aroma sails over the Atlantic, back home, where it is safe.

19.

While the SABJI FINISHES in the pan, Kavita rinses basmati, grates cucumber for raita, and chops tomatoes, onions, and coriander salad. She even decides against serving the frozen rotis and rolls out pinches of dough instead. Then she sets the table, cleans the dishes, and lights a rose-scented incense stick that was already waiting for fire in a holder on the kitchen windowsill.

What else? she thinks, as she stands in the middle of the kitchen. What else can she do to maintain this state of forced calm. What else to distract away from the corkscrew of doubt twisting her gut, that whispers to her during the occasional lull in her chores: What if there is no reasonable explanation?

Chores, chores, chores. More of them. Now. She could take out the trash, or reorganize the cupboards, or clean out the fridge, or put a load of washing on. At home, she would have felt comfortable enough to lose herself among these mundane tasks. But she isn’t at home. Home is supposed to be a safe place, but she doesn’t feel safe here. Not safe enough to stop, and certainly not safe enough to be alone with her thoughts.

She wonders if Nirav has finished his speech by now and decides to check on him. Upstairs, she opens his bedroom door without a creak. She finds him hunched over a small desk. The room is dim apart from the desk lamp that offers a funnel of citrusy light over his pages. He lowers his pencil and glances over.

She grins and takes a seat on the end of his bed. “How’s the speech coming?” she asks.