hear the woman speak in the flesh after all these years.
‘You want to apologise.’
This time Mrs Dixit was visibly caught off guard.
‘Apologise, for what?’
‘For everything,’ replied the woman. There was no emotion in her voice, it was the cool tone of someone imparting a well-understood fact. ‘Everything that’s happened over these many years.’
‘Why would I apologise?’ Mrs Dixit replied, her mind racing.
‘For taking him away, like you did. Making him choose between the love of his family and…’ now some emotion crept into her voice, ‘… you.’
Mrs Dixit felt slightly dazed. She knew that this would be the reaction from Naveem’s mother, she had imagined this conversation so many times, but actually hearing the words was surreal. It felt like she was in a play.
‘You took Naveem away, without my permission. I am his wife. You stole him from me.’
‘You never asked to visit.’
‘Would you have let me come if I did?’
‘You never asked.’
Mrs Dixit wanted to give a curdled scream of frustration. Years of anger and resentment were bubbling up from inside her – it felt dangerous to have all these emotions emerge now. She looked at Naveem, trying to calm herself and to help her get back on track.
‘I know you think I’m a terrible person, but I’m not. I love your son very much.’
‘Do you?’
‘How can you say that, of course I do!’
‘If you love my son so much, as you say – why would you never let him see us before the accident?’
‘Let him see you? I never stopped him.’
‘Lies.’
Mrs Dixit had never felt more like hitting another person, even more so than when the boy had hurt Mrs Rampersad. Her hand twitched.
‘I was always supportive of Naveem, I never forbade him to do anything. He didn’t contact you because you didn’t approve of me, of our marriage!’
‘That is not true.’
Mrs Dixit blinked in disbelief.
‘Are you telling me you did approve of our marriage?’
The other Mrs Dixit opened her mouth to speak, but then stopped herself.
‘My son is very stubborn,’ she said at last. ‘It is the role of a wife to make her husband see the error of his ways, to bend his will. A good wife would not have let him banish himself like he did.’
‘A good Asian wife, you mean.’
‘It does not matter to me what colour your skin is. I am only concerned with outcomes.’
‘But you blame me for Naveem’s actions. He was only protecting our relationship.’
‘Be that as it may, the cost was too great.’
‘What did you want – for him to leave me and come back to your house? He hated it there.’ There was a flicker of pain over the other woman’s face. ‘Naveem created the life he wanted, it was his doing, his choice.’
‘Did he? You have a flat with no garden. You live in the same area he was born, not twenty minutes away. He has driven a taxicab for the past twenty years. You have no children. Is this really the life he wanted? Was it worth all the pain and suffering?’
‘Your pain and suffering.’
(Mrs Rampersad appeared at the doorway, and seeing the two women facing each other, raised her eyebrows and made a hasty exit.)
‘My son lies here in a coma, his body deteriorating over time, and it seems all you do is wait. Waiting is not the same as doing.’
‘What should I do then?’ Mrs Dixit asked, ‘Tell me. I really want to know.’
‘You never talk to him.’
‘Neither do you!’
‘Yes, I do. In the mornings before you arrive. I sit here and I tell him stories from his youth, when he was a precocious child, before the change. You have no stories to tell him, you are dry.’
Mrs Dixit recoiled. It was an accusation that she’d faced many times over the years, mostly from men – that she was devoid of something, not girly or playful or happy enough. ‘Cheer up, love,’ from builders, or ‘a smile never hurt anyone’ from the bloke in the shop. Dry, serious, barren. She was starting to lose the thread of her purpose. Mrs Dixit had thought she would have the upper hand, springing the conversation on Naveem’s mother, but in reality, the woman was lying in ambush.
‘We have a very nice life together,’ Mrs Dixit said, summoning as much feeling as she was able to. ‘We could have shared it with you, but we were shut out.’
‘You shut us out.’
‘I sent you a Christmas card inviting you to come over for years, and you never replied.’