‘Naveem? I thought I was the only person at fault here.’
‘I never said that. Naveem has responsibility too. When we spoke, he would say, “We can’t see you at Christmas, we have plans, they cannot be changed…”’
‘You spoke?’ Mrs Dixit was incredulous at this news.
‘Once a week.’
Mrs Dixit almost fell off her chair.
‘You called Naveem once a week. And he would pick up?’
‘You misunderstand, he would phone us.’
Mrs Dixit made a noise, a choking gurgle sound as if her oesophagus had suddenly closed.
‘What would he say?’
The other Mrs Dixit shrugged.
‘He would give us his news and want to know about his brothers.’
‘But he hated you!’ Mrs Dixit exclaimed, so adamantly that Naveem’s mother winced again, as if the force of the words were physical.
‘This is what I am talking about – the very essence of the issue. This is why there has been so much disharmony.’
Mrs Dixit folded her arms as a means to contain herself, hugging herself around her waist and rocking slightly to calm herself. She did not want to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing her cry, she would not. It seemed her husband did have a secret family: his own.
‘Naveem called you once a week.’ Mrs Dixit still wasn’t sure she believed this. ‘When would he call?’
‘At different times.’
‘I would have heard him.’
‘He always phoned us in his taxicab.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me he was in touch with you?’
‘He felt you wouldn’t understand. The ties that bind children to their parents are strong.’
‘So are the ties of marriage!’
Mrs Dixit tried to imagine Naveem calling his parents. Phone calls when he was in his taxi were always perfunctory, short information-imparting discussions. Mrs Dixit was usually acutely aware he was at work and so didn’t want to be a drain on him. Sometimes – yes – she would have liked to be told how much he missed her, she would have liked it a lot, but she never expected it and so was not disappointed. Mrs Dixit realised now how foolish it was to have been jealous of some unknown doctor in the passenger seat – she should have been worried about his mother instead!
‘You mean to tell me,’ Mrs Dixit said, shaking her head, still in a haze of disbelief, ‘that Naveem has been calling you every week for the past twenty years, and never once told me?’
The other Mrs Dixit nodded. ‘And why do you think that is?’ his mother asked pointedly.
‘I don’t understand…?’
‘Why could he not trust you with that information? Because you would have asked him to stop.’
‘No, I wouldn’t have,’ replied Mrs Dixit indignantly. ‘I wanted him to reach out to you – especially in the first years of our marriage, but he put a wall up.’
‘In walls, there are always doors. Only you did not seem to care to find one. You could have come to our house. You could have told Naveem: I cannot love you if you cannot love your family. Why do you think you never had children? Because your marriage was blocking the natural flow of things.’
‘You are blaming me for things I had no control over,’ Mrs Dixit said, frustratedly. ‘Naveem should have told me he was in contact with you. I always thought, I always thought…’ she spluttered. ‘He was so closed off – I would never have imagined in a million years…’ But now maybe she would have. Naveem had his distinct separate worlds: his trains, her, his work, his family too, it seemed.
Compartmentalisation. Everything in the place where he last left it. No one to share his toys with. He was supremely selfish. It would serve Naveem right to wake up now, in the middle of a heated conversation between his mother and his wife. Let him explain himself! But, once again, he’d avoided a difficult discussion.
She remembered something then, the whole reason for starting this dialogue in the first place – she needed to get back on track.
‘Naveem never took drugs, by the way.’ His mother seemed confused. ‘The police?’ Mrs Dixit clarified. ‘Their toxicology report said he had high levels of solvents in his system, but it was from the glue he used on his trains.’
‘Of course my son would never take drugs.’
‘Then why did you tell the police you were worried about him?’ Ah, she had her now.
‘I am not clear on your meaning.’
‘You told the police Naveem was in danger, and that you thought that he was…’ she couldn’t think of the right words, it seemed so long