mother was the lynchpin of the family. Making her see sense was crucial.
Mrs Dixit hadn’t spoken the very first time she’d met his mother either. The moment Naveem had ushered her inside the family house, she knew his parents were unaware of their relationship. It was an ambush, but without anyone having an advantage. Both his mother and father sat calmly, albeit rigidly, teacups and saucers delicately positioned on their laps, as their son explained in a low, unhurried tone that he was in love with this woman, that he planned to marry her, to move out, to start a family of his own. Mrs Dixit, not yet a Dixit, found herself listening intently to these revelations – apart from asking her to marry him, and once saying he loved her, they had barely spoken about future plans. Eventually, his mother had stood abruptly, and Mrs Dixit had expected the cup and saucer to smash to the floor, the movement was so sudden, but still she held it and not a drop spilled.
She spoke in Hindi, but the subtext was clear:
No. We do not accept this. This cannot be. It is a mistake.
Naveem had taken his fiancée’s hand then and there was a quick inhalation of breath from his parents, disdain. Mrs Dixit would have done anything to marry Naveem: changed her race, her age, her name, changed country. In a way, she hoped he’d steal her away. There was always talk of Canada, but somehow that never gained traction. They’d remained in Chomley, in the borough where they were both born and raised, once officially Essex, now part of Greater London. If she was honest – radically honest – she’d been disappointed when they had settled into a normal suburban life, but that too was a form of racial prejudice – why should Naveem be any different than the other men in Chomley just because he was Asian? The exotica of overseas – Naveem was interested in none of it. He craved British ‘normality’. Meat and three veg; having the vegetables slightly overcooked was even preferred. Evenings in front of the TV. Holidays in July or September so they didn’t coincide with the schools. He watched football, but Mrs Dixit always had the impression he was only going through the motions. And that’s what had always worried her – was their marriage also going through the motions? He’d found a wife that suited him, one that was neither too loud nor too vivid. Had everything with vibrancy and sound been stripped away? The only thing Mr Dixit truly loved unequivocally and measurably (you could actually put a price on it) was his trains – and even then, he almost exclusively preferred them in sepia colours. Most didn’t even run on a track – those were looked down upon by ‘real’ collectors, her husband had informed her early in their marriage. The model trains were for putting on a pedestal and observing behind glass, not running along going ‘choo, choo’ for some abstract sense of enjoyment.
His mother, Mrs Dixit thought again. She needed her approval in an almost visceral way – wanted her to see their years of marriage had been upright, that her concerns at the beginning of the relationship were unfounded. We were as happy as most marriages, she wanted to shout into the darkness. Surely that counts?
49 days since the accident
The next morning, she was seated behind the woman again. Mrs Dixit had not slept well – the answer to why had popped into her head the moment she opened her eyes. Of course Mrs Dixit wanted her mother-in-law’s approval – for looking after her son, for washing his clothes, ironing his shirts, cooking his food. She had taken on these burdens willingly and done them well. But there was something else, too. There were few people who knew Naveem, really knew him. Mrs Rampersad obviously didn’t – he’d always kept her at arm’s length, as he did with most people. Strangers were an unnecessary commotion with no ‘down’ switch. He had far too much of that with customers. Mrs Dixit used to think Naveem became a cabby because he wanted his freedom, to be out on the road, out of his cramped house, but now she wondered if he’d really chosen his vocation because he liked having a pane of glass between himself and anyone new. Had he created a bubble in their marriage too? Which side of the glass was Mrs Dixit on? Was that