A sea between them, and always the belief that one day they would close the distance. What she is left with is smaller than she planned, and the one thing he never taught her.

The Roti

recalled by Radhika Malhotra

I always believed the distance between us would be closed one day. I believed there would be more time. There wasn’t. And I did not know I could go on missing you this long.

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The North Sea lay between us, but on this Wednesday the overcast sky, the light wind, and rain felt the same on either side. He had called the ambulance himself, not for the first time. As years went by, more pills and creams covered his coffee table. Many were given by doctors, some he had added himself. And on this day, a few days before Darcy would bring the cold and snow, his breathing and heart rate were fast, his throat sore, his oxygen saturation low. The doctors diagnosed him with a lung infection, and were quick to start rounds of antibiotics. He was 77 years old, and his belief in the NHS was imperturbable.

We had spent our Sundays on the phone, talking about the news, telling stories of the past, sharing recipes. He loved people calling him from all over the world, asking him how to cook their favourite dishes. A grown man, sure of himself and his instincts. A man who, all his life, pressed his hankies, shirts, and trousers with such diligence, a man who knew how to work a room, and how to cook a good meal. “Don’t waste your time on making a roti. Know where to put your attention. This is about the spices, the tender lamb simmering in its gravy, the touch of yogurt." Making a decent roti was to remain hidden from me to this day.

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The following evening, a nurse called. He told me his name was Joseph from Aspen Ward, giving me the number and extension to ring up the doctor. Kate’s voice sounded young, maybe in her forties, and she made sure to be more empathetic than to overwhelm with medical terminology. He wasn't improving as they had hoped. His blood results and CT scans were conflicting, which left them worried about his condition and treatment. I had talked to him earlier that day; his spirits were low. He made an effort, but there was not enough breath, not enough strength, and the distance felt more palpable for both of us, or so I believe.

A year before, he came to visit me for a week. He praised British Airways' service long after they had dropped him off at my car. I tipped them well and we made our way through the city he didn't care about. He cared about exchanging his sofa and TV for mine. Two people in an apartment. The closeness was unfamiliar. He loved to read and loved to tell stories, which made it easy to forget that we had spent decades on the occasional phone line rather than spending actual time with each other. But we both made an effort to get past the long pauses in our talks and avoid the topics that kept haunting us.

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And while we sat on the sofa next to each other, I saw the old photo albums piled up on the cupboard. Rough textile binding in a red and blue crisscross pattern. A part of them was here, another part with him. And even though I hadn't seen his in a long time, I remembered them vividly. Lashings of Polaroids. We ran through the long corridor, back and forth, watched the Exorcist in silence, cried from the spicy Tiger Balm when a fever took over. We played the slots while others drank wine and smoked cigarettes, we lay in the freshly unpacked dresses from overseas, bathing in this distinct scent of far away roots. And when the summer was hot, we rushed through the streets and jumped into the water fountain, screaming and yelling all day. And when it was cold, we pressed into each other, making Polaroids in the cathedral square with the fountain standing behind us. We were together. We were part of each other’s lives. We knew each other.

Darcy was coming, as they predicted, and with that cold night, came the feeling of time slowing down. I remember looking out the window, seeing my reflection against the black. He was awake. His medication stopped working, and they put him on the highest oxygen level. I could video call him, they said, which felt foreign. We had spent our lives on the phone, and it was her I called through a video call, not him. He was drowsy, hardly responsive, and the conversation was very brief, but somewhat calm. I tried to hold onto it, but as the line went quiet, time seemed to speed up. I walked through the dimly lit apartment, reaching for him, holding nothing. And that night I didn’t make a call anymore; it was her who called me, the other part who made us, the bond that kept us together all these years. He had moved on.

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I have crossed the North Sea since, walked along the banks where his ashes were scattered. Our lives used to open up a world to me so large, it made my head spin with excitement. He was not immortal. And so I look at her, and it takes my breath away, makes my head spin with a sense of grief I haven’t lived through yet. And so I take water, flour, and a splash of oil and knead. I place the cup next to me and write what I haven't yet told. Our screams, our yelling when running through the water fountain on that hot summer day, echo through the room. I gave up the world so large. I allowed for a world, a world so small, in which I give in to the only longing I have had since, walking over and sitting next to her on the sofa.

A girl builds an entire world out of everything she is. Then it is taken, never asked, only told. A lifetime later, she stands again at the cliff's edge.

All That There Could Be

chanelled by Radhika Malhotra

When I was a child, I giggled, standing at that cliff, the wind blowing through my hair. I was free. When I returned, I looked down. And took the step I thought I would never take.

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It was a rough place to grow up. White skin turning rosy, cracked lips, streaks on the hands. All we seemed to have was our body ensuring our survival. Stones bedded in mud, grass thatched, surrounded by a vast land in every color. Cold and harsh, the world felt lonely, but it was ours; for generations it was our entire world. Irrefutable, we were one. We looked after each other, even with a father who hardly spoke and a mother who never seemed to look up. A different time. Every day seemed the same to others, but never to me, as I never filled them with what was, but all that there could be.

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The world I created spanned from the distant sea to the morning dew wrapping around the tip of the oat to the bugs running from the fire. I sang until my throat felt hoarse, ran until my legs gave in, watched in awe until my eyes fell shut. Everything was vivid, and everything was mine, as it came to life in the world I created. And as I grew up, so did the people around me and those I didn’t know of. I believed I would always stay until I was taken. I believed my world would always be filled with all that there could be until it wasn’t. I was never asked; I was told to obey. And shushed out the door.

My clothes reeked, my skin lost its colour, but the streaks on my hand never lost their depth. My knees hurt, my breasts were crusty, the flesh between my legs bloody and sore. I remember hardly speaking, nor looking up. And at times, my chest grew tight. I finally sensed the presence of my mother. I did as I was told, but when death lay down next to me, and there was no place for children anymore, they shushed me out the door.

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I returned. The distant sea in front of me, the vast land behind me, and as I stood there, it all came back. It flooded my entire being; it rushed through me with all its force. Someone took what was mine, but I never lost it. I would hold onto it, here where the blood of my birth sank into the soil, where my feet marked every step I took, and where my body would lie to rest.

It took a long time until somebody noticed, and as they did, no words were spoken; a silent nod. And as I watched them walk away, their heads down, their shoulders slumped, I watched their smallness, their passing, fading away between the long stalks of oats. But I still linger.

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I linger in the wind that carries itself through the hair of the young children, the morning dew that wraps itself around the oat, the bugs that run from the fire. I linger, because I made a choice. My very first choice in this short life lived.

A woman shares what she has never spoken aloud. The man she loves tells her never to speak of it again.

Somebody

recalled by Radhika Malhotra

“She grips her wrist, pulls her arm into the doorframe.” His warm body presses against mine; he tenses. “I hear a dull thud as the door slams, a thud of wood, bones, and a faint scream.” His body is stiff. “You know, it’s the same white colour, the colour of her skin and the colour of the doorframe.” He pulls back the arm that is wrapping around me. “She wears an arm sling.” It's cold where his body was moments ago. “I see them. They are all only children.” Silence.

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I fell in love with the idea that somebody longed for me, long before I fell for him. The night we met, Boney M played in the background and we were two strangers in a ticket office. Then there was the soft carpet, the mattress on the floor, the couch from one of his previous flat shares.

His beard made my skin red and hot from the hours of kissing each other. I was young; he was older. We were exploring what the other one was ready to give and borrowed his space for the stories we told that spanned our lifetimes. Borrowed his space for the touches we shared.

The way he looked at me was full of admiration, and even I knew he wanted to please me, I knew that what he saw, was what he believed he wanted. What distinguished us from one another made us want each other even more.

The sun warmed our bodies, before dawn came and went. There are these hours in which our skin felt so much softer, where we hadn’t eaten and felt so much more alive, where every movement was meant to preserve the moment with all its intensity.

Naked, we sat opposite each other for hours. The smoke of our cigarettes filled the room. I drank coffee; he drank soda. Then we held each other so tightly, we didn’t want to let go. Ever. And he said: “I fell in love with you.”

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So many years, so many rooms that weren’t ours until the one day they were. Ours. Us. We. I remember everything that was before and so little that came afterward. Because we weren’t done with who we wanted to be, we weren’t done with where we wanted to be, weren’t done with whom we wanted to be. I. He. There were no friends, no pets, no joint accounts. No marriage, no children, only the nights we held onto each other. But when I looked at him, I would say in my head: “I fell in love with you too." Always.

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The smoke had filled the room, and as we lay on the mattress, he pressed his warm body into mine, held my hand in his. My breathing shallow, and mind racing, I spoke the words out aloud: “I see how she grips her wrist and pulls her arm into the doorframe. I hear a dull thud as the door slams, a thud of wood, bones, and a faint scream. You know, it’s the same white colour, the colour of her skin and the colour of the doorframe. She wears an arm sling. I see them. They are all only children. They are not with us anymore.” I lay there, alone, when I heard him saying: “You are not suppose to be this person. I don’t want you to ever talk about it again, ever.”

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The balcony door is wide open, the night is warm, the city lights so close. He moves and I reach out to him. “What’s wrong?” “I can’t sleep," he says. He turns around and looks at me, confused, worried. “It feels to me like there is somebody.” I look up at the balcony, where the curtain sways in the night breeze. I see her sitting in the chair. I climb over him, lay myself in front of him. “Yes, there is somebody.” He presses his body into mine, as we hold each other’s hands and fall asleep again.

She flew to India to finally meet her father as an equal. She was wrong.

Borrowed Floors

recalled by Radhika Malhotra

My throat closes, my breathing becomes heavy. I look out of the car window. All rushes by in the night sky, too fast for me to gasp. Nothing but sandy expanse on each side, cables hanging loosely from poles, small lights guiding the way. I roll down the window, the warm air hits my face as I grip the handle hard. The stabbing pain in my chest becomes stronger. There are shouts, fear in their voices, as my knuckles turn white. Then I don't hear them anymore. They stop the car and rush to open the door. They pull my legs, I slide onto my back. I lie there, my hand on my heart, my gaze directed upwards. This is how it feels, the final goodbye. Tears run down my face, and I give in.

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Our flight arrives late at night. The terminal is crowded with people holding signs, calling, pushing. My eyes move frantically until I see my father standing calmly in the middle of it all. His shirt and pants neatly pressed, his hair and face freshly groomed; he confidently stands out. A quick greeting before being delegated through the people into the car. We had just graduated, moved cities, and into an apartment together when he asked my friend if she wanted to join me on my trip to India. India is beautiful, he said, nothing you have ever seen. He was good with words; he knew how to tell a story, how to play his charm just right, to be deliberate and still put the right emphasis. She said yes.

We arrive at the house, all terracotta and marble. It’s newly built and there has been no monsoon yet that could have brought its shortcomings to light. My suitcase is filled with all he asked for, the things you couldn’t get there, but which make our lives more convenient and somehow better. After all, he was an Indian who spent the majority of his life in Europe, and who now grows old, seeking the care and admiration of his Indian family. My father changes into his lungi, turns on the TV, shuffles in the kitchen as we start to unpack. When we were kids, we used to come for the summer holidays to Goa. We spent the entirety in the pool, and in between the screams of happiness were the cries of sunburns and blisters. Children from a German wife, very white, very English. Twenty years have passed since the summers in Goa, and we went from a tight family by the pool to a family split between two countries. Three children boarding flights with neck pouches, entertained by toys from stewardesses, dropped off wherever our destination was.

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Most of the days pass by with us working on the marble floor, trying to build something from an overheating laptop and a Wi-Fi that keeps dropping. And when he comes by and sits with us for some time, he shares his wisdom of decades in the industry, and we listen. When he calls us to come to eat, he tells us about the restaurants he visited, the people he met, and we listen. When he tells me not to dress like a tomboy, I talk. When he tells me how to behave in front of relatives, I talk. When he tells me everything is my mother’s fault, I talk. My parents divorced when we were young, and if my mother had been an Indian wife, they wouldn’t have. But she wasn’t. She made a choice on what she could bear and what she couldn’t. She packed a container that was our house in England and met him again at the courthouse in Germany. Before she made a choice, he had made a choice, but he kept on blaming her.

The common ground we have is being father and daughter, and being father and daughter sometimes feels like no ground at all. He passes by less frequently. There is less listening, less talking. The fine dust from the streets keeps covering the floor, and on these long days and some nights, I feel like I can’t even wash it away anymore.

My father flies back to Europe for some time, attending business. We keep on spending our days on the marble floor. Sometimes we take walks to the night market. The kids keep running up to us, asking for money, but we only carry candy in our pockets, as my mother taught me. We save to buy toast and imported cream cheese in a supermarket, go to watch a movie we don’t understand, but the audience is ecstatic about it. He used to buy us gifts we never asked for, booked us on flights we didn’t know about. He used to leave us at his house in England with a stash of cash or none to see friends, go for business. He disappeared from our lives, sometimes for years.

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Our bags are packed, the flight back home leaves later tonight. We have cleaned up our rooms, swept the floors. It was a borrowed floor, never meant to be ours. My father throws me a bundle of cash and brings the last twenty years to the table. My mother, my siblings, and I are all there at this table while he gives us lessons on respect. He rants about how ungrateful we are. The mistakes we have made. And I speak. Loudly. And he doesn’t listen. And when all is said and done, he chooses for me not to be his daughter anymore. He chooses for me to disappear from his life.

We get into the car; none of us speaks. Night has come fast as we leave the houses behind. I can see how the driver nervously looks at me through the rearview mirror. I stood up and left that table; it was never mine to sit at. And when my throat closes and my breathing becomes heavy, I know what is happening. And when the stabbing pain in my chest becomes stronger and I press my hand on my heart, I know what is happening. I lie there, tears running down my face. Two decades; this is a long time for holding together what keeps breaking. So I don’t, and I let go. And as it shatters, I feel it all, until today.

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We board the plane and as the distance between us grows, I whisper to myself: “I never betrayed you, I am proud of the woman you have become.” My heart aches for myself. Tears runs down my face. “What shattered today was what we could have been.” I wipe away the tears as we land in Berlin.

A woman remembers encountering a man who never saw her. Only what he decided she was.

There's Nothing Wrong With That

recalled by Radhika Malhotra

I stand inside, following the words of the person opposite me. Being here, is part of what I do, part of what I learned to do. My eyes slide over his shoulder. Through the glass door, there he is. I didn’t expect it. “I saw you standing down here.” The linen casually wrinkled, a glass of red, all smiles and attentive. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” My mind drifts, while my gaze never leaves him. “You feel it too, don’t you.” The sun bathes us all in a different light. The glass door between us is opened widely. He sees me.

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I stepped through the door onto the terrace. The first handshake is meant to be neutral. This is how my father taught me. A firm grip, leaning forward just the slightest to show your respect. A line not to be crossed. A clean slate for both. I stood next to the person introducing me. He talked about my origin, my accomplishments, the relevance I had for him in his venture. When I shook his hand the first time, it was warm, soft. There was a light sheen of sweat, the fingers were smaller than you would anticipate from his build. He smiled eagerly.

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“I was looking out the window and saw you standing down here on the terrace.” I turned around. The sun was setting, his handshake was longer this time. He talked about his work, the people he knew. I listened. He ordered red, I politely declined. My father came to my mind and the many the times I saw him with others. A neutrality that sometimes turned into a deal, sometimes into betrayal, parting ways until the next time, or never. He talked about his sick wife in another country, his children. How demanding his work was, how demanding his life was. He ordered another red. He talked about attractiveness. “You feel it too, don’t you.” I shook his limp hand and said my goodbyes.

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We stood in a circle, laughing, I enjoyed her stories. The sun had set, as he walked up the five steps. He apologised for the other day, blaming it on the red. I listened politely. He held his water in his hand. “I assumed my friend flying in a woman from overseas every few weeks, shall have a reason. I assumed you were his mistress. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I looked at him, turned and left the terrace.

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My gaze returns to the person in front of me, and I apologise for being distracted for a moment. We met before, at several occasions, and continue talking for a little while longer. We shake hands and I lay my second hand on his, before we part ways. I turn, walk deeper into the room and mingle some more.

After a lifetime of drowning out the voice that always knew the truth, a woman returns to the house where it first spoke. And this time, she listens.

I TOLD NO ONE

recalled by Radhika Malhotra

It was quiet. My eyes were closed; I was not awake, not fully asleep, like in a daze. I felt the grip around my ankle. I felt how my skin slid over the folds of the bedsheet, how my body slid down the bed. As the grip released, I opened my eyes, and there was nothing. The sun rose; I stepped out of the room, into the lift, not looking at my reflection around me. And when the door opened with a ping, I hesitated for a moment before lifting my chin just the slightest bit and stepping out. I told no one.

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I didn't plan on coming. The air feels thick in the underground early this morning. The airport is stations away by now, and each announcement comes with the rattling that goes through my body. I hold my suitcase; I fidget with my phone. The connection is weak, coming and going.

We look up at the house in silence, our eyes wandering from curtained window to curtained window, resting on the stained glass of the entrance door, the brass letterbox too high for a small child to peek through. The house has a fresh coat of paint, white, as it always used to be. I remember standing next to my mother on that hot summer day, in which she poured boiling water over the ants making their way from the crumbling brick pillar of the front gate to the house. My brother shifts uncomfortably and the gravel on the street screeches under his feet. I stare blankly, my throat closed, when I look up at my other brother. He is the oldest of the three of us and I can see how he nods silently, while his eyes keep wandering. It has been twenty-five years or more since we left this house. My brother came back several times; I didn't.

But this day is different. My brother doesn’t look at me as he says, “When you came into the house, things changed.” The sentence feels like a silent request to say more, an invitation to step into it, to see what they saw.

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I was born in 1976, nearly ten years after my parents met. London was electric, but also bleak and full of tension. I had a twin sister. My mother didn't know and when I was born, so was she, dead. I would think of her often. A companion that never walked this earth, but was omnipresent, simply because I existed.

He says: “It started with the teddies. Yes, I am sure.” I look up at the window next to my parents' bedroom. The smallest room in the house, just a crib and a dresser tall enough for an adult to reach the top. Each night, with a step and a little stretch, my mother would carefully place all teddy bears on top of the dresser. And each morning, she would find them scattered around the room.

I hear the gravel screeching, and I know my brother wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He knows what he saw. I look at him with pity. A grown man haunted by a memory. A memory that repeats itself.
My brothers were three and five by then, sharing the room right at the beginning of the landing, opposite mine. For many nights, an elderly man, heavily hung with jewellery, would appear from their dresser, stepping into their room next to their beds. Never saying anything, never doing any harm.

It is not long ago that I asked my mother if my father knew. She said she believed so, but didn't remember. You could see her drifting away for a moment, until she said: “I don’t know if it was the house why we left, or if it was because of what he did.”

An old photograph of all of us in the garden comes to my mind. We smile into the camera. A white, blonde woman, a brown, dark-haired man. We would get our freckles from our German mother and the thick hair from our Indian father. At that moment, in the very outskirts of London, with families smiling and children playing, we didn't feel the rise of the extreme right-wing National Front. For a penny, we ran to the corner shop to get the newspaper. My father read the first-page article and felt the unease rising within him, which he couldn't name. So many people were living in fear of day-to-day harassment and brutality.

None of us has moved. I make a picture of our house. My brother says I should send it to him later. We stand here and it feels like it’s the four of us. It’s our house; in this moment, it is our house. We run through the hallway, out of breath, the tie loose, the sleeves of our school uniform rolled up. I proudly wear a red pin with a white three. A woolen dress is a little itchy. A birthday cake. The Chihuahua is tipsy; he found my father’s whiskey glass. His name is Billy. “Fiona still lives here. You remember, the first house at the corner.” My brother’s first love.

The light in the hallway between our rooms kept going on and off. In the mornings, she would find flour and sugar all over the pantry. My mother told our neighbour while having tea and biscuits, saying, “It’s just a small girl playing.” And when she stood at the stove, she could hear the tip-tap of children's feet on the lino floor. One day, she heard the sound of a knife being stabbed between fingers that were spread on a wooden table. The sound became louder, faster and faster. The knife was gone.

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I walked to the door and was all I was supposed to be and more. I walked through the door and there was nothing left of me. Traitor. It used to be a smoker's room; there was still the smell. I opened the wide doors to the terrace; I was on the highest floor. The evening air greeted me, a metropolis turning on its lights for the night. I stood there, breathing shallow; staring into it all. Traitor. In a world full of noise, it's hard to hear yourself. In a world full of pressure, it's hard to feel yourself. I walked back into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Every time I shook hands to seal the deal, I collected the cheques and talked about freedom. And here I was, at a loss for words, feeling like a traitor. I made choices every day; why was it so difficult to choose myself? I didn’t want to take off my shoes; I didn’t want to put my bare foot on the stained carpet anymore. I pushed myself onto the bed, kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, and threw them on the floor. I underdressed, crawled under the blanket, and closed my eyes. I would not leave this island any more today.

The doors were still open; there was a slight breeze. I felt my skin sliding over the folds of the bedsheet before I felt the grip around my ankle. I felt numb; I felt weak; I felt there was nothing left inside me. My arms were now over my head; the blanket had fallen onto the carpet. And as my eyes started to move under my eyelids, so did the fear arise. I pushed myself up, my lips slightly ajar, as I forced my eyes open. There was nothing; I looked around; there was nothing. I felt my hands on the damp sheet; I crawled back to the headrest and sat there in silence. As the sun rose, so did the tears.

I am not a traitor. Not anymore. It didn't leave me all day; I could still feel the grip around my ankle, but it didn't hold me; it liberated me.

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I got on a plane and left. I got on a plane and came here. I gave in to the pull that brought me back to this house. We look at each other and I say: “Maybe you should ring Fiona’s bell and say hello.” They laugh. “Let’s walk up to the park. I wonder if the weeping willow in which we used to swing is still standing.” We make our way up the street and my brother says: “Don’t forget to send me the picture.” I look back at the house. “I will not.” And I remember. I run down the first flights and halt. I reach up over the handrail, stretching my small body and my arm towards the ceiling, feeling the discomfort as my bones press into the rail. And as my fingertips touch the rope, I grab it, and I swing it and the bell rings, and rings and rings with all the force I have, I am making myself heard.