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.