Chapter 20: Epilogue — One Year Later

The Chai Loft smelled like pumpkin and beginnings.

Pumpkin because Kavita Aunty had, after three years of Tanvi's lobbying, added a pumpkin spice latte to the autumn menu — not the American version, the Kasauli version, made with fresh kaddu from the Solan sabzi mandi, roasted with ginger and cinnamon and a pinch of black pepper, blended into oat milk and topped with the specific foam art that Gauri had learned from a YouTube tutorial and that she called "latte art" and that everyone else called "a blob." The blob was: charming. The latte was: excellent. And Tanvi could drink it, which was the: point.

Beginnings because it was October again. One year since a man with a duffel bag had walked into this café and asked for: a favour.

Tanvi was behind the counter. Not working — she had reduced her shifts to weekends only, because the Head Coach of the Kasauli Sports Academy Kabaddi Programme did not have time to pull: espressos on weekday mornings. She was behind the counter because she was: home. The Chai Loft was home the way Kasauli was home — not because she'd been born there, but because she'd: chosen it. And the choosing was: everything.

The café had: changed. Not dramatically — Kavita Aunty did not believe in dramatic change, because dramatic change implied that the original had been: insufficient, and Kavita Aunty's self-assessment was: never insufficient. But small changes. The loft had a new reading corner — a pair of armchairs that Priti had found at a furniture auction in Shimla, the armchairs upholstered in green that was: not quite the green of the wedding lehenga but was: close enough to make Tanvi: notice every time she looked at them. The bookshelves had expanded — a donation from Nani, who had declared that her personal library was: too large for one woman and that The Chai Loft's shelves deserved: Urdu poetry, which they now contained, the Faiz and the Ghalib and the specific beauty of a language that made heartbreak: musical.

The espresso machine had been: replaced. Not by choice — the temperamental Italian beast had finally, after seven years of service and three hundred repair visits from the Chandigarh dealer, decided to: retire. The replacement was: also Italian, also temperamental, also producing the dark-as-disappointment espresso that had become the café's: signature. Some things: evolved. Some things: persisted.

*

Mohit arrived at noon. Not from the flat — from the academy. He had been at the academy since 6 AM, which was: his schedule now, the schedule of a man who was no longer just the: mascot.

The mascot still existed. The tiger costume — third generation, rebuilt with better foam and a tail that was bolted (not safety-pinned) and ears that were reinforced with actual: engineering — still appeared at every home match. The backflip still happened, though Mohit had added: a twist, the gymnastics training refusing to be: dormant, the body remembering what the knee had: denied.

But alongside the mascot, there was now: the assistant coach. Tanvi's assistant. The position had been created in January, when the academy board — including Brigadier Thakur, who had become: Tanvi's most vocal supporter after the championship, in the specific way that converted sceptics became: zealots — had approved the expansion of the coaching staff. Mohit had applied. Tanvi had: recused herself from the selection process. Vikram sir had: recommended him. The board had: agreed.

"You're late," Tanvi said.

"I was teaching Komal the reverse hand touch. She's: ready."

"She's twelve."

"She's twelve and she: sees the mat. The way you: see the mat. She's going to state trials next year."

"She's going to state trials this: year. I submitted the nomination: yesterday."

Mohit's face. The: face. Not the grin, not the mascot-performance face, the: real face. The face that did the thing — the pride thing, the chest-expanding thing, the thing where his eyes went: soft and his jaw went: unclenched and the entirety of Mohit Bhardwaj became: visible.

"You nominated Komal for: state trials."

"She's the best twelve-year-old raider in Himachal. Maybe: the best in the north zone. She deserves: the mat."

"She's going to: lose her mind."

"She's going to: win. That's the: point."

He came behind the counter. Kissed her. In the café. In front of Gauri (who: cheered), Kavita Aunty (who said: "Not behind my: counter"), the retired colonel (who said: "Fourteen across is 'devotion' again"), and a table of tourists from Delhi who looked: delighted by the local: colour.

"Stop kissing in my: café," Kavita Aunty said.

"It's our: café," Mohit said. "We: work here."

"You work here: weekends. This is: Wednesday."

"I'm here for the pumpkin spice latte. The: blob latte."

"It's latte art!" Gauri shouted from the loft.

"It's a: blob, Gauri. A beautiful: blob."

*

The flat had: changed too.

The spare room was: Mohit's room. Officially. Gupta ji had fixed the pipe — in March, five months after the: burst, because Gupta ji operated on a timeline that was: Gupta ji's and nobody: else's. The flat on Mall Road was: available. Mohit had not: moved back.

"The pipe is: fixed," Gupta ji had announced in March.

"Great," Mohit had said. "I'm: staying."

"Staying: where?"

"Here. With: Tanvi."

"But the: pipe—"

"The pipe was an: excuse, Gupta ji. A very wet, very: expensive excuse. But: an excuse."

The spare room was now: Mohit's room with Mohit's things — the gymnastics trophies from Patiala on the shelf, the coaching manuals next to Tanvi's recipe book on the kitchen shelf, and Diya's photograph on the desk where it had been since: day one. Diya's photograph, watching over a room that had become: permanent. A room in a flat that had become: a home.

The bathroom schedule was: still on the fridge. 6 to 6:30: Tanvi. 6:30 to 7: Mohit. Some structures were: sacred.

The kitchen labels were: still there. TK in green. The red DANGER labels on the wheat flour and regular milk that Mohit kept on the bottom shelf. The protocol: maintained. Because the disease had not: left. The IBS flared. The celiac flared. The body still waged its: war. But the war was: managed. By: two people instead of: one.

Mohit had learned: every recipe. The almond flour barfi. The coconut ladoo. The til chikki. The pumpkin halwa that Kavita Aunty made at the café and that Mohit had reverse-engineered through: three failed attempts and one: fire alarm. He had learned the ORS ratio (he had always known it). He had learned the flare-up protocol — the heating pad, the electrolytes, the white noise app, the sitting-on-the-floor-until-it-passed. He had learned that love was: not the absence of: difficulty. Love was: the presence of: someone during the: difficulty.

*

Diwali. Again. October.

The verandah. The diyas — twenty-four this year. One for each year of Diya's life. Because Diya was: growing, even in: absence. Growing in the count of diyas, in the: remembrance, in the way that Mohit and Tanvi said her name — not with the hushed reverence that people reserved for the: dead, but with the: casual intimacy of the: living. "Diya would have loved this latte." "Diya would have hated that raider." "Diya would have: laughed."

Nani came for Diwali dinner. In a taxi from the upper road — because Nani did not walk at night anymore, a concession to her eighty-three years that she made: grudgingly. She brought: a scarf. Knitted. For Tanvi. Purple, because Nani had decided that Tanvi's colour was: purple, and Nani's decisions about colour were: final.

"For the girl who makes my grandson: human," Nani said.

"Nani, I was: human before."

"You were: a tiger in a: costume. Now you're: human. There's a: difference."

Maa came from Ambala. Papa. Priti and Karan. The flat that was: too small for two people was: absurdly small for seven, but Indians had: never let square footage determine: gathering size. They sat on the floor. They sat on the Nilkamal chairs. Papa sat on an upturned bucket that Mohit had: provided with the specific confidence of a man who believed that any surface was: a seat.

The sweets were: Mohit's. The almond flour barfi. The coconut ladoo. The til chikki. Made from Maa's recipes, in Tanvi's kitchen, with ingredients from: Solan. Maa tasted the barfi. Her face: changed. Not surprise — recognition. The recognition of a mother tasting her own recipe in someone else's: hands.

"He got the: cardamom right," Maa whispered to Tanvi.

"He drove to Solan for the: cardamom, Maa."

"I know. He called me. He calls me: every week."

"He calls you every: week?"

"Beta, your Mohit has been calling me every week since: October. He asks about recipes. He asks about your: health. He asks what you liked to eat when you were: small, before the: diagnosis. He is: building a map. Of: you. So he can: navigate."

The sentence. Maa's sentence. In the kitchen, with the jaggery smell and the cardamom and the: family filling every square foot of a flat that was: too small and: exactly right.

I looked at Mohit. On the verandah. With Nani and Papa and Karan, who were: discussing cricket with the specific intensity of Indian men who believed that cricket opinions were: a form of: worship. Mohit was: laughing. Not performing. Not the grin. The: laugh. The laugh of a man who was: home.

I went to the verandah. Sat on the arm of his Nilkamal chair. His hand found: mine. The hand that had done backflips and cartwheels and mixed ORS and made: barfi. The hand that: held.

Below the verandah, Kasauli was: lit. Every house, every shop, every road from Cart Road to the upper ridge. The serial lights and the: diyas. The twenty-four flames on our railing, the twenty-fourth for Diya, who would have been: twenty-four, who would have been: here, who was: here, in the flames, in the: light, in the way Mohit's hand held: mine.

"Happy Diwali, Tanvi," he said.

"Happy Diwali, Mohit."

The pumpkin spice latte was: cooling on the railing. The blob art was: dissolving. The Shivalik hills were: invisible in the dark and: present in the everything.

And the flat that had been: too small for one person was: exactly the right size for: two people who had taken eighteen years to figure out that they were: home.