‘You’re early,’ Deen says, looking up from where he’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by a pile of stuff that I’ve never seen before.
‘What’s all this?’ I ask, picking up a decorated red clay pot from the pile.
Deen clambers up to standing with a triumphant grin. ‘I went to a couple of charity shops, hoping that I could find some decor items to spruce up the place.’
‘And you found all of this?’ I ask, studying some of the items. They certainly don’t look like things from a London charity shop – more like knick-knacks you might find in Bangladesh: a slightly beaten-down rickshaw figurine, a hand-painted spinning top, a gaudy beaded wall hanging.
‘No!’ Deen exclaims. ‘Well, a couple of the things. But I had a brilliant idea when I was there, and I got in touch with some of the aunties and uncles around the neighbourhood. I scrounged some oftheirstuff. They weren’t doing anything with it, and everyone had things. Stuff they bought from Bangladesh, stuff from weddings and holuds … they were probably just going to toss it all at some point, but now I get to give it all a second life here!’
It’s a good idea, I have to give him that. Bengali weddings are usually a whole affair, and while the decor sometimes gets passed around from one wedding to the other, there’s so much stuff that’s thrown out too.
‘I like it,’ I say with a conclusive nod. ‘So, you want to tell me where you want all of this?’
‘I’m still figuring it all out,’ Deen says, looking around the restaurant. ‘Still developing my vision.’
‘Well, while you’re getting your vision,’ I say, ‘do you have any food lying around? I’m starving.’ The conversation with Maya has left me with a strange sort of emptiness. I might as well try to fill it with some of Deen’s cooking.
‘Sure, there should be some leftover korma in the fridge …’ Deen tilts his head towards me. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ I wave my hand dismissively, making my way to the kitchen and grabbing some korma and polau. Stickingit in the microwave, I heat up the food, and head back to the main restaurant area, taking a seat at one of the tables. Deen is now holding a dhol in one hand, and a painted pakha in the other, frowning at both in consideration.
‘What do you think about putting the pakha on one of the walls, and maybe the dhol on the windowsill?’ Deen asks, looking over at me.
‘Let’s try it,’ I say.
Deen goes over to one side of the restaurant, holding the painted hand fan up to the wall. I nod in approval, and Deen puts it aside, trying the replica Bengali drum on the windowsill next.
He turns to me again as I chew on my food quietly.
‘You really aren’t going to tell me what’s wrong?’
‘Who said something was wrong?’ I ask.
‘Well, you’re usually way more opinionated about things,’ Deen points out.
‘I just gave my opinion,’ I insist.
‘Yeah, no … you agreed with my opinions. Different things,’ Deen says. He marches towards me and sits down right next to me. ‘Once you tell me what’s wrong, I might stop pestering you about it, and we can get back to the real work.’
I sigh. I know that Deen won’t leave me alone until I spill, so I start to speak. At first, I think I’ll only tell him about the conversation with Maya, but before I know it, I’m telling him everything. Her team bullying mine, how we came to agree to the match in the first place. The other night at Maya’s house, the kiss. And, finally, the conversation we just had, which left me boiling with rage. As I get to the end, I’m practically crushing the food on my plate with my hands and glowering down at it.
‘I just can’t believe she has the gall to say all of that to me. I feel like she only wanted to speak so she could … act like she was better than me, and act like I was the problem, when it’s clearly her,’ I finish off.
Deen is contemplative for a moment, and silence washes over us. Speaking everything aloud does make me feel at least a little bit better.
‘I’m not saying that I agree with Maya …’ Deen starts.
I turn my head towards him so fast that I almost get whiplash. ‘You’reagreeingwith Maya?’
‘I said I wasn’t!’ Deen replies, holding his hands up as if in surrender. ‘But I always wondered why you took it so hard that she got offered that spot in the US. And why you decided to give up football right then and there.’
‘Because … because it was tainted. Forever. After what Maya did. She … sheknewhow much that match, and that opportunity, meant to me. And she still took it.’
‘But it wasn’t yours,’ Deen says. ‘I mean, you were injured. You were never going to get that opportunity. And Maya is right, you could have still had a career. I mean, Jen was clearly obsessed with you – shestillis. She would have done everything in her power to make sure you got more opportunities. You could have played in university; you could have tried out for teams. You could have gone down a million paths, but you didn’t.’
‘Because Maya ruined it for me,’ I say firmly, but my confidence in that statement is quickly dwindling. I’d been so angry at Maya that day, but I’d been angry at more than that. I’d been angry at the scouts for thinking of me as so disposable, angry at Jen for letting Maya be given that opportunity over me, angry at myself for getting hurt. Angry at the world for all of it.
And maybe I’d let the anger get the better of me. It was easier to blame Maya than to accept that I’d lost out on something I’d dreamed about for years. It was easier to blame her than to risk failing again. Easier to blame her than to go after my dreams.
