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Did he miss me at all? Or was he relieved to have me out of his hair?
Which would make me remember his thick, curly hair that just begged to be ruffled. And his irritation at having said hair ruffled. And the huffy lectures that followed.
And then I’d drain my glass of wine and go back into the house to stare blankly at the same page of the same book, day after day until I fell asleep.
When I moved here, I was convinced that I wanted to be alone for the rest of my life. I was done with people. I was going to grow pumpkins in my little garden and keep a cat, or three.
Well, the pumpkin patch turned into a muddy puddle after I watered it too much, and it turned out that I was allergic to cat fur. Four strips of Benadryl later, I gifted my newly-acquired kitten to the gardener’s daughter and set up a picnic table in the middle of my little garden, complete with a sun umbrella. Because it’s difficult to cut yourself off from people when you’re part of such a warm community.
If I wasn’t teaching English to the children of the staff at the commune, I was having friends over for high tea in the garden. Not my old blue-blooded friends who had dumped me like last year’s handbag as soon as they heard about my mother, but new ones. Like Sandhya Menon, a recovering alcoholic, who had given up the corporate rat race to move into the commune. She was in charge of delivering the fresh produce from the farm to the restaurants and cafes that we supplied. And old Mrs Fialho, who had no family and practically no money. Freddy allowed her to live in her cottage rent-free because she used to be his son’s high school teacher and the only one who could drill the rules of English grammar into Percy’s thick head.
These were people like me - flawed, hurting, and needing a place to heal.
“And now she’s sad again,” murmured Sandhya, sipping on her nimbu-paani.
“She’s thinking about her young man,” chimed in Mrs Fialho.
“There is no young man! I’m just thinking of planting some roses. Maybe you could give me some cuttings, Freddy,” I said hastily trying to change the subject.
“No,” yelled all three of them.
How rude!
“Tasha, leave my roses alone, and call him,” said Freddy sternly.
“Call whom?” I tried to play dumb.
“That idiot who let you go,” he snapped.
Freddy was as close to DV as he was to me, and according to him, we were a couple of blockheads for not wanting to be together.
“Ugh! Can we talk about something else?” I asked, draining my cup of tea. “About the roses, maybe I just need some practice. Gardening can’t be rocket science, no?”
“Sweetie, let it go. We’re not letting you kill any more plants,” said Sandhya, gently.
“Fine! I’ll let it go. Now, does anyone want another slice of Mrs Fialho’s excellent mawa cake? And can I get the recipe?” I begged.
Again, they yelled together.
“No!”
“Tasha, do you remember what happened when you tried to bake bread? No more baking, please! The commune can’t afford to replace this cottage if you blow it to pieces,” said Freddy.
I sighed, wondering how I had made it through life without picking up any basic skills.
Sandhya’s phone pinged, and my body stiffened in response. It had been three months since I had switched off my phone. I wasn’t ready to get in touch with my family yet. The wounds were still too raw.
She smiled softly as she read the text.
“Sandhya has a boyfriend,” crooned Mrs Fialho.
The old darling was an inveterate gossip.
“Oh, shush. It’s just a text from Percy. The updated list of restaurants and cafes that we deliver to.”
“And why does that make you blush?” asked Mrs Fialho craftily.
“It doesn’t! You’re going senile,” exclaimed Sandhya, with a hasty glance at Freddy.
