WE SHOULD DO THIS MORE OFTEN

That day when Hema walked into Raj’s shop, a dog had been sitting at the door, wagging its tail at her. As she kneeled to pat the dog, the bell rang and, in a flick, Raj woke up. Rubbing his eye with one hand, he let out a giggle and said, “Didn’t realise I’d dozed off — sorry for the wait.”

“No problem,” Hema smiled. “I was just here patting your dog.”

The dog trotted away to sit beside Raj, and Hema politely asked if he had any umbrellas for sale.

“Melbourne weather!” he muttered, disappearing into the back of the shop and returning with an umbrella.

“I don’t see many Desis here. Did you just move?” he said, handing it to her.

“No, I grew up around here, just changed houses,” she replied. “By the way, I meant a new umbrella — one that I could buy.”

“You can take my umbrella for now and return it later,” he said, winking at her. That day, she was in a rush, so she only said thanks and promised to return it by the end of the day.

After Hema left, Raj turned on the news on the radio. The rains that year had been really heavy, causing flooding in various parts of Australia. The newscaster shared the weather forecast, alerting towns that were prone to flooding. Raj had his ears to the news and his hands slowly dusting the tin cans on the shelf that Hema had glanced over while leaving the shop.

Only a week ago, he had rearranged the shop, putting out things that had expired for free. By midday, some new stock was to arrive. It was a small milk bar that he had bought last year after selling off his property in the country. The kids had grown so fast, and Reeta’s husband had put the idea in his head to move closer to the city. “Bhai Sahab, your kids deserve better. Here, the children are desi, the teacher is desi — not much experience for your little ones,” he had said. Back then, Raj had heard it from one ear and let it out the other. The man was surely possessed by the idea that the Aussies were giving him some special laddus. But then he thought about his wife — what she would do, what she would suggest, what was truly right for his children.

Four years ago, the year Raj had received his Permanent Residency, they had celebrated for months — his wife beside him, his children running around in front of them. Family, friends, and relatives had called to congratulate him. Becoming a permanent resident had given the family a sense of relief. After all, coming to Australia was going to pay back.

Then one day, Raj’s mother-in-law called. She hadn’t been feeling well for days. His wife, on the phone, assured her that she would come to India for a month to look after her mother. Raj at once put aside some money, booked her tickets, and promised her not to worry about him or the children. He would take care of it all, he said, and she should visit her mother and also pay for the doctor’s bills and everything.

His wife did as he suggested, but what can we say about the mysteries of life — the misfortunes that come one’s way unexpectedly? Only in the first week, as his wife and her mother were on their way to the doctor, sitting in a taxi headed to the city, the car rolled down a cliff and all three died. The ambulance came, the police came, and they spent hours trying to find the bodies, but mostly failed. It was only in the evening, in the dark, that one of the officers yelled out to the others — he had stepped on something. Raj’s wife’s body had been found, and only ten steps away were the bodies of her mother and the driver.

Soon, their near and dear were contacted, and so was Raj. As the officer slowly explained what had occurred, the ground slipped from beneath Raj’s feet, and he felt dizzy, as if he was going to faint. Their youngest daughter saw his face go pale and yelled out to the other kids inside to fetch a glass of water. Raj put the phone away when the officer started to describe how the accident had occurred. He wasn’t able to hear another word. He sat down on the floor and slowly dragged his back to the wall, holding his head, rubbing it. Beads of sweat and tears began to fall. He screamed and pushed the chair away.

Their youngest at once ran towards him and hugged him; the other kids followed and surrounded him, rubbing his hair, shoulders, and feet. They all started to cry together, and their eldest son held each one, passing the glass of water to each. Raj and the children stayed on the floor in grief. Now and then, he put his hand to his chest and yelled loudly as if an ache had started to develop there. Their eldest son held his father tightly, gently pressing his head and softly saying, “Daddy, everything will be okay.”

That night, as their neighbours and family friends got to know, the phone didn’t stop ringing. They ignored it; it was only when his wife’s close friend, Reeta, knocked at their door that the children let her in. She ran straight to Raj and hugged him, assuring him that he didn’t have to worry — she was with him.

Soon, she convinced the kids to have a shower and made Raj a glass of whiskey. Once she had prepared dinner, the kids ate and went to bed. Raj, who had been sitting outside drinking, came in and sat at the dining table, staring at the wall until Reeta asked if she could serve him some food. Again, the tears came back, and looking up at the ceiling as if talking to God, he said, “How will I look after these kids now? How will we learn to live without her?” Reeta quietly watched him cry, offering words of assurance now and then.

Soon, when her husband arrived, he held Raj by the arm and forced him to eat, feeding him from his own hands. That night, the husband and Raj slept in the same bed till late. Raj stayed up talking about his life with her — how beautiful she was, how caring.

By morning, the kids were sent to school, and after Raj was out of bed, some calls back home were made. It was decided that the kids would stay with Reeta and her husband, and Raj would go to India to make all the arrangements for their cremation.

Months went by. His wife’s picture, with a garland of flowers and a diya next to it, stayed lit at all times at their home. Some family friends visited now and then with food and presents for the children. “We are all with you,” they said. “Give it some time,” said the others.

Since his wife’s demise, the house they had bought in Melton felt like it was starting to decay. Suddenly, it seemed big and empty. Weeds grew in the backyard, and even when the kids played — their laughter chiming through the house — Raj only complained about the house. For two years, they didn’t even celebrate Diwali. Raj drank a lot, staring for hours at his wife’s picture on the wall. Sometimes, he would clean the dust that had settled on it and hold it close to his chest.

It was after four years that Raj finally decided to sell off that house and move closer to the city. While at first the idea had sparked because he wanted the best for his children, it was also because the house had become a reminder of his wife’s loss. So one day at the dinner table, he announced to the kids that he had found a house in a suburb closer to the city. In the front, he would start a milk bar, and in the back, they could all live.

The kids loudly expressed that they were not happy about it. “What about my friends?” one said, and then another, “How will we go to school?” But by then, Raj had made up his mind. As usual, Reeta and her husband visited to help with the move. Over and over, her husband reminded Raj that this decision was in the best interest of his children — a better school, a better neighbourhood. “The house might be small, but Bhai Sahab, the shop in front of it would mean you won’t even have to go far to work at someone else’s business.” The prospects of buying that property looked good, and moving out also felt like a new beginning — a change that he and the kids needed.

It was only in bed, alone, when the worry would take hold of him. He would worry if such a change was even required, but when he thought of his wife, he felt relief. After all, like Reeta’s husband had said, now the purpose of his life was to give the best to his children.

The second time Hema came to the milk bar, the youngest daughter had been sitting at the counter playing her game. As the doorbell rang, she yelled out to her father, and he was on his way out. Hema greeted them both and asked Raj for a pouch of tobacco. He sifted through batches of tobacco that had just arrived and handed her what she had asked for. She smiled and paid, and was about to leave when Raj, in a flash, remembered the umbrella and softly asked her if she was using it still.

“Aha, so sorry, completely forgot about the umbrella, how about I come back in an hour or so and drop it? I live close by.”

“Arrey arrey no problem, I was just reminding you,” he replied.

On her way out, she stopped by again at the aisle where the spices from India had been placed. “It’s so hard to get all this here, except the organic store,” she chuckled and continued, “All these goras do is source things from India and by the time it makes it to the shelves in their shops they’ve already added their own price on top of it.”

Raj nodded his head sideways and smiled. His youngest got up and started to play with the radio. A Miley Cyrus song started to play, and as she started to hum along, Raj at once held up his finger. “Stop singing these Angrezi songs and maybe focus more on your studies.”

Hema looked back at him over her shoulder and, with a smile, was on her way out. The little girl went back inside, and Raj put the news on the radio. The newscaster’s words floated around the shop, and Raj walked around carefully putting the stock back on the shelves. “Racist attack on Indians in Sydney” stopped him; he put back the box of tinned cans and ran to turn off the radio. The news cut off, he went back to placing the stock on the shelves.

On her way back to her sharehouse, Hema’s phone buzzed with messages. A new event to block the dock had been decided, and she had volunteered to cook for ten people. Back at the sharehouse, her housemates were lounging around; one was smoking a cone. Hema pushed the door open, and the housemate exhaled a cloud of smoke, “Hey, what’s up?” They said.

She put her tote down in the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and updated the house about the new location for the protest. Everyone gathered around, scrolling through messages, signing up for roles and jobs for the day. Hema quickly mixed rice with kimchi for herself and offered some to all of them. Emptying her tote, she laid out her shopping one by one on the kitchen table and started cooking. Kita, her girlfriend, carrying her bicycle in one hand, stepped into the house and gave Hema a gentle kiss on the cheek. “How was your day?” She asked.

“Not bad, the sun is out. I went for a walk around the neighbourhood,” and she remembered the umbrella. “Oh, thank god I remember, there’s this Indian uncle who owns a milk bar on Jessie Street. I borrowed his umbrella some days ago. Would you be able to drive to him and drop it?”

On her way out, over her shoulder, she said, “Should I take some lemons from the tree for him too?”

“Yes! Good idea! Also, get me some cardamom from his shop, please,” Hema replied and continued to stir the pot of curry she was making.

At the Milk Bar this time, his eldest son was sitting at the counter, tallying receipts for his father. The radio played some Indian tunes, and Kita walked straight to the aisle with the spices, picked up a packet of cardamom and walked to the counter.

At once, the son rose. With a smile, he asked her, “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Good, how are you, mate?”

He took the money and umbrella out of her hands and said thanks. “We had some lemon growing, thought you’d be able to use them” She added handing the bag over. That day had been slow, just like every other day. Kita had only been their first customer.

As the son had been instructed by his father to be polite, smile always, take note of the regulars and look welcoming, he did so. Over the dinner table, the father would often make conversation with the children and would lightly remind them, “We are Indian, it’s going to be difficult for us here. Be nice to everyone and also polite.” The daughters would quickly switch to English, hearing him.

At school, the first few months, both daughters had stayed mostly quiet. They were the only Indians. The teachers often gave them special attention so they felt welcomed, and their classmates, even though they had first looked at them as if they were aliens with their dark skin and hair. And when the father came to drop off or pick them up, the parents turned to look at him. They all smiled and greeted him but felt curious to know what he was here for.

It was only once, when the father was talking on the phone in the parking lot, that one of the staff had stopped him and asked what his purpose of the visit was. He had said that his kids studied at the school, and the staff had walked away, not even apologising but rolling their eyes.

When the father had mentioned this to the eldest son at home, the son had said, “Daddy, maybe it was your Hindi, that’s why we try to talk in English.”
“What do you mean by Hindi?”
“It’s too loud for people here; they are all nice, friendly and polite, like you say.” And then they had carried on with their day.

The next weekend, Hema again walked in, Kita slinging an arm around her and the other two housemates in the back. The children had been put to clean the shop, and Raj was brewing cups of chai inside. At once, Hema, trying to place the smell, said, “Oh, chai!”
“Yes, Daddy is making some. Would you all like some?” the youngest asked. The eldest son looked back at her, as if her words had come out too fast. Then he quickly went back inside and asked his father to make four more cups.

Hema, Kita and the housemates moved about the shop. Lots of canned food sat on the shelves in a corner, things from India and packets and packets of Maggi. Hema picked two packets and paid at the counter for them. The youngest daughter stood up from her seat and, with excitement, asked, “Are you Indian?” Hema nodded. Then she went back to dusting.

The father soon came out and put the tray in front of them. “It’s always so nice to see you here. Please come more often.” They all smiled and started to sip the chai. The father moved around the shop, inspecting if any dust had been collected on the shelves. The children all went back inside. “It’s time for their lunch,” the father added, filling in the silence.
“Uncle, how long have you been living here?” Hema asked.
“It’s going to be two years in November.”
“How are you managing it all, the shop and the kids?” Kita asked. Often, they had speculated where the mother was, but then had thought that maybe he was divorced or a single father.

“Well, by God’s grace, my kids are of great calibre and the shop does okay too. I’m just glad I own it and don’t have to pay the rent.”
“Oh, that’s really nice,” Hema replied.

Then, as they were about to leave, Hema put some pamphlets down at the counter and said, “Uncle, we have a little gathering of neighbours to get to know each other. It’s always nice to connect.”
The father looked back from the aisle and lightly said, “Sure, I’ll see if I get some fursat from the kids and the shop.”

They all walked out, and the pamphlets sat untouched at the counter. In his mind, the way Hema and the housemates had dressed up — their tote bags, tattoos and piercings — he thought she was a coconut, brown outside and white inside. But then, when the eldest walked out and saw the pamphlets, he at once put the idea in the father’s mind. “Daddy, the didi seems like a nice person. I think we should go. It’ll be a great opportunity to get more customers too”

“Ahan..I’ll think about it," he replied and walked back to turn the radio on. Then, as if in thought, he added, “She does seem like a good girl”

Hema, walking back to the sharehouse, said to Kita, “That uncle reminds me so much of my father.” They all stopped by at the park on their way and sat down on the grass to soak up some sun. Plucking the grass and wrapping it around her fingers, Hema thought of her family. They all lived in Adelaide — her parents and her sisters. It was after graduating from school that she decided to move out and come to Melbourne. While her parents had not supported her decision, her mother, in the end, had tauntingly said, “Yeah, you are 18 now, do whatever you like as long as you can afford the life you want.”

There was really no point staying in Adelaide, and because Kita had proposed to her the same year, both of them decided to move together to Melbourne. But when her mother had found out that Hema was a lesbian, she had called her defective and damaged. She had threatened to tell her father but had only stopped because, in her heart, she worried about how he would react. The mother also started to distance her sisters from her.

Once she had moved to Melbourne, all contact with the family also stopped — no Diwali invites, even. The last five years in Melbourne, while she pined for a family, she had also chosen friends as family. They lived together, looked after each other, and were involved in the community together.

On the day of the gathering that Hema had organised for the neighbourhood, the sharehouse spent all morning cooking platters and platters of food. She put on a pot to brew chai. The fragrance of cardamom, cinnamon, and tea leaves floated around the house. Jemma brought out her ukulele and softly strummed, accompanying the sounds from the kitchen. As always, when Hema cooked, all the recipes her hands had remembered, recipes that had not been written down, but those she had memorised from watching her mother cook day in and day out. Kita mowed the lawn and placed a large mat on the floor for everyone to sit on.

One by one, the neighbours started to pour in. No one came empty-handed; some brought flowers, some pouches of spices, and some freshly pressed juice. Raj and the kids also walked in, scanning the different faces in the backyard. Everyone smiled, greeted each other, and made room to sit. Hema introduced Raj and his milk bar to all of them and mentioned that they had only moved two years ago.

As the food was served and the cups of chai poured, everyone began to feel comfortable. Slowly, their chatter filled the house. The kids got up and started to play, their laughter accompanying the adults’ conversation. Unlike other times, Raj didn’t feel nervous around strangers. They didn’t stare at him as if he were an outsider; they asked questions, shared smiles, and welcomed him and his children into the warmth of the gathering.

Hema bought out her speaker and put on some Kishore Kumar. Raj started to hum along, and the eldest son yelled out. “Kishore Kumar is Dad’s favourite”. Then, Raj mentioned one song to the other and looking around the room, it looked as if everyone had found company. On their way out, Raj brought Hema to the side and thanked her for organising such an event. The kids also ran to them and thanked Hema.

That day, over dinner as the housemates gathered around the table, Jemma served them food. Kita gently hugged Hema, and Hema said thanks to everyone. “We should do this more often” Others said.

While Raj was with the kids at dinner, in the background, Kishore Kumar played on the stereo. He said to all of them, “How kind that Didi is”. They all nodded. For the first time in a long while, they felt welcomed. At last, they were no longer just living in the neighbourhood — they were part of it.

Madhvi Thakur is a bilingual writer, radio presenter, and sometimes ghostwriter. Her work explores gender, sexuality, and migration, often drawing on the intimate and political lives of South Asian women. She is currently working on a book of short stories. When she’s not writing, she hosts radio segments on 3CR called Writing Home.