Chapter 19

From the locked drawer. Letter ninety, written in the forty-first year. Translated from Malayalam. Never sent.

Kimaya—

The mango trees are doing something embarrassing again. Every year I tell myself I won’t notice them and every year I notice them. They were the same trees when we were girls. Older now, of course. Slower. The fruit hangs heavier than it used to, or maybe that is only me getting older and reading myself into everything. You always said I did that. Priya, you are not the weather. The weather is not about you. I used to argue with you about this. I still do, sometimes, in my head, which is perhaps proof that you were right.

My husband died in March. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You were gone before he existed to me, truly, which means in some private accounting of my life, he came after you, and after has always felt like the wrong word for everything that followed that day.

He was not too cruel of a man. I want you to know that, though I cannot explain why your opinion of him should matter to me after forty-one years. He was not too cruel. I spent decades believing that was something I could outlast, the way you outlast a bad season. It turns out it is not a season. It is the land itself. You don’t outlast it. You only learn to walk on it.

We had children. I cooked rice the way his mother taught me, not the way my mother taught me, and for these past forty years I could not have told you why that felt like a loss.

Here is what I want to say, Kimaya, and what I will fold and lock away because I am the same coward I was at twenty standing in the temple dirt: the particular green of your eyes is the thing I have never been able to describe accurately to myself, despite having had forty-one years to find the right words. I have tried lily pads. I have tried river shallows. I have tried the underside of a mango leaf in full sun. Nothing is right. Nothing is ever right. You were always impossible to translate.

Not one morning has begun without you in it. Not in forty-one years. You are there before the tea, before the birds, before anything the day asks of me. First. Always first.

He is gone now.

And still you are first.

I am so sorry I never said it while you could hear me.

—Priya

***

After Priya left, Roman appeared within minutes at the doorway. I cried ugly, messy, snotty tears without caring how she had found me, or if Priya had told her to come, or if she had been standing there the whole time and heard the whole story. She crossed to where I had collapsed in the chair—the same chair where Priya had hopelessly written letter after letter, which only made me cry harder—and held me without words. Arms around my shoulders, cheek against the top of my head.

“Did you—were you—” Speaking felt more like gasping. “Did you hear what she said?”

“I’m here now,” Roman murmured against my hair. “Priya told me you would need me. Passed me in the hall and said it was urgent, all cryptically. What is it? What did Priya say to you? I’ll kill her. I swear. I don’t care about hurting old ladies.”

It felt like a part of me was cracking open. Splitting right down the middle. My body tearing from within itself, flesh being pulled and turning taut as it reached the breaking point. I was going to rip. I was going to flutter to the floor, a jagged, shredded mass of skin and yearning, like pages yanked from a notebook, crumpled and discarded. The romantic within me was devastated. Two young women. A love spanning decades. Every time I tried to speak, to tell Roman that Priya hadn’t done anything wrong, all that escaped was blubbering and more snot. It reminded me of Maja Ma, except this time it was real. And there would be no happy ending for Priya and Kimaya, would there?

Roman crouched down beside me, her head on my lap, her hands on my hips, bracing me. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. I’m sorry I haven’t . . . I know I haven’t been here. Our key witness in the billionaire lawsuit withdrew her statement and said she won’t speak in court and we’re trying to fix our crumbling case. I’m scared we don’t even have a case anymore.” She squeezed my hips, gently. Pressed her cheek to my lap, gazing at me sideways, beseechingly. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I should have told you.” She dragged in a deep breath. “And I should have been here with you.”

“It’s not that,” I choked out. “It’s . . .”

“Whatever she said that hurt you, Kaalia, I will move heaven and hell to make it right. Tell me what to do. Please. I’ll chase her right now and kill her. Shouldn’t take long, but I’ll need your help hiding the body.” 

“No,” I said to Roman. That was all I could say: “No.” 

Finally, I managed to gasp out enough of the story for Roman to understand. I told her about 1940s Kerala. Two brown-skinned girls falling in the kind of love that felt like a bruised summer sky and climbing the tessellated bark of a tall tree, each refusing to be the one who backed down first. At some point, I noticed Aadhya standing in the doorway, hands clasped over her mouth (“Dadi told me to come here quickly—what’s wrong?”). I poured so much detail into the story, as much as I could remember from Priya, letting it unfold in the small room like a long-held breath. And it was—a breath that had been held for sixty-four years. By the time I had finished, it was no longer me crying but Roman and Aadhya.

“We need to find Kimaya,” Aadhya said.

“I tried.” 

The words were simple, cold, flat. Spoken in English. All of three of us turned to glance behind Aadhya, where it seemed Priya had finally returned. She leaned against the wall, the pink, flowy fabric of her kurti artfully draped, one bare foot crossed over the other.

“What?” I didn’t know if it was me who spoke, or Roman, or Aadhya. But the word pooled in the air all the same. Breathless. Defeated.

“The day you two arrived.”

“The phone call,” Aadhya said with sudden realization. “You were on the phone for hours—and you were so upset afterward. You argued with Roman the morning after. I knew something was wrong.” 

Priya lowered her eyes. “I asked my cousin to hire a private investigator for me. But they couldn’t find a Kimaya Reddy anywhere.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aadhya demanded. “I could have done it for you. Who did you ask? Vansh? He’s incompetent. Men are always incompetent.” 

Roman and I were no longer part of the conversation; it felt instead as though we were witnessing a private exchange between grandmother and granddaughter.

“I couldn’t.” Priya’s lips quivered. “I couldn’t.”

Aadhya’s voice trembled. “But what made you decide—now—after all these years—to finally talk about—” 

“Nothing. Everything. I am getting old, pyaari. I will not be here forever. I thought . . . maybe, before it was too late . . . I just wanted to see, if . . .”

“Dadi, don’t say that.” Aadhya choked the words out between sobs. “You’re going to live forever, remember? You promised me when I was a little girl.” 

“Oh, pyaari. That was the one promise you knew I was always going to break.”

I felt frozen, rooted to the chair. I was hyperaware of Roman’s head on my lap, her arms cradling my hips. We watched the conversation in paralyzing stillness, unable to move, unable to leave. I thought of my own grandmothers and felt more tears spring to my eyes. My precious Dadi and my sweet, beautiful Lita. I secretly harboured the same beliefs as Aadhya: they would live forever.

“But why—why not tell me—I thought I knew everything about you. I thought I understood you. I thought you trusted me.” 

“I trust you, pyaari, I do. But I find it is easier, sometimes, to tell people who are not so close to your heart.” Priya pursed her lips together more tightly, but it no longer provided any use. Wanton tears fell down her cheeks and glittered. “You are my everything, Aadhya. When you were born, and I held you for the first time, you became the most important woman in my life.” English melted into Malayalam. “I have spent sixty-four years missing Kimaya but twenty-two years loving you. Even if I had found Kimaya—even if she hadn’t forgotten me after all, or didn’t hate me anymore—the real love story of my life would still be you, my darling child. You, because we chose each other over everyone; you, because you stayed with me when everyone else thought of me as a crazy, mean old lady. You are the best gift of a girl Saraswati ever could have given me.”

Priya collapsed into Aadhya’s arms. Aadhya held her, kept her from falling, even as it seemed her own knees weakened.

“I know I never say sorry. But I am sorry, I am. I’m sorry I can’t be there for you as you grow old and die, like you will be for me. I am sorry that I can’t—” Her voice broke. “I can’t live forever. My only wish—”

Even if I could see past the blurry curtain of my tears, I didn’t dare glance at Roman.

“My only wish.” Priya stopped and started again. Dragging in a wet, shuddering breath. “I wish I could have the greatest honour of being your grandmother in every single lifetime after this one.”

“But you still don’t get it, Dadi,” Aadhya said, voice breaking. “What I want most is to see you happy, in every lifetime. To see you loved as you have loved for all these years, with no response. You deserve more than just me, Dadi. You deserve the woman your heart has never stopped aching for.” 

For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was Priya’s quiet weeping, muffled against Aadhya’s shoulder. 

I felt Roman shift beneath me. Her head lifted from my lap. Her hands, still gentle on my hips, squeezed once before she stood. She moved toward Priya and Aadhya with the kind of determination I’d only seen when she was about to win an argument.

“We’re going to find her,” Roman said.

Priya looked up, her face gleaming with tears, eyes red and swollen. “You can’t—” 

“I have resources your investigator didn’t.” Roman’s voice was steady, certain. The voice that had convinced countless writers to sign with Bloom, that had stared down billionaires in courtrooms. “Money. Connections. Time. Kaalia and I will find Kimaya. I promise you.” 

I stood too, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Even if we have to search every village in Kerala. Every home. We’ll find her.” 

Priya stared at us, something fragile and desperate flickering across her face. “Why?” The word cracked. “Why would you do this for me? After—after how I treated you?” 

I looked at Roman. She looked at me. 

“Because you deserve your happy ending,” I said softly. “And because . . .” I swallowed hard. “Because we understand what it’s like to wait. To be afraid. And think you’ve missed your chance.” 

Roman’s hand found mine. Our fingers laced together, tight and sure.

Priya’s gaze dropped to our joined hands. She said nothing. But when she looked back up at us, her eyes had softened in a way I’d never seen before. 

“Chellam,” she whispered to Aadhya, her voice switching to Malayalam. Then back to English, for us: “I think we have been blessed with two more fools in love.” 

Aadhya laughed through her tears. “I think so too, Dadi.” 

That night, Roman and I laid in my bed—just holding each other, fully clothed, the window open to let in the sound of the ocean. An army of tiny stuffed pandas watched us from over the nightstand. Roman’s laptop was open on the desk, already filled with search parameters, contact lists, investigation firms. 

“We’re going to find her,” Roman murmured against my hair. “For Priya. For them.” 

I turned in her arms to face her. Her face was limned in moonlight, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen at Bloom, or even during our time in Kerala so far. 

“And for us?” I whispered.

Roman’s hand came up to cup my face. “For us too. So we never end up like them. Sixty-four years of waiting.” 

“Then we better start now.” 

Her thumb traced my cheekbone. “Start what?” 

“Not waiting.” I sat up in bed. “This past week, you’ve barely talked to me. You haven’t told me what’s been going on. You’ve just been working yourself to the bone and expecting me to understand. We haven’t been together like—like this in almost a week.” 

“But you said—” 

“I know what I said. But we can have more than that. This doesn’t have to be a—a fling. Not while we’re here. I can take care of you. Let me take care of you.” 

Roman’s eyes tore from my face and slid towards the window. The silver-spun ocean in the distance. “I’m not used to being taken care of. I don’t know how to let you.” 

“We can learn,” I said.

“But what if I let you in, and you don’t like what you find?” She refused to look at me. “I’m sure you’ve seen all the articles and reviews about me. My personality.”

I’d stalked her presence on the internet so much that I’d seen it all: every negative review, every insulting comment, every thought piece based on how distasteful and deplorable other scholars and critics found her upon meeting her in person.

“Do you mean the ones that call you cold, cruel, and unlovable?”

“Yes. Those ones. I usually don’t let them get to me. I know it’s misogynoir. But I guess if you see something enough times, even if you know it’s probably not true, it has the tendency of, well, getting to you.”

“Roman.” I grabbed her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “Roman. Come on. Hey.” 

Her eyes met mine. “What?”

“I’ve read every single one of those reviews.” She tried to look away. I didn’t let her. “Every comment. Every think piece. And you know what I kept thinking?” 

“That they had a point?”

“That none of them actually know you.” I felt my voice go unsteady. “They know the version of you that threatens them. I know the woman who bought me a giant panda because she saw my face when I looked at it. Who held my hand in the rain and didn’t pull away. Who is lying here right now figuring out how to find an eighty-six-year-old woman’s lost love.” I swallowed. “That’s not cold. That’s not unlovable. That’s just—you. The real you. And I think they’d hate that version of you even more, honestly. Because she’s better than all of them.”

Roman’s eyes were shining, wet with unshed tears.

“You’re not unlovable, Roman.” I leaned closer, my forehead touching hers. “You’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. You’re fierce and passionate and you care so much it terrifies me. The way you fight for people who have no power, the way you built Bloom into something that actually matters—that’s not cold. That’s love. Just a different kind than they’re used to seeing.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. I wiped it away. 

“And yeah, maybe you’re not good at being vulnerable. Maybe you work too hard and push people away when things get difficult. Maybe you’re a control freak with an unhinged Google calendar obsession.” 

She laughed, tears slipping into her mouth.

“But you’re also the woman who gave me a giant panda because you saw how much I wanted it. You’re the woman who held my hand in the rain and didn’t pull away. You’re the woman who’s about to move planets to find an eighty-six-year-old woman’s lost love.” I took a shaky breath. “So no, Roman. You’re not unlovable. You’re just loved by people who actually know you. And I . . .”

I stopped. The words were right there, pressed against my teeth. I’m falling in love with you. Instead of saying them aloud, I pressed them gently to her forehead, a kiss, hoping she would understand.

Roman’s hand covered mine, still cupping her face. She nodded, slowly at first, and then fiercely. She knew; she understood. My lips lingered on her forehead a beat too long. I wanted to taste the salty-sweet wetness of her glistening mouth. I moved lower, my lips touching her eyebrow. Lower: her cheekbone. Our breaths fluttering against one another’s skin like the quick, small flapping of butterfly wings. My lips trailed her cheek. Then the corner of her lips. With the slightest turn of our heads, we would be kissing. But I didn’t turn—I only kissed, ever so gently, the soft corner of her mouth, and rested my lips against the warm skin there.

When I finally withdrew, we were both breathing hard. 

We laid back down, tangled together, closer than before. Her head on my chest, my fingers in her hair, our legs intertwined. The ocean breathed beyond the window. The horde of panda bears kept watch.

“Tomorrow,” Roman murmured sleepily. “We start searching tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” I agreed.

“But tonight . . .”

“Tonight we’re here. Together. Not waiting.” 

“Not waiting,” she echoed.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about Priya’s letters: decades of words never sent, love never spoken, and instead buried in her throat, in the shape of fingers clutching pen after pen, year after year. I thought about my own poems, hidden away for years, too afraid to let anyone read them. 

I thought about Roman reading them anyway. About her breaking the rules to know me better. About her choosing me, over and over.

We’re not too late, I thought.

And for the first time in years, I believed in happy endings again. 

***

Hope you guys liked this one 🙂 almost cried writing it

Love,
Meera