Chapter 34: Cheryl's Departure

Cheryl tells us on a Wednesday.

Not at the gym — at the juice bar, which is: the same thing, because the juice bar at Seaside Fitness is not a juice bar but a: parliament, a confessional, a newsroom, the place where information is: exchanged with the solemnity of a United Nations session and the emotional intensity of: a family dinner.

"I'm going back to Connecticut," she says.

The sentence arrives the way sentences arrive when sentences are: grenades. Quietly. Simply. And then: the detonation.

Vandana's smoothie stops halfway to her mouth. Jaya's typing on her phone ceases — the cessation of Jaya's typing being: the most dramatic silence available, because Jaya types constantly, the way other people breathe. Aditi puts her head down on the counter, which is: Aditi's physical response to news she cannot process while: upright.

"When?" I ask. Because "when" is: the question that anchors loss in time, and time is: the only thing that makes loss: manageable.

"April. Next month."

"Why?"

"Because my daughter is pregnant. My first grandchild. And a grandmother's place is: where the grandchild is. And the grandchild will be in: Hartford."

The reason is: unchallengeable. A grandchild. The biological imperative that overrides: geography, friendship, gym memberships, vada pav, the entire architecture of a life built in Bandra over: years. The grandchild that says: come. And the grandmother who says: yes. Because grandmothers always say yes to grandchildren the way the sea always says yes to: rivers.

"But —" Vandana starts. The "but" of a woman who is about to argue with: reality. Vandana argues with reality regularly and sometimes wins, but this time reality is: a grandchild, and grandchildren are: non-negotiable.

"No buts," Cheryl says. "I've been in Mumbai for eight years. Since Doug died. Eight years of this gym, this group, this — this life that I built on top of the life I lost. And it's been: extraordinary. But my daughter needs me. And the baby — the baby will need to know: grandma's stories. Including the story of Doug and the kilo of jalebi and the Hawaiian shirts and the Indian grandmother who isn't technically her grandmother but who will FaceTime every week and send achaar by post."

"You're going to send achaar to Connecticut?" Aditi asks, raising her head.

"I'm going to send achaar to Connecticut. Mango achaar. Because that child will know the taste of: India, even if India is: nine thousand miles away."

The plan is: formed. Not over days but over: minutes, because this group makes plans the way Mumbai makes decisions — quickly, loudly, with total conviction and zero planning.

"Farewell party," Vandana announces. "At the gym. Next Saturday. Everyone comes."

"I don't want a party," Cheryl says.

"Nobody wants a party. Parties are: imposed. Like rain. And like rain, parties are: necessary."

The farewell party happens on a Saturday afternoon in March — the month that sits between Mumbai's gentle winter and its punishing summer, the month that is: neither here nor there, the month of: transitions.

Seaside Fitness is transformed. Not by Vandana alone (though Vandana is: the general) — by all of us. Aditi handles decorations (streamers and balloons and a banner that reads "CHERYL: YOU WILL BE MISSED" in handwriting that suggests Aditi's artistic talent lies in: other areas). Jaya handles the music (a playlist called "Cheryl's Greatest Hits" which contains every song Cheryl has ever mentioned liking, from Carole King to Kishore Kumar, because Cheryl's musical taste is: transcontinental). Sunaina handles the lighting — dimming the overhead fluorescents and lighting candles, actual candles, in the lobby, the candles giving the gym the atmosphere of: a temple, which is: what Sunaina intended, because Sunaina treats every departure as: a ceremony.

Jai handles the photographs. Of course he does. He's printed twelve photographs — not his documentary work, but photographs of: us. Photographs he's been taking since his exhibition, since the camera came back into his hands and his hands remembered: what they were for. Twelve photographs of: our group. At the gym. At Garba. In the pool. At the juice bar. Eating vada pav. Laughing. The photographs that document: a family. Not the family you're born into — the family you: find at a gym in Bandra when you're fifty and divorced and the only thing you have is: a membership.

He's framed them. Twelve frames, arranged on the gallery wall beside his documentary work. The documentary work says: I saw the world. The group photographs say: I saw my world.

Cheryl arrives. In Doug's Hawaiian shirt — the shirt that has become: her armour, her talisman, the shirt that carries Doug's cologne (faded, but present, because Cheryl doesn't wash the shirt, she tells us — "washing it would wash away: him, and I'm not ready for that, and I'll never be ready for that, and that's: fine").

She sees the photographs. She sees the banner. She sees the candles. She sees: us. All of us. Vandana in teal. Jaya in black. Aditi in something sparkly. Sunaina in white. Jai in his uniform. Nikhil in a blazer. Rohit behind the juice bar, making smoothies. Preeti ma'am, who has come despite it being her day off because "Cheryl once tipped me five hundred rupees after Garba and that kind of generosity deserves: attendance." Even Kamini — Aditi's mother, who flew from Jaipur because "Cheryl aunty welcomed me to yoga and a yoga-welcoming woman is: family."

And Chetan. Chetan who has met Cheryl only twice but who is here because I asked and because Chetan comes when I ask because we are: together, and together means: your people are my people, and my people includes a sixty-three-year-old American woman in a Hawaiian shirt who is about to leave for Connecticut.

"You idiots," Cheryl says. Her voice: cracking. Not breaking — cracking. The crack of a voice that is holding: too much. "I said no party."

"We didn't listen," Vandana says. "Listening is: selective in this group."

The party is: everything a farewell should be and nothing that a farewell should be. It's: too happy (the laughter, the music, the vada pav that arrives in quantities suggesting Vandana ordered for: an army). And it's: too sad (the tears, which come in waves, the waves that the group produces when the group confronts: subtraction).

Cheryl speaks. Not a speech — Cheryl doesn't do speeches. An address. The address of a woman who has been addressed by grief and by love and who knows the: difference.

"When Doug died," she says, "I thought: that's it. The story's over. The American woman in Mumbai whose husband died — that's a tragedy, and tragedies end. But you —" She looks at us. The looking that Cheryl does — the looking that sees everything, the looking that learned from eight years of watching Mumbai and mourning Doug and building a life on top of: rubble. "You made the tragedy into: a chapter. Not the last chapter. A middle chapter. The chapter where the character discovers that the story continues. That the story always: continues."

She holds up her glass — Limca, because Cheryl drinks Limca at celebrations the way Doug drank Limca at celebrations, the Limca being: their drink, the drink that carries the memory of a man who ate a kilo of jalebi and who would have: loved this party.

"To the gym," Cheryl says. "To the juice bar. To the vada pav. To the people who showed a Connecticut woman that home is: not a country or a city or a flat but the people who show up when you're: grieving."

"To Cheryl," we say.

The Limca toast. The toast that is: not champagne but is: better than champagne because Limca is: ours, and ours is: everything.

She leaves on a Tuesday. I drive her to the airport — not in an auto-rickshaw but in a car that Vandana has arranged (Vandana arranges things), the car being: an Innova, because Cheryl's luggage includes three suitcases (one for clothes, one for Doug's things, one for: achaar that she's bringing to Connecticut), and three suitcases require: an Innova.

At the airport. The departure gate. The gate that separates: the people who are leaving from the people who are: staying.

"Mar," Cheryl says.

"Cheryl."

"Take care of them. The group. Vandana pretends she's fine but she's: not fine about Sanjay. Jaya's book deal will: scare her. Aditi's mother is coming around but slowly. Sunaina carries: more than she shows. Jai is: almost human now, don't let him go back. And Chetan — Chetan is: good. He's the good one. Don't let him pour all his chai into the sea."

"I'll take care of them."

"And take care of: you. That's the one you forget. You take care of everyone and you forget: the one person who needs it most."

"Cheryl —"

"Don't argue. I'm leaving the country. I get to: lecture."

She hugs me. The Cheryl-hug — the hug of a woman who is: taller than me, broader than me, who smells of Doug's faded cologne and the particular laundry detergent that American women use, the detergent that smells like: a country I've never visited but that I now: love, because Cheryl is from there and anything that Cheryl is from is: loveable.

"Goodbye, Cheryl."

"Not goodbye. I'll be on FaceTime. Every week. I'll want updates. Vada pav counts. Garba reports. Jai photograph updates. Everything."

"Everything."

She walks through the gate. The Hawaiian shirt disappears into the security line. The shirt that Doug wore and that Cheryl wears and that is now: walking through an airport toward a plane that will carry it to Connecticut, where a grandchild will someday touch the fabric and ask: "Who wore this?" And Cheryl will say: "Your grandfather. The greatest man I ever knew. Let me tell you about the jalebi."

I drive back to Bandra. Alone. The Innova too big for one person. The empty seats where Cheryl's suitcases were now: empty. The emptiness that departure produces — not the emptiness of loneliness but the emptiness of: space that someone used to fill.

And the space will fill. The space always fills. With new people, new stories, new casual acquaintances who become: everything.

But not yet. For now: the space is Cheryl's. And I let it: be.