Losing Touch Read Online Free PDF Page A

leg collapsing underneath the walker, the pitching forward, the look of absolute surprise. It is hard to see that this may be him. I have a condition. I have an illness. I am dying from… One thing is certain: if he mentions his self-diagnosis of spinal muscular atrophy to the doctor, it will be dismissed. You heard of this where? Oh. India. Well. We don’t need to worry about that.
    He will go to the hospital. He will submit to their tests, their secrecy, their whispering. The most important thing is not to worry Sunila or the children. They mustn’t know. He must stay calm. Suddenly he feels his breath quicken. Will he be like Jonti? Will it be fast? Nawal took care of Jonti so lovingly. Arjun cannot expect that of Sunila. Would she put him in a nursing home? He can’t imagine what it would be like to sit in a wheelchair: never to be able to kick a football, run for the bus, play squash. What kind of a life would that be?
    There’s no point in dwelling on the negative. His step is easy, strong. All the muscles are sending the right messages to his brain. He breathes in deeply, walks quickly and rehearses the scene with the little football boys. It will entertain Sunila.

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‌ Messages Mislaid
November 1968
    In the neighbour’s garden, a winter thrush huddles high up in a bare sycamore tree. Short, blunt grass. Cold morning air. Outside, the weather fluctuates, the garden changes, but, in her kitchen, Sunila’s feet are planted on well-scrubbed linoleum. The dishes are washed, dried and put away. The refrigerator is organized. The cupboards have food and cooking equipment in neat rows and stacks. Everything is in its place. This is England.
    Today, England is chilly. Winter is dreadful, but there is something fascinating about the stillness, the pitiless weight of the cold. It is one of those grey-and-white days where your breath puffs ahead of you. A few days of this, and then the temperature will drop another ten degrees. November in Middlesex.
    The phone rings. Pavitra talks so rapidly that it is difficult to make out the words. ‘He – he—’ She is sobbing. She tries again and Sunila, at first sympathetic, has to bite the inside of her cheek. If only Pavi could hear herself, she would laugh too.
    â€˜Suni, he—’ She gives up and weeps.
    Sunila shakes as she tries to contain herself. Finally she gasps.
    Pavitra manages a full sentence. ‘Suni, are you all right?’
    â€˜If only you could hear yourself, Pavi. He – he – he—’ Sunila laughs aloud.
    A nervous giggle, then her sister-in-law says, ‘I sound like a monkey!’
    â€˜Or one of those comedians on television.’
    They laugh together, neither able to speak for some moments. The laughter dwindles, they sigh and Pavitra says, ‘I like Morecambe and Wise.’
    â€˜Me too. Remember that sketch? The one where he puts his foot out from behind the curtain and keeps putting and putting—’
    â€˜And the leg is ten feet long!’
    They scream again and Sunila sinks onto the stool so she can laugh more comfortably. She wipes her eyes. ‘So funny.’
    â€˜And clean, Suni.’
    â€˜I only like clean comedy.’
    This isn’t true. Some of Sunila’s happiest memories are from parties with her cousins back in Bombay where the men told naughty stories while the women egged them on.
    The Morecambe and Wise joke has reminded her of Arjun’s failing leg. He never knows when it will happen. But she does. Her right cheek tingles as she sees him walking, the right leg swinging forward just before it stops. If only the tingling began earlier she could warn Arjun, but it’s too quick. Anyway, he would think her a fool, telling him that his leg was about to go. Better not to say anything. At least she can make sure she’s there so he doesn’t fall.
    He doesn’t want to hear about this, or almost anything else she has to say. He