Five years, on the twelfth of October

Five Years of Us

It started above the dry cleaner’s on Fern Street, in a flat that smelled of steam by four every afternoon. We have moved twice since and I still miss it.

Rohan & Priya

Together since

bus journeys, roughly

Five of them now, and the fifth was the one I was least sure we would get.

Before any of the looking back

This is where we have got to.

We have a flat that does not smell of steam, a bus route we take the long way round on purpose, and a dog we have never owned and have named Biscuit anyway. I can make your mother’s dal properly now. It took two years, one phone call to her that I made without telling you, and about forty attempts you politely ate.

None of that is the sort of thing anybody puts in a speech. But five years in, that is what it actually is: a short list of small competencies and a set of routes we prefer for no good reason.

I would not swap any of it. Not the bus, not the dog we do not have, not the two years of bad dal.

The parts I would tell a stranger

  1. October 2021
    The flat above the dry cleaner’s

    The flat above the dry cleaner’s

    Three flights up, one window that opened, and steam coming through the floor by four every afternoon. You said it smelled like a laundrette and that you liked it.

  2. That first winter
    The 63, the long way

    The 63, the long way

    We worked out it took eleven minutes longer past the reservoir and started taking it on purpose. You have fallen asleep by the third stop every time since.

  3. February 2023
    Goa, and the food poisoning

    Goa, and the food poisoning

    I spent two days unable to sit up and you read an entire book aloud, doing the voices, badly. We have never finished the last chapter and I do not want to.

  4. The bad week
    The drive to the hospital

    The drive to the hospital

    You left at eleven at night and drove until four in the morning, and mentioned the not sleeping to nobody, including me, until three weeks afterwards.

  5. Last spring
    The dal, finally

    The dal, finally

    Forty attempts, one secret phone call to your mother, and then the evening it came out right and you made me write the quantities on the back of an envelope.

  6. Anand’s wedding
    The last two on the floor

    The last two on the floor

    The band had visibly finished and we were still going. Your cousin filmed it and shows it to people who have not asked.

A flat above a dry cleaner’s.

Steam through the floor by four.

One window that opened properly.

And we still stayed in on Fridays

because we preferred it.

Five years, unsorted

Nothing here was taken to be looked at later. That is why I keep looking at it.

One line for each year.

Tap to grow it. Each stage is a year, and the fourth one is the honest one.

Long drives, bad singing.

Six tracks. Tap one to find out why it is on there.

If you only play one

The one from the 63

You fall asleep by the third stop every time and have denied it for five years. This is the one that is always playing when you go.

For year six

Seven things, and I have thought about each one.

  1. 01To take the long way when you have gone quiet, and not ask until you start.
  2. 02To say the true thing in the kitchen rather than waiting six weeks for you to say it first.
  3. 03To keep making the dal, including on the nights I do not feel like cooking.
  4. 04To drive through the night if it is ever my turn, and to tell you afterwards that I did not sleep.
  5. 05To be pleased about your work out loud, in front of other people, whether or not it has gone well yet.
  6. 06To stop being polite the moment I notice I am being polite.
  7. 07And to get the dog. Actually. This year. His name is already Biscuit.

Pick them one at a time.

Six stems, and there is something written on each one.

0 of 6 picked

The part I nearly left out

We should talk about August properly.

For six weeks last year we were extremely polite to each other. No arguments, no raised voices, nothing anybody watching would have noticed. We asked about each other’s days and answered accurately and did not say a single true thing for a month and a half.

I was waiting for you to bring it up. You were, I think, doing exactly the same. It ended because you came back from your sister’s and said one sentence in the kitchen while the kettle was on, and I have thought about the courage in that more than I have ever told you.

I am putting it on the page because leaving it out would have made this a nice page about four good years. It was five, and one of them was hard, and I would rather have the accurate version.

For the days that need one

Open one whenever it applies. They keep.

Do not organise it into sentences first. Say the shapeless version. I would rather have that than another polite August.

Come home the long way. I will have the dal on and I will not ask a single question until you start talking.

So do I. It was too small and it smelled of other people’s laundry and it was the best year we have had so far.

I am still here. Probably in the kitchen. Come and find me when you are ready and not a minute before.

Say so at the time, not three weeks later. I will drive. You do not have to be the one who drives every time.

Anand’s wedding, the band finished, the two of us still on the floor, everybody else sat down. That is my favourite thing about us.

And then there is Saturday.

Where
Fern Street, the corner tableYes, that one. It is still there and they still do the thing with the bread.
When
Saturday, eight o’clockBooked six weeks ago, under your name, because you are better on the phone.
Getting there
The 63, the long wayPast the reservoir. You will be asleep by the third stop, as ever.
Wear
The green shirtThe one you insist is too much. It is not too much.
Getting back
Last one is 11:40We will miss it and get the next one, which is the plan and always has been.

Five Octobers.

One flat above a dry cleaner’s,

one bus we take the long way,

one pot of dal that took two years,

one August we do not repeat —

and a table booked for eight.

One more thing

I put your name against a star.

Not as a metaphor. A real one, catalogued, with coordinates you can go and check.

The handwritten bit

Five years ago you carried a box up three flights to a flat above a dry cleaner’s, put it down, opened the one window that worked, and said it smelled like a laundrette and you liked it. I have thought about that sentence a lot since, because it is exactly how you handle everything: you notice the problem, you name it accurately, and then you decide to like it anyway.

You read an entire book aloud to me in Goa while I was too ill to lift my head, and you did the voices, badly, for two days. You drove through the night when your father was in hospital and did not once mention that you had not slept. Those are the two things I bring out when somebody asks what you are like, and neither of them is romantic, and both of them are the answer.

I have got the dal right, I have learnt which bus route you actually want, and last August I learnt that being polite is not the same as being all right. I would like to keep going. Same flat, same bus, same imaginary dog.

— five down

Happy anniversary, Priya.

Saturday, eight o’clock, the corner table. Wear the green shirt. I will be early and pretending I am not.

made over several evenings, badly hidden

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