He slammed the headphones on the pristine desk. His eyes scrunched behind his retro Raybans as he focused on the world outside. He caught the jaunty position of his discarded headphones and nudged them straight to align with everything on his desk; two monitors, a laptop, mobile phone, notepad, post-its, pens, pencil, a water bottle and a coaster for his copious mugs of coffee.
“Mum, do we have ingredients for a Victoria sponge?” She turned to stare at the handsome young man as he scratched at his square jaw.
“Sorry, what did you say?” her head turned.
He sighed; she was engrossed in her writing. She had come to writing late in life, but there was no stopping her, she had the bug. The Bollywood songs she listened to repeatedly as she wrote filtered up to his room. Today it was something about heart, separation and promise. He didn’t know Hindi; he barely knew Gujarati. But he recognised the words.
“Do we have ingredients to make a Victoria sponge,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes, there’s double cream and fresh strawberries too,” she smiled. He had moved back home as soon as they announced the lockdown. She had asked both of her sons to move back home. The gut-wrenching ache of not knowing where they were, and if they were safe, had made her anxiety resurface again. She didn’t want to go there again. The fear, the lack of appetite, the panic.
He pulled the ingredients; flour, sugar, eggs, milk, out of the cupboards. Oven set, bowls lined up in order. His brother, weighed one ingredient at a time, rummaging through cupboards in search for the next, never checking. It was one of his pet hates, disorganisation, unpreparedness. The kitchen grew warmer, and he grabbed a soft drink from the fridge.
“Mum, I’ve whipped the cream too much,” he rushed into the room.
Her heart raced, the floor shuddered under her feet, the rattling sound of a machine gun filled her ears. Her mother’s back hunched, magnified eyes focused on the sewing machine as it spewed a collar, sleeve, pocket, on a long thread.
“Add one spoon of milk,” Ba had said, disdain in her lips.
“Add a teaspoon of milk,” she said, as she continued to write. She realised she was behaving just like her, fixed to her sewing, and leaving her children to manage a crisis.
He was wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hands.
“What happened?” his jaw slack as he stared at the bowl.
“Oh, instead of making it better you’ve turned it into butter,” she smiled at him, “never mind, let’s separate the whey.”
“I saw that on YouTube,” he said, his brows smoothed. He washed the butter until the water ran clear.
“How do we make it into a pat?” he asked. She pulled out the cling film.
“It’s just like Buerre D’Isigny.” She kissed his cheek as he displayed his handiwork.
* Ba means mother