THE IMMIGRANT (5 page)

‘Your uncle always said we don’t want strangers in the house, not even a student. He might think differently after you leave.’

Ananda did not respond, he was busy with his own thoughts. He had always considered himself undemanding, never exceeding his hundred dollar allowance, keeping his discomfort over food unobtrusive, with no special requests for meals, despite the woeful sameness of boiled vegetables. Nobly too, he had ignored that those vegetables were sometimes served to him from the side of the meat platter.

Yet his uncle thought fit to settle down on the edge of his bed one day, towards the end of his year at Dal, and say that it was time for him to move to a place of his own. He had been around Halifax long enough to know the ropes.

It then dawned on Ananda that being a relative did not bestow automatic rights, that being an orphan ceased to mean anything after you had eaten hundreds of meals at your aunt’s table.

Though proud and sensitive, he was not perceptive. Over the past year he had many times admired his ability to adjust, allowing his TV channel to be changed, doing his own laundry, cleaning the toilet and bathroom. Now as he sought to understand the reasons behind his uncle’s suggestion he concluded that the Sharmas must have tired of seeing his face, while he, pushed in his tiny room, felt barely visible. When his uncle had said, ‘Family here means different things, beta. We help you be independent. We do not want to cripple you,’ he could almost taste the sugar on the pill being used to get rid of him.

With distance the feeling of rejection became less, the understanding more, but the shame remained.

Ananda shone in Dental School. His three years of practice in India gave him confidence amongst his fellow students. He was articulate in the classroom, good with projects and demonstrations, always ready to help others. His particular friend was Gary Geller, who was the same age as him. Thickset, small bright blue eyes, short blond hair, ready laughter, only child. His father was a dentist too.

Gary had taken a few years off after high school, spending this time working at menial jobs and travelling in Asia. He knew India, he had a broad cultural empathy. High time Ananda stopped clinging to his uncle, he said. He realised that sorrow and the pain of leaving his country made him want to hang on to the familiar. But every young adult in North America left home as soon as possible. Come on, man, it was time to be a bit more Canadian. His parents took boarders (as no doubt the Sharmas would as soon as he left), why didn’t he talk to them?

‘They hardly know me,’ said Ananda, disguising his relieved, tacit acceptance of Gary’s proposal—still being taken care of, but a step outside home, and a man has to start somewhere.

‘They’ve met you enough times. Now you speak to them today?’ It was not a question, Gary’s statements sounded like this, as he was Haligonian born and bred.

The Gellers would be delighted to have him. They looked upon him as their own, and the rent was fifty dollars a week. That very evening Ananda told his uncle who congratulated him on his independence. He was his own blood, he said with great feeling, and the hundred dollars a month were his till he graduated.

Dr Sharma felt he could now stand before his sister on judgement day with his head held high. And the year of listening to the slight barbs Nancy had subjected him to was over. The way Indians did things made no sense to her, though he had repeatedly tried to explain the duty he owed a dead sister’s son. Before he had issued the sponsorship, they had both agreed Ananda would spend time with them, but even after years of marriage, Dr Sharma had not realised that for Nancy time meant one month whereas for him it had meant at least a year. He had tried to speed up his nephew’s acclimatisation, but grief made the process slow. Now Gary had stepped in, preventing him from feeling too bad about the boy’s departure.

‘You have known them quite a while, no?’

‘Ji.’

‘Once you are settled I will visit regularly, alright?’

‘Ji.’

Gary helped him shift. One trip in his car was all it took. Lara and Lenny had been ordered by their father to be there to say goodbye. The bonds of an Indian family were strong, he preached, and they said yes Dad, and indulged him—easy since the circumstances involved departure.

‘Thank you, Lara, Lenny, Aunty, Uncle, I am sorry for any inconvenience I might have caused you,’ said the well brought up boy.

‘You couldn’t help it,’ responded the aunt genially, ‘it is difficult when one goes abroad for the first time. But you have adjusted nicely, very nicely.’

Dr Sharma beamed. ‘Come and see us often,’ he repeated.

‘Well, I must say they’re going to miss you,’ said Gary in the car.

‘After making sure I left,’ muttered Ananda as they drove away from 807 Young Avenue.

Gary laughed. ‘You’ll have a much better time on your own, man. One can’t have family breathing down one’s neck.’

If one was fortunate enough to have a family, thought Ananda. Stoically he stared at the majestic maple trees that lined the roads that led to Gary’s house.

‘My parents had this room specially designed, and students have been quite happy here, you’ll see,’ said Gary as he unlatched a little gate at the back. Six narrow steps circled down to a door that opened into the basement. Basements were the students’ lot, but this was as different from his old one as night from day. Blinds divided the room into a tiny foyer with a desk and chair, and a larger bedroom. On the wall above were two long, thin windows set close to the ceiling. The view was of grass, but enough light came through to brighten the place. A single step led up to an alcove with a stove and fridge on one side; on the other was a bathroom to wet as he pleased.

It was heaven at fifty dollars a week. Why hadn’t he moved sooner? Why hadn’t he thought of it?

‘Notice the blinds? They are teak. I saw them in India and had them shipped over—you don’t get things like this here.’

Ananda had never seen teak blinds at home, but he didn’t say anything.

‘Better get a phone connection soon,’ said Gary, pulling the door shut and handing Ananda a key. ‘Come on, Mom must be waiting.’

Dinner was to take place upstairs, in celebration of the new tenant cum friend cum part of the family.

To be served a fish bouillabaisse—we made this for you, because you don’t eat meat.

‘Mom, Andy doesn’t eat meat, fish or chicken, he is
pure
vegetarian.’

The mother looked stricken—here, the salad, the potatoes, the bread, and I can open a can of tomato soup, it will only take two minutes.

As Ananda sipped the thick, red mass produced liquid—for the two hundredth time (conservative estimate)—he thought of his uncle. A Brahmin like himself, but only marginally connected to vegetables. How long could one hang on to caste taboos, for whom and for what? His parents were dead. And he had broken taboos when he drank alcohol in college.

As a first step towards a different future, he now said, ‘My uncle eats everything—including beef.’

‘Ah yes, Dr Sharma has been here a long time, hasn’t he?

‘Twenty two years, but he began with meat when he was a student in India.’

‘Andy here is a late starter. But soon you will be asking for steak,’ Gary rallied.

‘Cows are sacred in India, Gary. You must not make fun of a person’s beliefs,’ said Mr Geller.

‘I’m aware of that, Mom—I haven’t travelled in India for nothing—but Andy knows what I mean. When in Rome do as Romans do.’

Ananda carried Gary’s joke further to show how well he could take the spirit of what they were saying, ‘The cows there are sacred, but maybe I will commit no sin if I eat the cows here. Let’s see how long it takes me,’ he remarked and they laughed, wanting to encourage him in steps he took to be Canadian. His life would be easier if he ate meat.

Ananda had a summer job. He had responded to a notice on the school bulletin board that advertised the position of dental assistant to Dr Cameron in Robie Street.

The interview with Dr Cameron had gone well. The doctor was a tall, stooped man, with thinning hair, a soft voice, tentative manner and blue eyes magnified by glasses. It was a seven hour working day, and if four dollars an hour was acceptable, his assistant (soon to go on maternity leave) would show him the ropes.

The money was acceptable, it had to be, but Ananda took care to inform him that he had been a dentist with his own practice in India. Dr Cameron took equal care to inform him that he was not allowed to even touch a patient till he got his DDS, a fact Ananda was aware of.

From the 1st of June, every morning he made his way to 4098 Quinpool Road. The menial nature of his job galled him. All he did was take impressions, mix silver for fillings, help with flap operations and wisdom teeth removal, prepare injections, develop X-rays, change little paper cups of water, hold and clean the suction, arrange the cloth around the patient’s neck and take out files. He had trained a high school pass boy to do this for him in Dehradun. Never mind, he told himself often, in the new world PhDs drove taxis if necessary.

The money he possessed was a jealous mistress; he wished he could stop offering her the attention she demanded, but he was powerless. Each dollar invited his anxious love, each cent demanded his careful protection. Over and over he calculated: twenty eight dollars a day meant hundred and twelve dollars a week. In one month he would earn four hundred and forty eight dollars. Rent was two hundred dollars, the balance two hundred and forty eight would have to cover everything else.

Once the school year started there would be a fresh loan to cover eight thousand dollars of fees, plus living expenses of four thousand five hundred a year. With scrimping and saving, make that four thousand dollars. Total = twelve thousand dollars. The bank would own him, but then the bank owned many students. Starting life deeply in debt was the way things were done here: don’t worry, don’t worry, you are going to be a qualified dentist.

Dr Sharma approved of his new life. About once a fortnight he dropped in, drank a cup of tea and demanded details of Ananda’s finances, job, boss, duties, eating arrangements, friends and landlord. After the written part of the DDS, how much time before he could appear for the second, clinical part? Should he spend more years and specialise? If he joined a practice where there were specialists, he could be the general practitioner. Would he prefer a hospital? And how many more years for citizenship? What about his social life, the boy was always in when he dropped by.

Ananda lied and quickly created some mythical friendships. He couldn’t bear that his uncle should find him wanting in any respect.

The truth was that the whole long summer Ananda was very lonely. Weekends were the worst, and he had much time in which to relive his parents’ deaths. His isolation pressed upon him and numbed his capacity to break his solitude. In India whether at home or in the hostel he had always been surrounded by people, his life open to inspection, comment and group participation.

Now he realised how much his uncle had done for him. The family cocoon he found himself in had felt uncomfortable and alien, but shreds of Indianness transported across oceans did mean something. Despite all that was said, blood (his uncle) was thicker than water (Gary’s parents). They may have said he was like a son, but there was no daily interaction, no constant checking that he was all right. To be fair, they did not check on Gary either, so perhaps this could not be a basis for comparison.

At times it could be a heady feeling, not being accountable to anyone but often towards evening that momentary excitement degenerated into lonesomeness and he grew sick of his seesawing emotions.

Much thought was spent on food.

As he boiled his vegetables and seasoned them with butter, salt and pepper, Ananda wondered how much his caste meant to him. His uncle pushed him gently towards the eating of flesh. He offered himself as an example. Should one’s identity depend on what one ate? If Ananda married a local girl, he would find himself in a difficult situation. When one came to a new country, one had to come wholeheartedly otherwise one could be very miserable. He wasn’t telling Ananda what to do, all he was saying was that the boy should think about it.

It was Ananda’s own cooking that added fuel to this particular fire. He couldn’t bear to eat another boiled vegetable, another sliver of cheese. He wanted to be able to eat fast food: burgers, hot dogs, sandwiches filled with bright pink meats.

Carefully he started with a fish—that almost vegetable—taking his first bite of a fillet soaked in lemon and tartar sauce, asking his mother’s forgiveness, but feeling liberated. By the end of the summer he had graduated to processed meats. Culinary convenience entered his life.

His uncle approved.

iii

At last the long holidays came to an end. Now, with his feet on the ground and the confidence of independent living Ananda could look beyond the seasons, trees, ground, skies, and let his gaze alight on the enticing figures of girls. Not for the young the separation that was mandatory in Dehradun and Lucknow. Here the sexes twinned—arms, legs, lips, anything, anywhere. He stared in fascination until he learned that his innocent looking was considered ill-mannered and obtrusive. Then it was all covert, corner of the eye stuff.

Many twosomes were casual. Sex did not mean commitment. The possibilities this opened were endless, Ananda only wished for the panache to take them. Self-doubt plagued him.

‘Why don’t you go out on a date?’ Gary often urged, concerned about his friend’s celibacy. ‘Do you have a girlfriend in India?’

Inspired by the question Ananda told Gary about a long ago girl, fellow dental student, weaving a relationship out of something whose strongest feature had been his fantasies.

‘Her name was Priyanka,’ he started.

‘Your girlfriend’s?’

‘We don’t have this girlfriend–boyfriend concept in India,’ said Ananda severely.

‘Is that why you don’t go out? You want to be faithful to her?’

‘She was very pretty, lots of boys liked her. In college the ratio of boys to girls was 6:1. Some girls were so shy, they didn’t even talk to us,’ said Ananda sidestepping the question.