THE IMMIGRANT (18 page)

They sat on fat stuffed chairs, and drank dewy glasses of white wine smelling of fruit and flowers. ‘How happy I am to be here,’ thought Nina as she answered the questions they were asking about how had she settled down, what did she do all day and was her mother well?

That done, the uncle and Ananda began to discuss Indira Gandhi’s trial by the Janata government.

They will never have the guts to find anything against her, claimed the uncle. Ananda disagreed; if Jagmohanlal Sinha of the Allahabad High Court could find her guilty in ’75 she could be found guilty again. The uncle said that the Nehru name would protect Indira no matter what she had done. Out of office she would play the sympathy card. It was one thing for the Janata to defeat her in the elections, but as prime minister, Desai would find keeping conflicting interests together more difficult. Not even a year and a power struggle had begun within the coalition.

That was irrelevant, said Ananda impatiently, infighting was a political reality in India, but getting rid of a dictatorship demonstrated the people’s ability to stand up for their rights. No matter how much charisma Indira possessed, there was no reason why she would not be convicted.

Nina listened with the familiar sense of depression that the state of India always caused. After the Janata had won there had been so much hope. Democracy had triumphed and in that euphoria she had left. But here were Ananda and Dr Sharma using the same old rhetoric of hopelessness and corruption reflected in letters from home. What did it take? A revolution like in China?

In the end, those who could leave did, because there was nothing to keep them. A good example was this room, in which three of India’s drained brains were discussing their abandoned country.

Nina turned to the aunt, ‘I would love to see where Ananda lived for a year. I have heard so much about your house.’

‘Of course, my dear,’ said Nancy. ‘These men can talk about politics for ages. Come.’

She was shown everything. The three bedrooms, study, the semi-basement, the rec room, the laundry room, the miniscule cubby hole that had been specially built for Ananda. The sight of the tiny wood panelled space appalled Nina; how had he managed to survive certain claustrophobia? ‘Poor boy,’ went on the aunt, ‘it took him so long to be independent, but then I guess he was used to a different way of doing things. Why, he couldn’t even wash his own clothes! Lenny at fifteen was far more self-reliant.’

‘Really.’

‘Oh, yes. Lenny—or Lara for that matter—would never have stayed with an aunt or uncle for as long as Andy did.’

‘Andy?’

‘Lara and Lenny prefer to call him Andy. Now I do too.’

So this was the scenario that lay behind Ananda’s reticence. Her heart filled with tender hurt on her husband’s behalf. It was quite clear that Nancy was not going to be another Alka. Longing for India gripped her, then slowly dissipated as they climbed back upstairs and settled down to a beautifully laid table.

Whatever Nina might have thought of Nancy, she had to admire the plates, the crystal and the silverware, so solid and elegant.

‘We normally don’t eat like this,’ said Nancy, ‘but this is your first time here.’

‘Yes,’ beamed her husband. ‘I hope the food is to your liking.’

‘I am a vegetarian,’ confessed Nina, looking at the rounded hump of glistening brown bird, a long sharp knife and a big shiny fork resting on flowered ceramic holders on either side.

‘I thought you might be, so though the turkey is in Ananda’s honour, the extra veggies are in yours,’ said the uncle gesturing to the rolls, salad, potatoes, beans and a small plate of cut tomatoes.

‘Even Andy here was a vegetarian, but he changed fast enough when he had to cook for himself,’ remarked the aunt.

Ananda said, ‘When in Rome do what Romans do.’

‘That’s what I always say,’ said the uncle, sawing away at the turkey.

‘Brij started eating meat in India. It made it so much easier once he came here,’ commented Nancy, handing over the plates one by one.

‘My best friend in college was non-veg,’ confided Brij. ‘I used to go with him to dhabas, and watch him eat tikka and kebabs. Try it, try it, he kept saying. Once I did, I never looked back. Of course no one in the family ever knew.’

The aunt laughed while the children focused on their requests of light, dark, breast, leg. Nina smiled politely. Her fingers rested on the thick padding of the table. The cloth stretched over it was lacy white. Each place had silver napkin rings, the milk and water were in green glass jugs. To the left of her plate was a little wooden bowl full of salad.

In front of her was a cupboard filled with crystal, china and porcelain. Next to it, at a slight angle, facing the stairs was a grandfather clock, with Roman numerals, the pendulum swinging in a glass fronted door with a design etched onto it. The rich dark wood resonated with age and money.

All around her were sparkling clean windows, filled with the green from trees that were lit up by the sun, playing out patterns of light and shadow.

So this was fine living, thought Nina, as meat servings over, she helped herself to beans with almonds, duchess potatoes, a roll and butter from the silver butter dish.

‘You must be used to curries,’ remarked Nancy as the family dug into their piles of food.

By now she knew the reference was not to the North Indian curry she knew, made of yoghurt, chick pea flour and dumplings—no, this was a reference to every Indian dish, wet, runny, dry, spicy, veg, non-veg.

‘She’s lived abroad a lot,’ put in Ananda.

They did ask where, they were not entirely disinterested, but her father’s posting had been so long ago, she had been so young and so much had happened since, that she did not like talking about Brussels. She fingered the knife and picked it up to look at the flowered design along its handle.

‘Part of my wedding silver,’ offered the aunt.

‘Very beautiful.’

‘Don’t get silver like this nowadays.’

‘I see.’

As the evening progressed, Nina felt let down by the family’s self-absorption. There was no offer of I will lend you books, I will take you to shops and libraries, I will help you settle down. She was there as Ananda’s wife, as his responsibility, a vegetarian, who needed to acquire the food habits of the West in order to adapt comfortably.

By the time they left Young Avenue visions of intimacy had been firmly put to rest. She had only just come to Halifax, but already she felt the emptiness of a single pea rattling around in Ananda’s tin can.

‘Well, what did you think?’ he asked.

‘They have a beautiful house,’ she said carefully, ‘with really fine silver.’

‘We can also get fine silver, what’s the problem?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘It’s nice talking about India with Uncle. He’s pretty well informed. And it’s a link with home.’

It was not her place to voice that if that was all, it was not much. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She would find her feet soon, then there would not be this useless hankering after relatives. She hadn’t had many in India from what he could tell, so why was she expecting those kinds of ties in Canada, of all places.

The next day, ‘See, I got you a surprise,’ he said as soon as he walked in.

‘What?’

He opened his briefcase.

‘Books!’

‘Yup. I asked Linda to get some.’

‘Linda?’

‘Our hygienist.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ She turned them around in her hands.
Under the Volcano
by Malcolm Lowry and
Who Has Seen the Wind
by WO Mitchell. With a book how could she be lonely? She looked at him gratefully. He held his arms out, she willingly pressed her body into his, then pushed his mouth open with her lips and played with his tongue. He responded by carrying her to bed.

A few minutes later Ananda was washing up in the bathroom. He gazed fondly at his limp damp organ; at last it was doing its job. There was penetration, there was satisfaction, there was the pleasure and security of marriage. There was no need to be so tense, he told it, no need at all. Things were going fine.

Sexuality was beginning to be studied scientifically, he had heard Masters and Johnson claimed a high rate of cure for premature ejaculation, but thank god, he would not have to go through the humiliation of medical investigation that his desperation had forced him to consider. He recognised this attitude as inimical to perfect health, but he would feel great shame if he had to submit his orgasms to the scrutiny of a doctor. And with the help of his dental anaesthetic spray, he had consummated his marriage.

iv

The phone rang.

‘Caall from India,’ said the heavily accented English of an Indian operator.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Nina.

Her mother’s voice, clear and loud as though next to her, her mother talking, carrying her back to Jangpura, linking her to something beyond marriage and husband.

‘Ma. How come you are phoning? From where?’

A small giggle. ‘From home. Just imagine, I only booked the call five hours ago.’

‘That’s pretty fast, Ma. You sound as though you were in the next room! How did you get a phone?’

‘Ramesh dug out my application and claimed special priority on the grounds that I was a widow, living alone and in poor health. The instrument came yesterday, the number today. A thorough gentleman. Like Ananda.’

‘That was nice of him.’

‘I never expected such promptness. After our conversation in the hotel he kept chasing it up. On his own!’

She expanded on this until the operator interrupted, ‘Three minutes up.’

‘Wait wait, one minute please.’

‘Madam, you waant, you extend another three minutes.’

‘No, no, too expensive.’

‘Ma, give me your number—so I can phone you. I’ll phone you right now.’

‘Time is over, Madam, you waant to continue?’

‘No, no,’ said Mr Batra, even while Nina was shouting, ‘Yes, yes,’ into a phone that suddenly went dead.

She sat there, flushed, her mother’s voice still in her ears, made possible by a phone delivered two months after her departure, something that normally took years. She could only be grateful, very grateful. Happiness spread through her.

That night it was Ananda who dialled two international calls through the operator, first Alka to get Mr Batra’s phone number, then Mr Batra. From the Canadian side there were no time constraints, and Nina and Ananda spoke for fifteen minutes. Ananda assured his mother-in-law they were both very happy and when was she going to come and visit? Let the baby come, she would be there. The call ended, Nina sidled up to him affectionately, oh, thank you, thank you, this makes such a difference. Ananda smiled modestly. It was really because of him that her mother had got a phone.

The connection with her mother took Nina back to her pre-Canada self. After this conversation she felt as though she had woken up, ready to feel more grounded in Halifax.

‘When am I going to see where you work?’ Nina asked her husband the next evening.

‘Well, it’s half day tomorrow. I can pick you up, take you to the clinic. From there we can go to the Taj Mahal on Spring Garden Road. An Indian couple runs it and they serve pretty decent food.’

Indian food. Oh, all right. Let’s see what they make of Indian food in Halifax.

The next day at twelve thirty Ananda picked her up, and five minutes later they were there, before a sweet red wooden house, set on a road with large old trees, gardened on three sides, hedged on two, with a ramp and four steps leading to a porch with an engraved glass door. Nina was base enough to wildly desire such a place as a home, but her desires would have to wait, Ananda told her.

This was among the best locations in town, immigrants cannot start with sixty-seventy thousand dollar properties.

The clinic was closing for the week, and the place was empty of patients. Nina was introduced to Mrs Hill, the receptionist, and young, wholesome looking Linda, who laughed brightly when she thanked her for the books. Gary was not there, but his office was, large, garden facing, with toys, a musical mobile and a sofa, homier than her own home. Ananda had a more business-like view, porch, hedge, sidewalk, cars.

No wonder, with an establishment like this, her husband was in love with Canada. Her memories dredged up the government hospital where she and her mother went for their teeth, crowded, with queues involving many hours, resignedly put up with because the government paid.

‘So lovely to meet you,’ said Mrs Hill, maternal, middle aged, smiling, grey hair done in curls around her face, red lipstick, glasses dangling on a gold bead chain down her white clad chest. ‘We are so pleased Andy has married. And my, what a catch. He looks just like Omar Sharif.’

‘Come on, Mrs H.’

‘Oh, but everybody says so,’ added Linda.

After a bit more teasing, Ananda left, followed by demands that now at least he had to throw a party.

In the car, ‘Why do they assume you look like Omar Sharif?’

‘Oh, for them, any Asian is the same.’

‘But he is Egyptian! At home nobody thinks you resemble Omar Sharif.’

‘I’m telling you Canada is truly international. They don’t believe in narrow boundaries.’

‘Maybe it’s like us in college thinking all Chinese look the same. I swear I often couldn’t distinguish between my northeastern students. And I could never say their names.’

‘I don’t think it is the same. We are shamefully ignorant of the northeast though it is part of our country. Omar Sharif is not Canadian, but still they know, still they relate.’

If that was so, who would they associate with her? Sophia Loren? In Brussels she had frequently been mistaken for an Italian.

‘Gary could have asked anybody to share the practice, but he asked me.’

An Asian, an Omar Sharif.

They sped downtown towards the Taj Mahal. Eight tables with red shaded lamps in a darkened room. A pleated sari hung on the wall, a miniature Taj Mahal glowed in red lights under a glass case on the counter, photographs of exotic, touristy places in India decorated the dingy walls, as unfamiliar to Nina as to any other client.