THE IMMIGRANT (21 page)

Sue spent five minutes nosing around for a space in the parking lot, then John was put in the stroller, Melissa’s hand taken and now Simpson’s or Eatons?

‘Let me see,’ she murmured, heading towards Simpson’s. ‘They did advertise a pre-winter sale of camel hair coats—maybe with a lining…’

‘Gimme candy, I want candy,’ started Melissa, her attention caught by a lollipop a little boy was sucking.

‘No dear, you only get candy on Sundays. It’s not Sunday yet.’

‘Candy, I want candy.’

‘No dear.’

‘CANDY—I WANT CANDY.’

Nina felt responsible for Melissa’s behaviour. It was her coat that was causing it. ‘We can come another time,’ she offered.

Sue ignored this, turning her attention to her daughter. ‘Now Melly—if you don’t say another word about candy, I’ll give you some caramel corn at the fair. But otherwise not even that.’

Melly shut up. Nina was impressed by the effective discipline.

Sue explained, ‘I don’t like bribing them, but when they see other children eating candy, they can’t help but want. Well, other children will end up in the dentist’s chair, but they are too young to understand that.’

They walked to the Simpson’s end of the mall and into the ladies’ section. By now Nina had developed ambitions as to how she wanted to look in Western clothes. Tall, slim, elegant, at ease in a good quality coat that she could swish about in. She liked what she saw of the camel hair, the same colour as her tussar saris—golden beige, sophisticated, understated, attractive. ‘Here’s a nice one,’ said Sue, ‘it has a cape, very in this season, with a belt and a detachable lining.’

Nina looked doubtful. A belt would showcase her stomach, her shoulders would be widened by the extra material of the cape. She tried it on, and the tall, elegant image of herself faded before the reality of the mirror.

In the end she bought a coat in which she would not be noticed, an ordinary camel coat with a detachable lining, two ugly raised plastic beehive buttons, a small unobtrusive collar; a coat with no character. This cost her ninety five dollars.

Boots followed, plain brown low-heeled boots to match the coat.

‘Well, that’s done,’ said Sue brightly, as they headed towards the car less than an hour later.

‘Yes,’ agreed Nina, her heart heavy at the thought of what lay in the parcels she was carrying. She reminded herself that clothes were for comfort and protection, looks came afterwards and were not essential to the more enduring values of life.

They hit St Margaret’s Bay Road, crossing a lake that reflected the sun in a silver rippling sheet. Trees glittered with incandescent reds and yellows. Above them the sky was a deep blue and in the distance a bank of rolling dark clouds shaded into peach at the edges.

Nina gazed at this spectacle. The sky reflected such a variety of moods, gentle, melancholic, tender, romantic, fierce; she could look at it forever. Finally she said, ‘I hope those clouds don’t mean it is going to rain. The Fair will be quite ruined.’

Sue looked puzzled. ‘I do have a couple of umbrellas in the back.’

Now Nina looked bewildered. ‘Won’t the children get wet?’

‘It’s not far.’

This was even less clear, and Nina took refuge in silence.

The Atlantic Winter Fair. Oh, it is
inside a building
realised the immigrant, for whom fairs were associated with Diwali, with stalls around a maidan, rising dust, a friendly winter sun, crowds, rides on elephants, bangle sellers, paper lanterns, firecrackers, earthen diyas and all kinds of delicious food.

They queued up for entrance tickets and once inside, John started his chant again, ‘Ride horsy, ride horsy, ride horsy,’ while Melissa cried, ‘I want candy, you promised.’

Caramel corn bought, they headed towards the petting farm. Ponies, sheep, goats, calves, pigs, all there to be petted. John and Melissa rode ponies. Then they saw a hog race, then they circulated among the many animals, all so fat that not a bone could be seen.

And then to the barn, row after row of horses’ rumps, beautiful gleaming rumps: black, dark brown, brown, roan, red, gold, a few greys. Their tails were being plaited, their coats brushed, their manes clipped.

Announcements were being made. The competition of jumpers in the speed class was about to begin.

‘Ride horsy, I wanna ride horsy,’ said John, toddling towards a huge chestnut, eighteen hands high. A young girl with Anna written on her sleeve was holding its reins. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Look how big he is.’

‘Wanna ride horsy,’ repeated John, who barely reached the horse’s knee.

‘John, come here,’ called Sue.

John didn’t budge. Sue grabbed him irritably. Having children in the West is no joke, pondered Nina. Complete absence of help along with constant demands. And Sue would soon have a third. What life would she have left?

‘Ride horsy,’ repeated John as his mother dragged him towards the rink, saying, ‘You rode that nice pony, remember? Now we’ll see the big horsy jump.’

They settled into seats high above the rink. The dirt was raked, ten jumps set up. One by one, the horses came, cantered around to warm up before starting their rounds of seventy seconds. The spectators groaned at every railing knocked over, clapped loudly at the successful few.

It was soothing, watching these horses, noting their strange names: Holly Go Lightly, Bluestreak, Thunderbolt, Winner, Ascot, It’s No Trouble. The hall was warm, the fresh dung had an earthy, moist smell. The horses were big, healthy and glossy, their movements fluid. Nina too groaned, held her breath and applauded with everyone else. She felt part of the crowd, the fair, the city, the province, the country.

One day she would be sitting here with her children. All this would seem very natural to them; their minds would be imprinted with Canadian images from the day they were born. It made her a little sad that they should be so different from their mother. On the other hand, they wouldn’t have inherited the template in the mother’s mind where every experience contained a hidden double. If she saw a horse, it stood against the emaciated beast back home, if horse droppings were cleared she was reminded of the way cow dung patties dried in the sun, if she wandered around a fair it was against the vast backdrop of Diwali melas. Compound images shuttled to and fro in her mind, faster than the speed of lightning, covering thousands of miles, there and back, there and back, there and back.

She broke her silence by saying, ‘I am so glad you brought me here. Our fairs at home are very different.’

Sue smiled indulgently. It was axiomatic that for the immigrant everything was new; she took it for granted that Nina would want to imbibe this culture as fast as possible. Like Dmitri Philippoussis. Sue could not imagine differences that hurt the senses and pained the mind. No, she couldn’t imagine such a thing, and because she lived in Canada, it was probable she would never have to.

Ananda was very pleased when he heard about Nina’s day.

‘Nice of Sue.’

‘Do you want to see the coat?’

‘Sure.’

The middle aged, frumpish, bulky, inelegant creation was modelled. ‘I think it makes me look old.’

‘Nah. You look fine.’

‘Should I take it back?’

‘You bought it, Sue helped you, she would not have let you buy something unsuitable. Why are you being fussy? ‘

Because in winter enough bulges could be hidden for even her to appear glamorous, and this coat meant she had failed before the first snowflake fell.

vii

Till Nina came to Canada she hadn’t known what lonely meant. At home one was never really alone. The presence of her mother, the vendors who came to the door, the half hour gardener who watered their plants, the part time maid who washed and cleaned, the encounters with the landlady, all these had been woven into her day. When she mourned her loneliness to Zenobia, it was a romantic companionate loneliness she was referring to, not the soul destroying absence of human beings from her life. She had worried about her mother’s lack of companionship after her marriage; it would have been wise to have spared a thought for herself as well.

Day after day passed without her speaking to anyone but Ananda.

‘Why is it that we hardly see uncle? It’s just us two, alone in the whole city with no one to care if we live or die.’

‘People are busy here. We meet them for family functions.’

‘Like birthdays?’

‘Birthdays! That’s not a family function. No, like Thanksgiving and Christmas, occasions like that.’

‘Thanksgiving and Christmas! That’s all?’

‘It’s a big thing. Nancy does them very well. For Thanksgiving, pumpkin pie, turkey and stuffing, fresh cranberry sauce. For Christmas, presents under the tree, stockings with our names on them and a traditional dinner. It is nice to have somewhere to go on holidays.’

Her husband was talking another language. Canadian perhaps.

Her most intense social gesture was a nod. One could go to a shop and buy something without a word, the prices were all written, no need to ask, suspect, haggle or accuse.

If she had a baby, the next twenty years would be taken care of. Her interest in Canada would grow, her child’s home after all. Would s/he have an accent? Read at an early age like her mother? Shine in school like his father?

Ananda’s thoughts of their child’s future were on a grander scale. He should aim to be prime minister of Canada. If no NRI had so far reached high office, there was a first time for everything. The country had been made by immigrants, and that included people like themselves.

This when incidents of racial hatred were frequently reported in the newspapers. In Toronto the other day, students had beaten an Asian travelling on the subway. The
subway
—a public place.

Ananda feels it is useless being frightened by such incidents. Intimidation should not be allowed to succeed.

Meanwhile Nina’s biological clock ticks on and the sounds echo loudly in the Canadian vastness. Every time she has sex she imagines her egg fertilised, and every time she has her period she wonders whether this is a miscarriage; the bleeding is so plentiful, the pain so intense. Her childlessness is reinforced daily.

Morning time in the city was mother and child time, no single young adult woman could be seen on any of her walks. Her visits to the HRL coincided with reading hour for preschoolers. Among them she saw the shadowy figure of her own child, listening intently, intelligence gleaming from large dark eyes.

Her mother too is concerned. The word patience, ricocheting across the planet, assumes a tinny quality, and the mother eventually stops using it, suggesting a doctor instead. Ananda doesn’t want to hear the implications of this. They have not been married that long, what is the hurry?

Nina decides to phone Sue. A woman with a third child on the way would be qualified to guide her.

‘Oh, hi,’ exclaimed Sue with obvious pleasure. Nina felt gratified. ‘How are you? I’ve been meaning to call, but Melly came down with a cold. I didn’t want to invite you over, in case of infection, you know?’

‘Infection? With a cold?’ repeated Nina. At home people coughed and sneezed in your face and thought nothing of it.

‘Yes—isn’t it terrible?’ repeated Sue. ‘But now everything is fine, just fine. She’s gone to play school.’

‘Sue, if you are not too busy, could I come over? I need some advice.’

The forlorn tone in her voice was obvious. Sue chastised herself; she should be paying more attention to the girl. Andy had a heart of gold, but sometimes that wasn’t enough.

Sue welcomed her cordially. Over coffee, to avoid a single awkward pause Nina nervously asked about Melly, her cold, her symptoms, enough questions to persuade an onlooker into thinking the child had a terminal illness.

‘And now,’ said Sue, when she had had enough, ‘about that advice?’

Nina started by wanting to know where she could look for a job; she had ten years experience in Delhi University, but Ananda was quite categorical that she was not qualified to teach here.

‘He must know,’ said Sue, but she did believe it was quite difficult. People spent years trying to get tenure after their PhDs.

The very thought of a PhD made Nina tired. She didn’t want to study, her brain had grown weak with fiction and idleness. Besides, what was the point; even after years of labour there was no job guarantee.

The topic she had been nerving herself to mention came naturally from the pregnant mother’s lips. What about children, did they plan on having any?

Nina blushed, guilty of barrenness. Some involuntary tears as she told her story. Sue leapt up and pushed a box of Kleenex at her.

‘Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry,’ she murmured. Encouraged, Nina sobbed, ‘It’s so awful,’ into the soft clutch of flowered tissue in her hand.

Abruptly she felt ashamed of herself, using her situation to gain sympathy and comfort. See what being in this country had reduced her to.

She left the house having agreed to come over for the next meeting of the La Leche League. This was an association of nursing mothers and Sue knew that two or three of them had had trouble conceiving, it might help for Nina to talk to them.

On the appointed day Nina is introduced to ten mothers with matching babies and toddlers.

White faces stare at her, interested, curious, friendly. Sue drew the League’s attention to the fact that Nina was new to this country and needed advice. They had plenty of experience, at the very least they could point her in the right direction. Now, Nina, take the floor.

Nina describes her monthly waiting, along with her monthly despair. ‘If only I were home I would have somebody I could talk to, ask is there anything wrong, am I worrying too much, should I see a doctor, is it too early, am I being as alarmist as my husband insists, how much time should I give it? I am thirty two. Is it already too late?’

The women looked concerned and sympathetic. Their collective wisdom touched on many things. The stress of being in a strange country could be a reason for not conceiving. Or the husband might be producing sperm that was insufficient, immobile or misshapen, or it could be some hidden infection or alcohol or nicotine, or age, or too long on the pill, blocked tubes, fibroids, irregular periods, faulty ovulation; it could be any one of a hundred things, known or unknown. Sometimes after every test and treatment in the world, the couple still did not conceive. The anxiety and strain often took the desire out of sex, and then the marriage often broke up.