“But I can’t imagine them saying that to you. You are a perfect shape, Nas,” says Salma, who looks Nasreen up and down and then flushes slightly. “You would say, “Nahi, hun barabar chuun. I am just right!”
As the two students get up to leave, Salma insists that they stay for dinner. “Come on now, I am on my own tonight. The kids are out and my husband is at work. You don’t want me to eat alone, do you?” So Nasreen and Asha stay and talk with Salma about her children, her last two years in Canada, and life in India.
“But look! I have been going on and on. What about you two? You live with your families, or are you on your own?”
“I have my own place,” Nasreen answers.
“My girlfriend is staying with me until she can find her own place,” Asha says, “It just didn’t work out for us to live together.”
“But isn’t it nice to have company, to have a roommate, Asha? Don’t you feel lonely, all by yourself?” Salma looks at Nasreen.
“Not really – well, sometimes. But living alone has its benefits,” Nasreen says, hoping to sound sure of herself.
“Yeah, I can’t wait till I can have my place to myself again,” Asha shrugs.
Salma shakes her head slightly. “I can’t imagine it. I’ve always lived with other people. First, it was my parents and brothers, then with my in-laws and now here with my family. Of course it sometimes feels crowded, and believe me I enjoy it when everyone goes out for a little while, but I can’t imagine living that way all the time.”
“I guess with my work, I need lots of time alone. I talk to people all day,” Nasreen adds.
“Oh yes? What do you do?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Oh, how interesting!” Salma coos. “That must be very fascinating work!”
“Nas, I think we need to get going. I’ve got a paper that’s due tomorrow and I’ve only just started.” Asha rises from the table, placing her dishes onto the counter.
“Yeah, OK. I guess it is getting late,” Nasreen says, checking her watch.
“I think our Mrs. Paperwala has taken a liking to you, my dear.” Asha says as they wait in the hallway for the elevator to arrive.
“Was that what all your eyebrow arching was about! Oh come on. She’s just friendly. And maybe lonely –”
“No, it’s more than that. She is extra friendly with you. She’s got a crush on you!” Asha says, grinning wickedly.
“Shhh, she might hear,” Nasreen says, as the elevator door opens. They crowd themselves onto the already packed elevator. “She’s only been here a little while. Maybe she doesn’t have many friends and she wants to be our friend,” Nasreen says, in a low voice.
“Your friend, more like it. Come on Nas, you know she was flirting. She was completely businesslike, completely teacherly with me the whole time,” Asha pronounces, her index finger held up, as though making a final ruling on the subject.
Nasreen looks around to see the other elevator passengers’ looks of curiosity. “Let’s talk about this later. And I think flirting might be taking it too far,” she whispers loudly. The elevator lands with a thump at the ground floor and they step out into the apartment lobby.
“Nas, you are not fat, you are just right,” Asha mimics their teacher, holding Nasreen’s hand in hers and smiling cinematically. She bats her lashes suggestively and Nasreen pulls her hand away. “Of course, she is right, but it was the way she said it. And I saw you getting uncomfortable with it.”
“No I wasn’t, come on, it wasn’t quite like that.” Nasreen leads her friend to the car and waits while Asha unlocks the doors.
“Oh Nas, your work must be sooo fascinating!” Asha gushes. “If that isn’t flirting –”
“But she’s married –” Nasreen protests.
“Like that ever stopped anyone! I’ll remind you that I’ve bedded a few married women in my time, even recruited one to our side.”
“All right. So maybe she is flirting with me. What am I supposed to do about it? And even if she’s flirting, is that so bad?” Nasreen asks, trying to hide the smile that has started to creep across her face.
“Well it all depends, I guess.”
“On what?”
“If you like her flirting with you or not.” Asha laughs and revs the engine.
Chapter 8
THE THIRD NIGHT THAT Shaffiq is called to cover Ravi’s floors, he begins to worry about his co-worker. Is he terribly ill? Does he need something? He wonders whether Ravi’s ungenerous uncle has been to see him yet.
Ravi is Shaffiq’s only friend at the Institute. On his first day there, Ravi observed Shaffiq struggling with the heavy floor polisher and came over to assist him. He bent over the machine, expertly unjammed what was stuck, and held out his hand in greeting. He seemed eager to talk with Shaffiq, and happy to make friends with the only other Indian there. Ravi informed him there were desis working on the day shift, but the night positions were mostly filled by Filipinos and Somalis. He filled Shaffiq in on cleaning short-cuts like squirting the toilets with cleanser, letting the chemicals do the cleaning and then coming back to flush it away five minutes later.
Shaffiq considers who might look after his friend should he be ill. He is aware that Ravi is a Delhi-ite who was sponsored by his youngest uncle and his wife a few years back. This uncle allowed Ravi to sleep on his couch for a couple of months but soon grew inhospitable, passing him the classified section of the Toronto Star one morning at breakfast. A few ads were circled in red pen and his uncle got up from the table, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “It’s time to find your own place. This apartment is too small for my family as it is.” So Ravi found an apartment and left his uncle’s home, somewhat disappointed at his uncle’s lack of warmth.
Shaffiq does not understand Ravi’s uncle’s mentality. How could he be so cold to good-natured Ravi, his own nephew? In India, family is family, blood is blood. You are required to help even if you don’t want to. It is a duty, an unquestionable obligation. Even Salma’s Asima Aunty, not really very closely related, actually Salma’s cousin’s wife’s sister, helped them out the first few weeks here. Shaffiq has heard of Canadian families where the parents charge their adult children rent to live with them. And then, years later, the children put the old people in institutions as though they were mentally ill! Such a terrible set of values, so individualistic and greedy, Shaffiq huffs silently. He hopes that his own children will not treat him badly in his old age.
He decides that he had better call Ravi to see if he needs anything. The phone rings three times and then a woman answers the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hullo? May I please speak with Ravi?” He is about to hang up, thinking that he must have the wrong number. Shaffiq knows that Ravi lives alone in a dingy bachelor apartment in someone’s basement. He described the place in great detail during one of their coffee breaks and they both decided that the rental is probably illegal because the ceilings are very low. Luckily, Ravi is a short fellow.
“Just a moment, please.” There is a clunk as the phone hits something hard and then the same strange voice returns and says, “I’m sorry, he’s still asleep. You want to leave a message?” Shaffiq gives her his name and then the woman hangs up, leaving him wondering who she is. Ravi couldn’t have a girlfriend staying over there, could he? Is she Canadian? But why would Ravi keep a secret about something like this?
Shaffiq takes his shower and dresses for work. Well, he needn’t worry about Ravi. Someone is taking care of him. And a woman at that! Shaffiq buttons up his shirt and yells over to Salma in the kitchen that they really should invite Ravi over for dinner one night soon.
At work the next day, Shaffiq starts at his usual time and to his relief, Ravi is there, filling his cart with big bottles of aquamarine cleaning fluid. Dark circles frame his eyes but he smiles brightly as Shaffiq approaches.
&n
bsp; “Hey Shaffiq, thanks for doing my floors. Had the nastiest flu ever! Couldn’t tell if I was coming or going for three whole days.” His hand pats his stomach, indicating the source of his discomfort.
“Oh, I didn’t mind covering for you – they pay good overtime, but it’s good to see you back again. You’re feeling better now?” Shaffiq looks at the thin red blood vessels travelling through the whites of Ravi’s eyes.
“Oh, yes, as good as new. And I’m happy to be up and about. You can only watch so many soap operas every day before you start to go a little cuckoo, right?” He makes little circles beside his head with his index finger. “If it lasted any longer I’d need to come here as a patient, no?”
“Did you get the message I called? Was that your aunt who picked up the phone? I called yesterday to see how you were and someone took the message –”
“No, my Uncle and Aunty are in India now. He and his whole family went back for a few weeks on vacation. You know it has been ten years since they have been back? Can you imagine waiting so long before seeing your Ma again?” Ravi sighs loudly, with a resignation Shaffiq has never heard before in his friend’s voice. “I hope I can go back before that.” Shaffiq nods, thinking about his own mother back in India. “Well, better get to work then, earn that bread that will pay for Air India, yes?” Ravi’s wears a new strained smile. And then he is gone, whistling down the hallway. Shaffiq finishes stocking his cart. How easily Ravi squirmed out of his question about who answered the phone! What is the devil hiding?
Thoughts about Ravi’s uncle’s trip to India and the possibility of waiting ten years before going back himself inch forward in Shaffiq’s brain, taking the place of Ravi’s Mystery Woman. Shaffiq’s mind wanders to the familiar place of worry he spends so much time visiting, tallying up the losses to his financial standing: one-third of life savings spent on the flight to Canada; two-thirds wasted on surviving the first two unemployed years; sixty percent of family income spent on housing; just five percent left for savings. There is still so much to build: the Girls’ University Fund; a larger apartment and perhaps one day a home of their own; a better career for himself, courses for Salma. Surely India can wait. Will his mother recognize him in ten years time? Will she feel proud of him?
He allows his mind to shift from his financial brooding to nostalgia for his parents’ two bedroom flat on Garden Road in Colaba. His parents, Amin and Zahabia, have lived there since Zahabia’s father died over twenty-five years ago. In truth, Zahabia owns the flat herself, and she will proudly proclaim it to everyone when her husband is not within earshot. And it is true. Her father never trusted any of his daughters’ husbands to be proper breadwinners and so, when he wrote up his final will, he stipulated that any money and property he left behind would stay in his daughters’ hands and away from his good-for-nothing sons-in-laws. Zahabia’s father turned out to have a keen financial sense and correctly predicted Amin’s economic ruin. If anyone would have listened, perhaps Zahabia’s father could have even predicted Amin’s poor sperm production that resulted in the fluke of just one male son born to the couple.
Amin and Zahabia’s fluctuating financial situation soon became something that Shaffiq learned to perceive through his parents’ behaviour. When there was adequate money, the couple was relaxed and there was an easy feeling throughout their Garden Road flat. When Amin had once again mismanaged one of his many business ventures, a hard silence developed between the couple and all affection between them would evaporate. Shaffiq never actually heard his parents discuss their finances, but he could sense the status of their bank balance through the emotional temperature of the flat.
What Shaffiq learned from his parents, and especially from his grandfather, was that he needed to take his finances into his own hands, even if this meant using them to clean toilets. Of course, he hadn’t known that things would turn out this way; he could not have imagined such hardship when he made the decision to move his family away and out of that flat on Garden Road. Still, it was his grandfather’s legacy that made him want to leave when his own career path was blocked by managers who preferred dimwits like Ashok over him. He grew tired of being overlooked and excluded at work. He became angry that he was not considered a good candidate because he did not belong to the correct religion, because he could not offer a big enough bribe. The corruption offended him. He did not want this to be a part of his children’s life.
And like so many emigrant hopefuls before him, he filed paperwork to leave India with the wish for a home without communal prejudices. They chose Canada, Australia, and New Zealand. Salma was difficult to convince, but even she eventually relented, mostly at the thought that life would be better and easier for them all. Their friends were certain that their application would not succeed, but somehow their forms passed the Canadian officials’ scorecard, even though so many of their similarly qualified peers failed. They saw their astonishing pass as a good omen and soon packed up and said good-bye to their families. They didn’t wait for replies from Australia and New Zealand.
“If things don’t work in Canada, we can return to the Garden Road flat, can’t we?” Salma asked him, a few months after they arrived in Toronto. “It’s good to have a fall-back plan for the family,” she persisted, when he did not reply right away.
“Salma, look. I don’t want to go back there. Not to live, anyway. I’m not living there ever again. We have to move forward, think about the future, think about Canada as our new home now,” Shaffiq insisted. He surprised himself with his strong words, his clarity. But this is how he feels. To him, things have to work out in Canada. Full stop. End of story. He doesn’t want to return to India except to visit like a tourist. Yes, he will take the children to see India one day and they will look upon the dirty streets, the corruption, and poverty and know that Canada is a better place to live.
But now he is not so sure. The Canada he sees up close today is not as wondrous as the one he had imagined from afar. Maybe for his daughters it will be different and they will have opportunities that he cannot have himself. But he will never tell Salma he has doubts. He has been the immigrant cheerleader in the family while everyone else has pined for home. Hurray for Canada! Hip hip hurray!
Shaffiq pushes the broom ahead of him, gathering the day’s dust and dirt in its bristles, and gets a sudden longing to sit in that Garden Road flat for just a moment, to hug his mother, shake hands with his father. To breathe in Coloba’s sulphur-laden air, be crowded into a city bus with a hundred Indian men and go to his soul-robbing job just one more time.
Shaffiq observes Nasreen approaching while he tidies a waiting area near the first floor elevators. Instead of skirting away, she heads straight for him this time. For a moment, he panics, his heart beating fast, his brain shooting him accusatory, staccato queries: Did she realize what he was doing in her office last week? Does she suspect his unusual acts of nosiness? Did he leave anything amiss? Is she angry with him?
“Nasreen, hello, how are you today? Working late again? Boy, are you a hard worker!” He feels himself dampen under his armpits. Did he remember to put on deodorant today?
“Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you found a silver earring last week? I’m not sure if I lost it here or someplace else.” Shaffiq remembers that he placed the earring on his cart and then transferred it to his pocket to take home last week. Does she think he is a thief?
“Well, I did find something,” he says. He feels around in his pocket but finds nothing. Where is it? “But, let’s see. No, it wasn’t an earring.” He searches his brain for something to tell her, “It was a bracelet. That’s right, a little bracelet, and I gave it to security for the lost-and-found box. Sorry. If I see anything like that, I’ll keep it for you.”
“Thanks, that would be great.”
“The janitor who usually does your floor is back now,” Shaffiq says coolly, relieved. “If you’d like, I can ask him about it if I see him.” There, he
thinks, now I am seeming helpful. Far too helpful to be some sneaky immigrant who steals jewellery.
“Sure, please ask him if he’s seen anything.” Nasreen turns to walk away, but then, looking back at him, she asks, “oh, what’s your name? I don’t think you ever told me.”
“Shaffiq. My name is Shaffiq,” he answers eagerly. “I am from Bombay too –”
“Nice to meet you, Shaffiq. And thanks,” she says over her shoulder. “Have a nice night.” Shaffiq waves at her, his right hand digging deep into his pocket, futilely searching for the silver teardrop. But of course the earring is probably long gone by now; last week’s pants must have gone through the washer and dryer and must be hung up in the closet by now. Shaffiq watches Nasreen recede down the hallway, the heels of her shiny boots clicking along on the floors he just washed.
Shaffiq tries to remember what might have made him forget to take the earring out of his pocket and place it in his drawer with the other treasures he’s found at the Institute. But of course! Shaffiq smiles to himself, remembering with satisfaction, that special morning Salma greeted him with open arms and fancy lingerie.
When Shaffiq arrives home that evening, Salma is fast asleep and snoring. He quietly removes his clothes and takes them to the bathroom hamper. Before he adds his uniform to the pile, he stuffs his hand down to the bottom of the hamper, feeling around it’s wicker bottom. When this yields nothing, he empties the contents onto the bath mat, sifting through the pile of girls’ t-shirts and socks. He exhales, excited to see one pair of his khaki janitor pants amongst all the other dirty laundry. He fishes his fingers deep into the pants’ pockets and comes up with navy blue lint and a paperclip. But no earring. Perhaps one of the girls or Salma found it? Tired, he gives up the search and slips into bed. It is some time before he is able to fall asleep.
Salma continues to sleep soundly. She is dreaming in colour and detailed slow motion. Shaffiq calls out to her from the top of a tall purple escalator. She stands at the bottom, waving back, relieved to see him there. She scales the moving steps and realizes that the escalator is moving downwards, away from him. She quickens her pace, trying to outstep the escalator and the metal stairs move faster, matching her speed. She wants to give up, wants to get off the escalator, but Shaffiq continues to wave to her from the top, cheering her on. Fatigue is soon upon her and so she steps off the escalator and looks up at Shaffiq. Giant silver teardrops leak from his eyes.
Stealing Nasreen Page 9
