The maudlin sentimentality of my thoughts makes me realize I am quite drunk; and my drunkenness has given me the courage to come down to the culvert, something I have never done before. The descent is too slippery in winter, and in summer jagged voices of young men rise to our house, accompanied by the occasional shattering of a beer bottle. After I’ve made my way to the bottom, my shoes squelching in the muddy slope, I take another gulp of Scotch. As I begin to waver along the culvert’s edge, I recall the first time I saw Canada from the plane—how, despite knowing we were arriving in summer, I was surprised at the green grass and trees between the stretches of grey highway, tarmac and squat rectangular buildings. In my imagination, I had been expecting snow.
An old schoolmate of my mother’s named Shireen Subramaniam was to meet us at the airport. My mother had written to her asking if she could suggest a cheap hotel we might live in until we found more permanent accommodation. Much to my mother’s surprise, this woman, more acquaintance than friend, had replied that she and her husband, Bhavan, would be delighted to offer us hospitality until we got on our feet. My mother, while grateful, was uneasy about this generosity, as if she suspected something was amiss. There was a stridency in her voice when she told friends and relatives about this invitation, saying things like, “Yes-yes, we were good friends. I knew her very well.”
As my mother, my sister and I dragged our bags off the luggage carousel and loaded them onto carts, we avoided looking at each other. The distractions of immigration formalities and negotiating this foreign airport had kept our anxiety at bay. But now, as we cleared Customs and made our way to the automatic doors, our apprehension swelled, turning to panic as we came out onto a low platform and found the arrivals lounge before us packed with people pressed up against the ramps that led down on either side into the chaos. We stopped, not knowing which way to go, bewildered by the muddle of foreign faces below, white, Asian, black, the babble of so many languages as people shrieked out greetings and instructions to their relatives and friends, the blurred stridency of PA announcements. Travellers, brought up short by our indecision, bumped into us and shoved past. We were gaping at my mother, waiting for her to identify this friend. What if Shireen and her husband had not come? What if they had forgotten the day? What if they had changed their minds? As if she had read our fears, my mother said, “I … I have their phone number, just in case.”
She gripped her luggage cart, set her lips grimly and strode down one of the ramps. We scanned the crowd for a Sri Lankan face, and soon we saw a woman holding a placard with my mother’s name on it.
“Shireen?” my mother cried, her voice fracturing with relief.
“Hema?” she cried back, her eyes popping behind gilt-edged glasses.
We hurried together towards the end of the ramp, separated from Shireen by the rail.
When we reached her, this woman threw her arms around my mother as if they were long-lost best friends. Startled, my mother submitted to the embrace.
“My, how grown up these children are!” she cried, as if she had known us when we were little. She embraced Renu and me in turn, pressing us against her bony form, gold bangles and necklace cold against our skin. “Welcome, welcome to Canada! Now, you children must call me Aunty Shireen.” She beamed at us.
Aunty Shireen was angular like a faceted jewel, her carefully back-combed hair gleaming with lacquer. Her grey pinstriped suit had sharp creases, her pink silk shirt shimmered. She seemed genuinely pleased to see us, and our anxiety began to ease a little. She slipped her hand into the crook of my mother’s arm and said, as she led us towards the elevator, “So, tell-tell, child, how are things back home?”
My mother, because she had nothing else in common with her, informed Shireen about their school friends. I had the impression from Aunty Shireen’s slightly exaggerated reactions that she really did not remember these people.
Soon we were on the highway, and I gazed out at large billboards, taking in the plump gleaming food of fast food chains, models in department store clothing, the hard, gleaming bodies of men in an underwear ad. The sheer size of the billboards seemed a promise of affluence and happiness. Then there were the cars, so new and clean, not belching diesel smoke as they did in Sri Lanka. The speed at which everyone drove was terrifying, the foreignness of a seat belt constricting.
As she drove along, Aunty Shireen informed us that her husband had gone on a week-long golfing trip with some of his fellow real-estate agents. “Oh, he was so disappointed he couldn’t be around to welcome you,” she said, her voice resonant with some emotion I couldn’t identify.
In Colombo, a fifteen-minute trip was considered long, and this drive, which took an hour, seemed to go on forever. Soon the streets all began to look alike. I wondered if Aunty Shireen had made a mistake and we were looping back; the billboards we passed had the same images as the ones we had driven by earlier.
The Subramaniams lived in the upscale suburb of Unionville. Once we pulled into their subdivision we were in the midst of large detached houses with three-door garages and sloping manicured lawns, rock-lined flower beds prim with rows of colourful portulacas. I felt I had been in a place like this before, and it took me a moment to realize I had seen versions of it in numerous American made-for-TV films. I felt a thrill of satisfaction; I had arrived in the middle of my dreams.
Aunty Shireen’s house reinforced this sense of arrival, with its shiny hardwood floors, oriental carpets, grand piano and gilded Chinese furniture upholstered in red silk. Everything about the interior gleamed and sparkled, especially her kitchen. We took in its smooth white cupboards, marble counters, deep black stove and dishwasher, and when Aunty Shireen opened her refrigerator, we gawped as brilliant lights came on to illuminate a glossy white interior, spotless glass shelves, an array of bottles filled with things we had never tasted, like corn relish and capers. “Ah,” Aunty Shireen said as she turned to Renu and me with the smile of a magician about to pull off a final dazzling trick, “I know just what these young people want.” She drew out a massive plastic bottle of Coca-Cola with a flourish and began to pour us tall glasses. Coca-Cola was still a luxury in Sri Lanka. As I took my first long draft, the bubbles pleasantly tickled my throat and I blushed with delight.
After our drinks, Aunty Shireen took us down to our apartment, oddly brusque now. Though she called the flat a basement, it was really above ground, with patio doors leading out to the back garden. It ran the length of the house, with a sitting area, galley kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The carpet was an immaculate white shag, my sock-clad feet stroked by its silky pile as I followed our host. She led us solemnly from room to room, pointing out the light switches, opening and shutting the glinting taps to display the water pressure as we stood on fluffy bath mats that released the smell of dryer sheets. In my allotted room, the wallpaper was bottle green and purple stripes, like a Victorian gentleman’s study.
When we were done the tour, Aunty Shireen became her jolly self again and cried, “Now, you all get changed and showered, then we will have dinner.” She winked at Renu and me. “I know exactly what you will be wanting.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Kentucky Fried Chicken!”
The morning after we arrived, I went out for a jog. I had told myself that when I arrived in Canada I would take up this sport I had seen so many Americans do in films. I had even got myself an outfit—a blue track suit with double white stripes down the outside seams, a matching head band. I made my way along the sidewalk with the lumbering gait of a first-time runner, fists clenched, elbows pressed to my sides. Some of the neighbours were up getting papers, watering lawns, walking dogs, gardening. I was acutely conscious they were white, but they did not seem aware of my difference, and a few even raised a hand and called out, “Morning,” as I passed. Soon another jogger bounded towards me, a tall blond young man. He was wearing shorts and a singlet, and I felt caught out in my full track suit, now sweat-slickened inside. He passed me with a military nod, leaving me diminished by
the hairy whiteness of his muscular limbs.
How rife with clichés our arrival was: the Coca-Cola, the KFC, the billboards, the white shag carpet, the resplendent fridge, that passing jogger. By the time I came out, a year later, I understood that abject awe at Coca-Cola and shag carpet was not cool. I would pretend to the other young gay men I met at groups or bars that I had not been awed at all by Canada. I said I felt no culture shock, acting like I had slipped into this world as if it were my natural element.
A week after we arrived, Bhavan, or Uncle Bhavan, as we soon called him, returned from his golfing trip. Aunty Shireen had taken us for lunch at McDonald’s and we came back to find a sleek silver Jaguar in the driveway. “Ah, Bhavan is back!” Aunty Shireen shrilled, her voice snagging on his name. My family glanced at each other uneasily.
When we entered the house we saw Bhavan in the kitchen, flipping through his mail on the counter. He was squarely built, with the round stomach of a mudalali. Aunty Shireen sang out his name as we took off our shoes in the foyer, but he did not acknowledge our presence. Once we had removed our coats, she led us in to meet him. “Bhavan,” she said anxiously, “are you deaf or something?”
He slit open an envelope with the careless flick of a silver knife, his pink moist lips a stern line, his luxuriant moustache prickled tight. We stood in awkward silence as he scanned the letter. His beige safari shirt was open at the top, thick gold chain and medallion nestled in his matted chest hair. Bhavan threw the letter on the counter and turned to us. A brilliant grin split his face. He held out his arms and declared in a deep rich voice, “Welcome, welcome!”
In turn, he took each of our hands in both of his, gazing at us with fervent goodwill, inquiring how we were liking Canada and what we had done so far.
We took the first opportunity to go downstairs to our apartment. Shireen followed. As we unloaded our shopping bags, she went about plumping cushions on the sofa, tugging the curtains into place. We watched her, feeling something awful was coming. Finally, she turned to my mother. “The thing is, Hema, we … we usually charge for this apartment.”
My mother struggled to hide her surprise, then cried with relief, “But Shireen, why didn’t you say anything before. I would be so happy to offer you rent.”
Aunty Shireen’s eyes brimmed with gratitude.
“Now, come, come.” My mother pressed Aunty Shireen’s arm. “You have been most generous. Tell me how much you would like.”
Aunty Shireen said they usually charged twelve hundred dollars, but because she and my mother were such “dear old friends,” she was only going to ask for a thousand.
“Yes, yes, of course,” my mother replied, then declared, “Oh, you children are putting the groceries away all wrong,” and rushed to sort out our alleged mistakes so Shireen would not see her disquiet at the high rent.
Once Aunty Shireen had left, my mother turned to us and said with false cheer, “Well, that is settled. I suppose we should be grateful, nah, to have such a nice place.” She added, to reassure us and herself, “Anyway, it’s only temporary. Tomorrow itself I will ask Bhavan to start looking for a house.”
Yet when my mother approached Bhavan, now so warm and friendly, he looked dismayed and said, “But what is the hurry?” and Aunty Shireen added, “You just got here.”
“You don’t like being with us?” Bhavan pouted.
“No, no, Bhavan,” my mother assured him, flushing, “it’s just that my mother wants this house bought soon.”
“Our home is so cheery with these children. Stay, stay.”
Aunty Shireen murmured in agreement.
Bhavan leaned close to my mother and frowned. “A word of advice, Hema. Don’t be in a rush. That is the biggest mistake new immigrants make. Live with us for at least six months to a year, and slowly-slowly we will look around until you find the area you want to be in. Always pick your area first, I tell my clients. Then set your price and don’t budge from it. I never let my clients rush into things.”
It was the first moment we realized how alone, how helpless, we were in this country.
In the weeks that followed, Uncle Bhavan showed my mother how to prepare a resumé, something she’d never had to do in Sri Lanka. Aunty Shireen took her to buy office outfits and then to temp agencies. Soon my mother was going out on assignments.
The Subramaniams had no Sri Lankan friends. Mingling within the Sri Lanka community, they told us, was not the way to get on in this country. “What is the point of coming here and remaining in a ghetto,” Uncle Bhavan would thunder after he’d had a few drinks in the evening. “Our bloody people are so closed-minded. And Canadians resent this racial exclusivity, this spitting on their hospitality. After all, they have been so kind, allowing all our bloody buggers into their country.”
It was clear that they would not look fondly on us making connections with the growing Sri Lankan community in Toronto, and we were cowed enough to comply.
The Subramaniams never cooked Sri Lankan food in their house, and this was one of the rules Aunty Shireen informed us of soon after we arrived. Both husband and wife said that the lingering odour of curries smelt like cow dung, that “our people” didn’t know how they shamed themselves going out in public with their coats stinking of spices; that they pitied the poor Canadians who had to sit next to them on the subway or bus. They didn’t want their “very dear friends” coming over and thinking they were a couple of “pakis,” these dear friends being Canadians they fraternized with at the Buttonville Golf and Country Club.
Yet I quickly saw that there was something defensive behind their contempt for the growing Sri Lankan population. They had become out of touch with Sri Lanka and did not fit into the new community. And the community’s indifference to perceived white expectations—cooking Sri Lankan food, forming their own social groups—made a mockery of the sacrifices the Subramaniams had endured to integrate, sacrifices that were increasingly unnecessary. Though my family never talked about it, we were desperate for an excuse to leave.
Our escape presented itself soon after Renu got a job at a mall. Uncle Bhavan offered to drive her to work and back, as the mall was far from where we lived and there was little public transport. I had also got a job at a nearby doughnut shop, and I arrived home one evening to find Uncle Bhavan in the family room, sprawled out in an easy chair, feet on a stool, watching television. Aunty Shireen, who worked as a chartered accountant downtown, had not come home yet. “Ah, son.” He raised his hand. “How are you?” He had never called me “son” before. His voice and smile were weighted with regret.
I came downstairs to find Renu seated on the sofa, eyes red, my mother holding her hands. One glance from them told me what had happened.
My mother was truly upset at Bhavan, but she also gloated with triumph. Within a week he had helped her buy a tiny row house in the suburb of Scarborough, closer to downtown.
In our poor ward of L’Amoreaux there were only cheap identical houses and multi-laned grey roads on which traffic roared. The only recreational activity was shopping at the Bridlewood Mall. Our short dead-end street, Melsetter Boulevard, had two lines of row houses facing each other—flimsy board structures surfaced with anaemic-pink concrete bricks with brown asphalt roof shingles continuing a third of the way down the front facades. The tiny lawns were parched, the spindly trees gnarled, some limbs producing no flowers or leaves. Tall apartment towers beyond the back gardens spread their long shadows over our street.
Still, it was our first home in Canada and represented life on our own terms. The day we moved in, my mother called all the Indian stores in the Yellow Pages until she found Sadroos, which sold Sri Lankan products. That first night, she splurged and ordered in a pizza. We had no furniture and sat on the worn rust-red carpet, as if at a picnic. “How lucky we are to have this house,” my mother said as she held up a slice of pizza in salute. “A new future is before us, children.”
“A new future,” we echoed.
Yet as we ate our pizza, a gloo
m came over me, and I could see this despondency in my mother’s and sister’s faces too. This luck my mother had toasted was not luck at all, but my grandmother’s gift to us.
A few days after we moved in, we noticed that the lime-green carpet in the basement became damp in the centre whenever we used the washing machine. We called in a plumber to look at the problem. He would need to dig up the floor to find the leak. The job could cost thousands of dollars. We told him we couldn’t afford it and he grimaced in sympathy. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Looks like you’ve been had. Whoever sold you the house knew about this.”
He explained to us that the odour, which we had thought was just how basements smelt, was actually the smell of damp. Anyone who had lived in this country, particularly a real-estate agent, would have recognized it.
9
THE CULVERT NEAR MY MOTHER’S HOUSE PASSES under a bridge that spans the main road and continues between steep banks rising to back fences on either side. As I make my way beyond the bridge along the edge of this open drain—past the clumps of filthy snow on the banks, which, as they melt, reveal nibbled Styrofoam cups, yellowed globules of Kleenex, condoms, straws, dog shit, cigarette packs, tattered mittens and scarves—I think again of that moment when we saluted our new future.
The Hungry Ghosts Page 10
