The Hungry Ghosts

by Shyam Selvadurai

  For a while I stopped going to the bars, but soon my loneliness became too acute and I decided to attend a coming-out group.

  The very intimacy of the gathering, the fact that we were supposed to share our lives, only made me feel more lonely. These men knew nothing of Sri Lanka, and their earnest interjections of “cool” and “neat” when I found myself having to explain the world I had come from grew tedious and produced a bleakness in me. I tried initially to be witty, hoping this would win some admiration. The rest of the group responded with dutiful laughter, but I could tell that Sri Lankan humour was different from theirs in some way I could not name and they were merely being polite. Or perhaps I truly failed to be witty, because when I spoke in the group I was very conscious of my accent, hearing my voice as if in a lagging echo.

  Dating was forbidden. The group leaders, who were older social workers, wanted to create an atmosphere that was different from the bars. Yet under the guise of all this earnest sharing, the same hierarchy of the bars existed. The person everyone wanted to know, to be paired with during one-on-one discussions, was a blond boy who, with his plaid shirts and straight-acting manner, looked like he had stepped right off a farm.

  There was a black man from Trinidad in the group. I sensed, in that way we well-bred post-colonials from the old British Empire recognize each other’s social markers, that his family back home was rich. But here he had moulded himself to fit white expectations, become more street black, more ghetto. He was immensely popular in the group and everything he said was hailed with great good cheer or serious attention.

  The group was only for eight weeks. At its final meeting, we learnt that this black man and this blond boy had been carrying on an affair all the while. I received the news with a sickening lurch in my stomach that went beyond mere jealousy. The black man had slipped through the tight fence into the world of the charmed, the happy. I did not know how he had done it; I did not know what he had that I lacked, and I felt anguished at my ignorance. Without knowing what was wrong with me, how could I change or fix myself?

  10

  THE CULVERT HAS COME TO AN END at a field, where it disappears underground through a concrete tunnel. I scramble up the slope of the gully and find that, even though it is late, there is a surprising number of people in the field: young couples with their arms around each other; parents with a child who runs in hectic circles, brought here, no doubt, to wear herself out; dog walkers patrolling the periphery. A corridor of electrical towers cuts through the centre of the field, making us all appear diminished and fragile against this row of hulking pylons that stride the field like robotic monsters, massive limbs planted in the brown mud.

  In that first year, my life brushed lightly against my family’s. One of the few things my mother and I did together was our weekly grocery shopping at the Bridlewood Mall—a re-creation of our chore in Sri Lanka, which I undertook with the same bad humour. I hated the bundle buggy I had to drag, its wheels skidding and throwing up mud in the cold rain, or becoming choked with blackened snow and shuddering to a halt. Then I would have to kneel, the pavement sinking its icy teeth through my jeans, and unclog them before we could continue, the wheels yelping every time they bumped over a mound of snow. Often the bundle buggy wasn’t large enough and coming home I hefted shopping bags while my mother heaved the buggy along. In winter, I could not rest the bags on snow-mudded sidewalks for momentary relief. By the time I reached our front door, my legs would be bowed in a fruitless attempt to relieve the bone-ache of my shoulders.

  Our long trek to the mall took us past lines of row houses in a state-subsidized complex, each unit so small it was impossible to imagine a whole family living there. Most of the front gardens were untended, though occasionally one of the tenants had planted some scraggly pansies or impatiens. The mesh on screen doors was torn and curling upon itself. There were always abandoned coats, skirts, trousers and all manner of footwear on the sidewalk as if the tenants had fled some disaster. The dumpster at the end of the complex was piled with garbage bags, flung haphazardly and split open, squirrels and sparrows scavenging among the contents.

  Every time we passed the complex, my mother would declare, “What a truly blessed country this is. What kindness and compassion that even the weakest, the poorest, are taken care of.”

  I would glower in reply.

  The white tile floors and pale-grey walls of the Bridlewood Mall reminded me of a hospital. There was a seam of skylight running the length of the ceiling, but the rays that filtered through had a curious fluorescent quality, only enhancing the sterility within.

  On evenings and weekends a group of Jaffna Tamil boys in their late teens and early twenties loitered around the escalator. They flocked together tightly in whispered, snorting conversation, then flew apart in cackles of hilarity, only to return to their huddle again before flying apart once more. The boys wore cheap plastic jackets and jeans from Bargain Harold’s or BiWay and sported scant moustaches as badges of their manhood. They were in Canada because their families in Jaffna had gathered all their meagre resources and sent them over as refugees, to avoid conscription by the Tamil Tigers. The young men spoke no English and some of them had never been outside their village. The boys’ forced hilarity and sliding sheepish eyes suggested the heavy burden on their thin shoulders.

  When we passed them, my mother always said, “I am so grateful I was spared the sacrifice their mothers made. I don’t know how I could have borne not having you children around me. Yes, yes, we are lucky. This blessed country has been so good to us.”

  She said this fervently, as if accusing me of ingratitude. I was puzzled and irritated by this accusation and greeted her comment with defensive silence.

  After we had finished shopping, my mother sometimes liked to visit an old pioneer cemetery in a corner of the mall parking lot. It was sequestered from the rush of traffic by a short wall, pine trees and bushes, and had the feel of a country graveyard, the conifers sighing in the wind. While I stood by the entrance, hand on bundle buggy to signal my impatience, she would go around and peer at the graves. Her careful inspection, as if this was the first time she was seeing them, would enrage me. Fragments of gravestones were embedded in the wall with names that meant nothing now. One fragment had the word “Farewell” below an engraving of two clasped hands. Another just said “Mother.” This was the one she liked to stop and stare at longest, some emotion working through her face.

  “Amma,” I would call, “come on, for God’s sake, it’s late and I’m cold.”

  She would leave the graveyard reluctantly and, as we made our way across the parking lot, say, “Imagine, Shivan, all these people died here without ever seeing their loved ones back home. How lucky we are to have planes.”

  I would stride on in grim silence.

  Renu, much to my envy, fared better socially than I. My sister’s year at a Sri Lankan university had not been recognized by York and so she found herself, like me, in first year. Within a month of starting at university, however, she had formed a circle of friends in her women’s studies program. My sister was constantly away volunteering at the women’s centre on campus or out with her friends at pro-choice rallies, after which they would go to the Toronto Women’s Bookstore downtown to pick through the latest arrivals, then end up around the corner at Future Bakery for coffee and cake, or mashed potatoes slathered in mushroom gravy. On weekends, she went straight from work to be with her friends, only returning late at night. Though we had never met these friends, Renu referred to them by their first names, as if we did indeed know them. There were four in her close circle—Jan, Pamela, Trisha and Suzanne.

  Renu soon began to lord it over me, saying I should try harder to get some Canadian friends. “Be careful you don’t end up confining yourself to Sri Lankans,” she would warn, face puckered as if offended by some smell.

  “I have no intention of doing anything of the sort. Do I have a single Sri Lankan friend?”

  “There is no point coming
to this country if one is going to keep in the old ways,” Renu would continue as if she hadn’t heard me.

  “Anyway, what is so great about Canadians?” I’d demand, annoyed at her superiority, but also jealous. “They are a bunch of pasty-faced ignorant people. They know nothing of the world. Most of them couldn’t even place Sri Lanka on a map.”

  “One of the things I can’t stand about people like you, Shivan, is how you slag off Canada and Canadians.” The word “slag” was new to her, and she wielded it, along with “joe job,” “blockhead,” “frigging,” “hoser,” “Jesus H. Murphy,” “mother of fucking god” and other choice expressions, as if they were insignia of the exclusive club she had been let into.

  “After all, Shivan, they took us into this country out of the goodness of their hearts. Are Canadians coming to kill you and burn your house because you are Tamil? Haven’t Canadians paid for that grant you got this year to cover your tuition fees?”

  “You sound just like Shireen and Bhavan,” I’d reply. And if that didn’t shut her up, “You are mentally colonized, treating white people as if they are gods” certainly did.

  There were other things my sister said that should have troubled me, but I didn’t register their import. She had begun to talk a lot about “internalized sexism,” and how her understanding of feminism in Sri Lanka had been so tainted by living in a “sexist, misogynistic, patriarchal society.”

  “Sri Lanka is the most sexist and violent place for women on the earth,” she would declare at dinner. When my mother contradicted her, pointing out that women were freer and better educated in Sri Lanka than in most of Asia, she would cry, “Ah, here you go, Amma. This is your internalized sexism speaking. You are so brainwashed you are now defending your oppressors.”

  Towards the end of the first semester, Renu declared one evening as we were clearing the table after dinner, “I want to invite my friends here next Saturday night.” She said it defensively, as if we would object.

  My mother shot me a surprised glance. “Yes of course, Renu.”

  We continued to tidy up in silence. My sister always spoke about her friends as if they were too exalted for us to meet them, let alone bring home.

  When we were washing the dinner things, my mother asked delicately as she handed Renu a dried dish to put away, “And will they eat our food, or should I make something Western, like hamburgers or pizza?”

  “Of course they’ll eat our food,” she said, and clattered the dish into a cupboard.

  I paused in my washing to give her a disbelieving look.

  “But what about spice?” my mother pleaded. “Should I leave out chili powder?”

  “No, no, just make the food like we eat it. They want to taste the authentic thing.”

  My mother looked skeptical. I could also tell she was nervous. Never having cooked in Sri Lanka, her curries were often too oily, the vegetables mushy, sauces smoky from charring the bottom of the pan.

  Renu worked on Saturday mornings, and she left for her shift pretending not to notice my mother was cross and anxious in the kitchen and I was sullen at having to clean up for her friends. What hung in the air unsaid, as my mother and I went about our tasks, was that we’d never had white people in our house before. We were awed at the prospect but annoyed we felt this way.

  Janice, Pamela, Trisha and Suzanne arrived together. When they rang the bell, Renu, who was fierce and harried by now, rushed to the door and flung it open. “Helloo,” she trilled.

  Her friends shrieked greetings and flung their arms around her. Their faces were flushed, as if they expected nothing but a good time.

  My mother and I were waiting by the dining table with tight smiles. Once the guests had removed their shoes, Renu brought them in. She presented us as “my lovely, charming family.” We shook their hands and murmured greetings. I had expected they would all look manly, but Jan was the only one who fitted that stereotype, with her short spiky hair, black jeans and man’s white shirt with epaulettes. She gripped my hand and gave me a curt nod. A flintiness momentarily stilled her features as she took in my mother’s sari, then she greeted her in the same curt way.

  “Mmm,” one of the women said, “what is that delicious smell?”

  My mother blushed at the compliment. “I do hope you like Sri Lankan food. We were willing to cook something else, but Renu said you would like to try our cuisine.” Her accent had changed, as all ours did when addressing white people—an odd tightness to her vowels, talking from the front of her mouth.

  “Yes, of course,” “Looking forward to it,” “This is so thrilling,” Pamela, Trisha and Suzanne cried. Jan nodded grudgingly.

  My mother ushered them into the living room and I was sent to get drinks and salted cashews.

  When I came back with a tray, the four women had squashed themselves on the sofa, my mother and Renu seated on the loveseat at right angles to them. I served the guests, then perched stiffly in an armchair at the other end of the room. My mother asked them about their summer, what jobs they had and if they were from Toronto. Once this line of conversation was exhausted the room fell silent.

  “I say, Renu,” one of the women said, after the silence grew unbearable, “have you heard about the latest position coming up at the centre?” To address Renu, she had leaned forward past my mother. Soon the women and Renu were discussing the university women’s centre, my mother pressed back in her seat so they could talk across her, smiling and nodding to stay in the conversation.

  Renu had extolled the co-operative, non-hierarchical nature of the centre, but there was a definite pecking order among her friends. Jan was at the top, and the other women often turned to her for approval. My sister strained forward into the conversation, hands gripped together, her usually vivid expression subdued. She was at the bottom.

  My mother’s curries, despite her best efforts, were even less tasty than usual because she had underspiced them to suit white palates. Still, sweat ripened on the women’s faces. After a heroic struggle, they confined themselves mostly to the plain boiled rice.

  When they left that evening, Trisha, Pamela and Suzanne pumped our hands and told my mother what a fabulous meal she had made, how they would always remember it. Jan saluted us ruefully in farewell.

  “They’re nice girls,” my mother said, after we had shut the door on them.

  “Women, Mother, women,” Renu cried, wretched and defeated.

  The next Saturday, rather than going out straight after her morning shift at work as she usually did, Renu returned home. As my mother and I went about our tasks, we were attuned to every sound from her room, aware that my sister, who was constantly on the phone to her friends, hadn’t made a call all afternoon. When she came down to get tea, we pretended to be very busy.

  “I have a massive paper due.”

  We nodded vigorously, but she could tell we didn’t believe her.

  Like watching for a fever to break, we waited to see what Renu would do about her Tuesday evening shift at the women’s centre. I was relieved when she went to do it. Her social success had brought me hope of similar achievement and, despite my envy, I did not want her to fail.

  Renu picked up her weekend activities again, but I could tell she wasn’t really enjoying them because she came home early, looking depleted. And gradually, over the winter semester, she withdrew from her friends until by April, when the year finished, she was just as alone as I was.

  Later that summer I came out to my sister, desperate to share my loneliness and failures in the gay community. She was supportive, as I had expected, and urged me to tell our mother, saying, “You won’t be truly free until you do so.” When I balked, she didn’t press me. I felt she had advised this because it was received wisdom from the centre.

  In return, Renu told me what had happened with her friends.

  The beginning of her break from them had taken place a few days after our dinner. She was to meet her friends at a university café, and when she came up to their table, one of
the women said, “Ah, we’ve just been in the middle of a furious discussion. You are the only one who will have the answer.”

  My sister was immediately on alert. They had not been in the middle of any such heated discussion.

  “We certainly don’t think this, Renu, but we’re curious to know if you think the sari is a symbol of female oppression?”

  “Renu, do the women in Sri Lanka, the feminists you knew, view it as a symbol of patriarchy?”

  “No,” Renu answered, bewildered, “I have never heard them say that.”

  “See!” one of them said to Jan. “We told you!”

  Jan sat back in her chair, palms flat on the table, and gazed steadily at Renu. “It’s just that my former girlfriend, who is South Asian, always said it was a symbol of oppression. All those yards of material wrapped around a woman’s body are intended to keep her from moving very fast. Like bound feet in China.”

  “Evidently, Jan’s old girlfriend also felt that the nose ring South Asian women wear, as a sign they are married, was like putting a nose ring in a cow you owned.”

  One of them squeezed Renu’s arm. “Anyway, we think the sari is a beautiful national costume.”

  “Yes, I wish we had a national costume like that.”

  “We were just dying to know what you think.”

  Yet before Renu could say what she did think—that women worked in construction wearing saris, that doctors performed surgery in saris—her friends moved on to discuss the executive director at the women’s centre and their ongoing issues with her. Renu knew then that some judgment had been passed against her.

  When my sister was finished her story, she walked about the basement, picking things up and putting them down. A letter from my grandmother lay on my desk, and before I could stop her, she picked it up and began to read aloud in a wry tone, like we were complicit in mocking my grandmother. “ ‘My Dearest Puthey, I was so relieved and happy to get your letter today. I thought I would sit down and write to you immediately, as you seemed so worried I had not got your earlier letters. And you did not get mine again either! How very strange.’ ”