As Sriyani catalogued the atrocities committed in our country, I felt doors shutting inside me until I was in that numb, quiet place I retreated to so often. The only emotion I felt was homesickness, evoked by her accent, which had not flattened out like mine to accommodate being here.
When she finished speaking, only the students clapped. Then the discussion was opened to questions from the floor. A Tamil Catholic priest in a cassock leapt up. He treated the room to a harangue on all the wrongs done to the Tamil people and insisted Sriyani call the Tigers freedom fighters, not terrorists. On behalf of the Tamil people, he demanded an apology from her. She listened to him impassively, nodding. When he was done, she defined a terrorist organization according to the UN charter and said that by using child soldiers and targeting civilians, the Tigers fitted the definition. As she spoke, an angry murmur went through the Tamil sections of the room.
Next she was attacked from the Sinhalese side. A man in a suit and tie got up to say she was a traitor to Sri Lanka and that the government had the right to defend its sovereignty in the Tamil north. He demanded to know why she was sympathetic to the JVP and asked if she wanted Sri Lanka to descend into a Cambodia. She replied that she did not support the JVP but felt their grievances were real and should not be ignored. Government tyranny was not the way to fight insurgent tyranny.
Sriyani had mentioned she was here to raise funds for sewing machines so that women affected by the war could be self-employed. A white woman stood up to take issue with this, asking Sriyani if she was not perpetuating gender stereotypes by giving the women sewing machines. Sriyani struggled to hide her surprise and amusement. She answered simply, “Who are we, Western feminists, to tell these women what they should or should not want.”
When the lecture was over, the host invited everyone to a reception at Massey College, across the road. I had come not knowing if I would speak to Sriyani, but now I couldn’t leave without making contact. She was surrounded by the Sri Lankan students, yet as I rose to put on my jacket, thinking I would get a word with her at the reception, Sriyani saw me and gestured that I was to remain in my seat. She said something to her host. The woman came and ushered me to an abandoned classroom.
I leaned against a desk, arms folded tight to hide the trembling in my hands. Soon the host brought Sriyani, then discreetly shut the door and left us alone.
She examined me, legs slightly apart, hands behind back, smiling in her inscrutable way. “Shivan, it is good to see you. I was hoping you would come.”
I grinned and blushed, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. It was as if Canada had fallen away and I was back home. She gave me a quick hug, patted my shoulder, then stepped back. “But, my, you look older, nah? Is it your hair? Are you growing it out?”
“Um, yes.” I could not stop smiling. “And how are you, Sriyani?”
She made a sideways nodding gesture. “What can I say, trudging along, trudging along.” Then she asked rather urgently, “Was my accent clear, did people understand?”
“It was very clear.”
“Good, that’s good.” She gave me a knowing look. “So, when are we going to see you again?”
“Back in Sri Lanka?”
“Yes, of course. What did you think?”
I blushed again.
“Now, despite everything going on there, you must return, nah? After all, your poor grandmother, her second stroke …” She trailed off as I stared at her in shock. “Oh, dear, but I thought you knew, Shivan.”
“I didn’t.”
“Hmm. Well, I visited her after hearing the news.”
“What happened? How is she, Sriyani?”
“Still fiery as a chili. But with this second stroke her left hand is useless. And of course the old servant woman really cannot manage. She told me your grandmother will not abide attendants and nurses in her house for fear of being robbed by them. The garden is a mess because she had a fight with the gardener last month. And I must say, the house looks ramshackle without a coat of whitewash.”
Sriyani did not look at me while she spoke. She had known I was unaware of this stroke.
There was a soft knock and the host put her head in, wincing apologetically. “We should really go to the reception, Sriyani.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Are you coming, Shivan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, hope I see you soon. It’s time to come back.” Smiling at me, she made a gesture of farewell that I will always remember, clicking her heels together, a small ironic salute. Then she was gone.
When I came outside, the world had transformed around me. Snow lay over the pavements in swirls and crescents, like fine sea sand washed by a wave. There was a hushed stillness, the cars and pedestrians seeming to hold themselves poised. Then the wind came down the street, picking up snow in a roaring cloud before it.
The next morning, I waited until my mother left for work at the law firm. Then I informed the filing department I would be late, and telephoned my grandmother.
Rosalind answered. When she heard my voice, she let out a little cry. “Babba,” she whispered, “is that really you?”
“Yes, Rosalind it is me.”
“Ah, baba.” She began to weep.
My grandmother called out, asking who it was, but our ayah was too choked to answer. The clack of her walking stick echoed as she drew near. She picked up the receiver. “Who is this telephoning me?”
That old sadness rose in my throat. “Aacho,” I whispered, “it’s me, Shivan.”
She was silent, her breath harsh across the line.
“I … I heard you had another stroke.”
“Ah, is that why you called? Hoping I am going to die soon and you will inherit my fortune?”
“No, Aacho, no.”
“Don’t bother. I am giving everything to the temple.”
“Why didn’t you let us know you were ill?”
“Why should I, after the way you betrayed me?”
“Aacho!”
“Do you know how hard it has been for me, struggling along on my own, having to construct that bana maduwa and look after my properties? That is why I have ended up this way. It is you who has caused this stroke.”
“Aacho, please, I beg you, stop.”
“Now you feel guilty, nah? But it’s too late for that. What use is your guilt? It’s like rain falling outside a water barrel. My left hand is useless, useless! Through your selfishness, you have deprived me of my hand.”
“Aacho, I … I’ll come and see you. I’ll return. For a little while at least.”
“I don’t need you anymore. I wish I had never taken you into my house. You have brought me nothing but misfortune.” She slammed the phone down.
I went and curled up on my bed, stunned by her hatred.
When I arrived at the office later that morning and took up my work, I was thankful to lose myself in the monotonous search for documents along rows and rows of metal file shelves.
I was supposed to meet Paul on my lunch break, but instead went to a park across the road and sat down on a bench, my bagged sandwich next to me. The weather had taken an unexpected turn, and it felt more like the first day of spring than late November. A mild breeze came up from Lake Ontario, bringing an odour like fresh fish on a market stall. The last of the green grass was holding out in places against the surrounding brownness, and a few purple asters bloomed improbably beneath my bench.
Somewhere between that telephone call to my grandmother and sitting in this park, I seemed to have arrived at a decision. I had to leave Toronto.
When I finally set out in the direction of work, my step was lighter.
I considered Montreal briefly, but settled on Vancouver because it looked nothing like Toronto. There would be no reminders of my previous life, which was what I needed. Just as I had arrived at this decision to leave in some intuitive way, I also understood I would not tell my mother. I simply could not bear another parting.
Since Renu had left, my m
other and I had fallen into an evening routine of dinner on the sofa as we watched Jeopardy. The show had no appeal to me, but my mother was gripped by it and often announced the answers or berated the contestants for being stupid. The evening before my departure, one of the categories was Broadway Melodies. I was good at this, and my mother knew nothing about the subject. When she got the first question wrong, I offered the correct answer. She pretended to be unsurprised at my participation, and when the next question came up she said, “Carol Channing’s signature song? Now, who on earth is she?” I gave the answer, and we fell into a light patter of question-and-answer, even as my mind was churning with the secret I was keeping from her.
My flight was on Saturday afternoon, a plan I had made so I could leave our home while my mother was working at the doughnut shop.
I arrived in Vancouver that evening, just as the sun was going down between the mountains.
25
THE BOTTLE OF SCOTCH IS ON THE COUNTER where my mother left it. As I move about her kitchen once again, wiping and putting way the washed containers, I stare at it with longing. After I am done clearing the draining rack, I get the mop and bucket along with the detergents my mother carries around in a plastic basket. She has not kept up the house because she knows David will arrange for his cleaning woman to come by after the fumigation. Yet I have decided to go through and clean, unable to bear being idle.
In the powder room, I catch my reflection in the mirror and lean forward to look closer. Though I am not gaunt like my mother was during those early years in Canada, there is some inner hollowness to my face that reminds me of her then, scooped out by the memory of her mistakes. I sprinkle Comet in the sink and begin to scrub with a plastic scouring pad, pondering what she told me recently of her reaction to my departure and all the changes that came so swiftly after in her life. I’ve thought about her story often since I made this decision to return, imagining how she felt and thought, picturing moments, expanding scenes she only mentioned briefly, filling in things she did not touch on but which I knew had to be part of her journey, inventing and elaborating the story, like my grandmother with her Buddhist tales.
That evening of my departure, after my mother eventually did arrive home, she mistook my farewell letter for a piece of old mail left on the kitchen table and went about her usual routine of having a shower then dishing out food she had prepared earlier. She assumed I had gone out for the evening the way I used to, and was in the middle of her meal, seated in front of the television, when she felt a strange absence in the house. As she would later tell me, it felt like a piece of furniture had been taken away. She went down to my room and found the bed neatly made but then noticed my open closet, a jangle of bare hangers on the rail. Recalling the envelope on the kitchen table, she bounded upstairs and tore it open, hands trembling.
Dear Amma,
Life has become unbearable for me in Toronto and I have moved to Vancouver. I will contact you once I have a phone number. Don’t worry about me. You must also know Aachi is ill again. Please phone Sunil Maama about this.
Your loving son,
Shivan
My mother sat down on the low stool by the telephone, letter trailing from her hand and brushing the floor. Through the thin kitchen wall, she could hear a child crying, the shimmering notes of what was probably Chinese opera. A couple passed on the street, talking in some African language. She went to the window and watched them, marvelling that the woman wore only a long cotton tunic under her winter coat, stockinged feet in slippers. They disappeared from view, and in the silence left behind, the house pressed in on her.
My mother, Hema, got her coat, slipped on boots and went through the patio doors into her back garden. She walked purposefully out the gate, stood at the edge of the gully and looked down at the water, not knowing why she had come here with such intent. Unsure what she must do next, she sat on the grass, its frosted spikes scratching at her coat and track pants. Clasping her knees, she stared across at the apartment towers, thinking of all the families in there, all the immigrant women with their impossible lives.
An old feeling of defeat dripped through her, bringing with it the memory of those nights after she failed her exams when she sat in bed, knees clasped, helpless to reverse her mistakes, frantic at her failure. She had not thought of her husband in a long time, but now recalled how she had found him dead in his office. And she wept a little to remember him lying there, like a child fallen asleep at a school desk, head turned sideways on folded arms, cheek pressed against wrist, his mouth pushed open in a cherubic pout, long eyelashes shadowing his cheekbones. She wept to think how she had failed him, and herself, because, if she could not love him, at least she might have been grateful for his devotion.
My mother didn’t phone Renu to report my departure. Shame kept her from doing so. She believed she had failed both her children and that this failure had become permanent. It was like that old Sinhala saying: rice, once cooked, cannot revert to its former raw state. Her failure had made her incapable of offering her son sufficient help, and so he had fled to the other side of the country to escape what she knew was inescapable.
A few days later, she came home to find a message from me on the machine saying I had got a room at the YMCA. I had not left a phone number. A rage took hold of her at my lack of caring or awareness that she might be suffering too. Yet she listened to the message so many times the cassette ribbon wore thin and my voice became garbled.
At the doughnut shop the next weekend, her boss set my mother to clean up the “community board.” This cork panel on which people could post notices was one of the owner’s projects to make the café a “community space”—an aspiration she then undermined by directing workers to keep up a brisk turnover of tables, to clean the floor beneath dawdling customers, to whisk away cups and plates as soon as they were empty.
My mother had decluttered the board before without giving the notices much thought. But now, as she pulled them off, she found herself mindful of their contents—beloved lost dogs and cats; mattresses, cars, even pots and pans for sale; English, math and science tuition from people with only foreign qualifications; offers to cook and clean and babysit. As she peeled back these layers of appeals, she found herself thinking how much sadness and need there was in the world and how much a part of that she was. Then, towards the bottom, she came to a pamphlet with the image of a woman facing a turbulent sea. Above this was the title “Why We Suffer and How to End Our Pain.” It was a brochure for a Buddhist meditation centre. Turning it over, she saw from the little map on the back that it was in her neighbourhood.
The centre turned out to be in a detached town house, about fifteen minutes’ walk from where my mother lived. The ground floor had been opened up into a meeting hall, a dais at the front with a dark purple cushion on it. The room was already quite full, the majority of people white. Rows of chairs were lined up before the platform. Keeping her gaze down, my mother hastily took a place at the back. After staring at her hands for a while, she looked around. Along the back of the dais were elevated altars with statues of bodhisattvas and what looked like bottles of juice as offerings before them. She was peering between people’s heads to get a better look at the statues when a man, who had taken the seat next to her, whispered, “Yes, it’s most confusing, isn’t it?”
Her neighbour was in his fifties, short and stocky, with thinning sandy hair that fell over his forehead. “Just like the Catholic saints of my childhood.” He leaned back, hands placed self-importantly on his thighs. “Let me explain them to you. That one over there is the goddess Tara.” He expounded on the goddess, then went on to describe the rest of the pantheon, my mother nodding awkwardly, wishing he hadn’t singled her out in this way.
“And how did you hear about the centre?” he asked, the moment he was finished this explanation.
“The notice board where I work,” my mother replied, in a cold but polite tone. She was by now irritated at being patronized by this white man with hi
s lordly manner.
“And where is it you work?”
“The Bridlewood Mall,” my mother said warily.
“Ah, I’m often in there. My daughter requires a lot of work on her teeth at the moment, so I take her to a dentist in the mall and wander around while I’m waiting. Where exactly do you work?”
She told him the name of the doughnut shop, feeling somewhat reassured he had a daughter. Also, she had noticed the wedding band on his finger.
“Well, I must pop by and say hello when I’m next in the mall.”
He told my mother about the centre’s philosophy, which was based on the teachings of a Tibetan lama—“our guru,” he said, indicating a large framed photograph of an emaciated monk on an easel beside the dais. His officious manner and way of constantly checking in with her, eyebrows raised, forced my mother to keep his gaze, nodding. Her irritation climbed a level.
He had just started to expound on a charity the centre ran in India when a plump bhikshuni hurried into the room, head down, as if on some embarrassing mission. She mounted the dais, sat cross-legged on the cushion, settled her robes, took a sip from her glass, then surveyed the room with a surprised smile, as if the audience had suddenly materialized before her. An acolyte, who had followed, rang a little bell, and a silence that was intense, like the aftermath of a loud bang, settled over the room. The congregation gathered themselves into positions of meditation, hands cupped in laps, palms open, shoulders shaken and squared, spines settled in. My mother’s neighbour gave her a nod of encouragement, and she took up a similar position and closed her eyes, glad to shut him out.
The Hungry Ghosts Page 32
