RABINDRANATH MAHARAJ
The Picture
of Nobody
Grass Roots Press
Copyright © 2010 Rabindranath Maharaj
First published in 2010 by Grass Roots Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
The Good Reads series is funded in part by the Government of Canada’s Office of Literacy and Essential Skills.
Grass Roots Press also gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.
Grass Roots Press would also like to thank ABC Life Literacy Canada for their support. Good Reads® is used under licence from ABC Life Literacy Canada.
(Good reads series)
Print ISBN: 978-1-926583-28-0
ePub ISBN: 978-1-926583-62-4
Distributed to libraries and
educational and community
organizations by
Grass Roots Press
www.grassrootsbooks.net
Distributed to retail outlets by
HarperCollins Canada Ltd.
www.harpercollins.ca
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
About the Author
Chapter One
Just two weeks after my family moved to Ajax, I saw my parents glued to the television. At first, I thought they were watching a movie. People were rushing out from a tunnel. A man in a heavy coat led out a lady wearing what looked like a gas mask. It was caked with thick white dust. I wondered what the lady’s face looked like behind the mask. Was she crying, or were her eyes closed in fright? Then the scene shifted to a red double-decker bus. It seemed to have been smashed with a giant hammer.
“There is nothing sadder than smoke,” my father said. “It always marks the end of something.” Dad usually spoke like this. Quoting the dead poet Shakespeare, or saying things only he could understand.
Mom placed a finger against her lips to silence Dad. On the television, a woman was sitting on the pavement. Why wasn’t the woman running with everyone else? Then the camera focused on a small body beside her. I waited for a commercial to come on. Then I asked, “What’s going on? Where’s this happening?”
“In far-away London,” Mom said in a sad voice. “Terrorists have bombed three subway trains and that bus.” After a while, she added, “What’s happening is madness.”
“Can something like that happen here?” Allison, my sister, asked.
My mother looked through the balcony door. I wondered if she was considering all the places she had lived. First of all, Uganda, in Africa, where she had grown up and then met and married Dad. Then Australia. She and Dad had moved there after the cruel ruler of Uganda and his army had destroyed the homes and businesses of all their friends. Then Fredericton, a town in New Brunswick, close to the east coast of Canada. Both Allison and I were born there. Then, after seven years, Napanee, in Ontario, where Dad got a job at a mill. And finally here, Ajax, a bit east of Toronto. “Who knows, dear,” she said softly, as if speaking to herself. “But not in Ajax.”
During the following weeks, I got a good idea why my parents felt so comfortable in Ajax. Everything seemed squeezed together. We could walk to the library, the hospital, the schools, the lake, and the shopping malls. Everyone seemed to know each other, and the parks were usually crowded with old people walking about or chatting on benches.
One day, we were driving through narrow streets with old wartime houses on either side. Mom pointed to the signs and said the streets were all named after the sailors from some old battleship. “No one is ashamed of their past here,” she said.
Mom felt that Canada was the most perfect place in the world. All the bad things happened elsewhere. She pointed this out to Dad whenever he began talking of his boyhood in Uganda. Dad would answer that “his people” were nomads. His great-grandfather had moved from India to Uganda, he and Mom had moved to Australia, and now they had moved to Canada. His favourite saying — when he was not quoting Shakespeare — was, “Everything is temporary.”
I really hoped that Dad was wrong and that our stay in Ajax would be permanent. I was sad when we moved from Fredericton and I had to leave all of my friends behind. Because of that, I made few friends in Napanee. I did not want to be disappointed again.
Ajax was different. We did not live in a small house, as we had in the other places, but on the tenth floor of a high-rise. From the balcony, I could see the playground and the hospital. I believed that if we stayed in Ajax, I would finally make some friends. I had to. Everyone was squashed together. Sometimes I pretended that everyone in our high-rise — the men, women, and children I spotted on the elevator or in the parking lot — belonged to one big family. After all, we lived in the same building.
Yet, only five months after we moved to Ajax, Allison told me something terrible. Our parents, she said, were thinking of moving once more. She hoped they would pick Toronto.
Chapter Two
I couldn’t believe what Allison had said. Surely Mom and Dad weren’t thinking of moving. Didn’t Mom say that small towns like Ajax were safe?
That Friday evening, at the dinner table, my mother asked her usual question, “Do you like your new school?” I guess she wanted to know if I had made any new friends.
Before I could answer, my father began one of his long speeches. As usual, it was about his childhood in Uganda. I knew what would come next. In the beginning, they were so poor that they didn’t waste a single scrap of anything. He and his three brothers worked every day in their father’s clothing store, Baba’s Emporium (such a grand word for “shop”!). They kept working there, even when they grew up to be young men. When they were chased out of the country by the government, Dad’s father had said, “This is just a new opportunity.” And the family split up to find these new opportunities. Dad’s parents went to England and his brothers went to Singapore, Australia, and Canada.
I had heard this hard-luck story a hundred times, but that night I had an insight. If I had been in a cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared up above my head. This is what I suddenly knew: Dad’s nomad story was just a cover. He moved so much because he was scared of being chased away once more. He would rather choose to move than be forced to move. No longer would others control his decisions.
I ate in silence as my father continued his story. At the end of the meal, I had another light-bulb moment. I had to convince my father that Ajax was different. He would never be chased from this town, where people seemed to spend their entire lives.
Allison, who was eighteen months younger than me, believed there was a pattern to all our moves. Each move brought us closer to Toronto. That city would surely come next. She seemed thrilled by the idea of moving there.
One night, both of us were watching the news on the living room TV. Allison said, “Everything’s happening in Toronto.” As she continued, I saw that, for her, Toronto was some sort of magical place, with concerts and formal dances and costume parties and festivals. Only young and beautiful people lived in her sparkling city. Maybe s
he believed that they shipped all the old folks to places like Ajax.
“The festivals would be so much fun,” she said.
“There are also festivals here,” I told her.
She slumped on the couch and said, “Yeah, but just for old people. Jam and pickle festivals.”
“What about the lake? There are always games and other activities going on there.”
“Some people have grown up. In case you haven’t noticed,” she said.
I realized that Allison would be no help in convincing my parents that Ajax was a great little town. In fact, soon I was sure she was sabotaging me. Every time I pointed out something good, she shot it down. One day, when we were bringing the groceries in from the car, I said, “The hospital is so close you can see it from the parking lot.”
“Yeah. And you can hear the ambulances all night.”
Another morning, Mom was packing our school lunches. I said, “You should take a break, Mom. We can get really good food in the school cafeteria.”
Allison added, “And have you noticed that all the black and white and brown kids sit in their own separate spots?”
No, I had not noticed that, but I would not give up. “I’m sure it’s the same in Toronto.”
I tried to think of good things about Ajax that Allison could not sabotage. That evening, when my parents were watching the news, I said in a fake-casual voice, “There’s hardly any crime here. All the gangs seem to live in Toronto.”
“There’s nothing here to steal,” Allison said. “Except for flower pots and garden gnomes.” I had to admire Allison: she had not missed a beat. I realized at that moment that I would have to come up with a smarter plan. I would have to find something special about Ajax that Allison could not strike down.
I focused on the old wartime houses that looked like gingerbread cottages and the tidy playgrounds filled with mothers and chubby babies. I began sitting at different tables in the school cafeteria. I listened to conversations, hoping someone would reveal a secret about Ajax. A secret so special that my father would never want to leave. But the other students just got quiet. Sometimes they glanced at each other and then back at me. I wished I could make friends as easily as Allison.
After school, I usually walked to the library to work on my grade twelve science projects. The library was just a ten-minute walk from my school. I usually stayed for an hour or so, until the bells in the tower of the nearby town hall told me the time was five o’clock. I would not have been surprised if someday the clock forgot the hour. Ajax would be like some sleepy little town in a Twilight Zone episode. Time would stand still.
Sometimes I tried to eavesdrop in the library, especially when I noticed a quiet conversation. Once, I missed the five o’clock bells. When I got home, my mother asked where I had been.
“There’s free internet at the library,” I told her. “And Allison is always using our computer.” I didn’t mention that the family computer in the living room was too close to the television. The last thing I wanted was Mom thinking that the apartment was too small.
“She’s chatting on the computer with her old friends from Napanee,” my mother said. Her voice sounded flat.
I’d always felt that Mom chose that tone to start my father talking about the past. And just as I expected, Dad chimed in about kids nowadays forever hiding away inside their little private worlds. Back in Uganda, a family was like a little community. Everything was shared. Even secrets. “The secrets of our hearts,” Dad recited in his Shakespeare voice. Allison said that Facebook was the same as Dad’s Uganda, except she could share secrets with way more people. Facebook was an even bigger family.
Maybe I was desperate, but right then I had another light-bulb moment. Dad was always talking about how he and his brothers cooperated in Uganda. What if I showed him that Allison and I could get along just as well? Wouldn’t he think that Ajax had something to do with it? I could not bring back Dad’s young life in Uganda, but I would remind him of what he missed most of all.
Chapter Three
Now, I should say straight off that Allison and I had never been close. We looked different, too. I was dark and chubby, like Dad, while Allison got Mom’s big eyes and light brown colour. But Mom seemed satisfied with everything around her. Allison behaved like a bratty kid.
I couldn’t help thinking that our parents treated her better than they treated me, too. She got birthday and Christmas presents of fancy dresses and pink shoes and spiteful-looking dolls. All I got were science books, telescopes, and chemistry sets.
It seemed they always took her side during our arguments. They never praised me for my high marks in school nor criticized my sister’s average marks. Dad would say that, as the older child, I was supposed to set a proper example. And Mom would stand next to Allison as if they were on the same football team.
Allison had learned to roll her eyes and rock her head in one smooth motion. I know it might seem a simple act. But with it, she could blame me, laugh at me, and brag about herself, all at the same time. Worse, she did it so swiftly that neither of my parents ever noticed. Once I tried to imitate her, and she burst into laughter. It was so unfair!
I started to feel that the world really favoured women. When I told my mother what I thought, she cried, “Have you gone crazy?”
In some countries, she told me, it was bad luck to make a baby girl. Girls couldn’t go to school, drive cars, stay out late, or even choose their own husbands. Mom was so upset that day that I never brought up the topic again.
Later, recalling Mom’s list of women’s troubles, I got an idea. The following day after school, I spotted Allison walking all by herself. I hurried to catch up with her. When I did, she seemed annoyed and walked even faster.
“Hey, do you know there’s a girls’ soccer team in Ajax?”
“So?”
“Maybe you could join.”
“I hate soccer.”
“There’s also a girls’ basketball team. And badminton, too.”
She kept silent, but as soon as we got home, she went to my mother in the kitchen. “I think Tommy should get a hobby,” Allison said. “He’s been staring at all these athletic girls.”
For once, my mother took my side. “Well, he’s a big boy now. Even though he still has his chubby baby cheeks. It’s time he found himself a nice girl.”
Allison did one of her eye-rolling things. Except this time, she added a couple of snorty chuckles. Mom glanced at my face, and she began to laugh, which made me think that she had not taken my side after all.
Still, I was determined to find some way to prove to my parents that Allison and I were getting along, no matter how hard that might be. I wished I understood her better. Especially why she seemed so annoyed when I spoke to her at school. One recess, I noticed her with a tall girl who wore black clothes. They matched her dark lipstick and eyeliner. The girl looked quite fierce. I was about to tell my sister that her new friend looked like trouble. But instead I said, “Your friend seems interesting. What’s her name?”
“Aranka.”
“What sort of name is that?”
“Hungarian. And she’s not interested in you.” Her glance suggested that I should stick with looking at the girls’ soccer team. Still, I didn’t mind, because now I knew something more about her.
Soon I saw Allison hanging out with more girls who were dressed like her new friend. She began wearing dark eyeliner, too. One morning, she appeared in the kitchen wearing a wide studded belt. Two thick chains ran from the belt into the pockets of her pants.
“What’s this?” Dad asked her.
I saw my opportunity. “It’s a look. A lot of the girls at school dress like this.”
Mom said to Allison, “It’s better than being a Valley Girl, anyway. Everything ‘so, like, oh my God’? All that ‘totally’ and ‘whatever’?” She smiled at the memory.
But Dad was not as impressed. “It makes her look like a vampire, if you ask me.”
“I think she’s i
mitating Xena the Warrior Princess, on TV.”
The minute I looked at Allison, I knew she did not appreciate my help. She put on a long, trailing winter coat. On our way to school, she told me, “It’s Goth, okay? And it’s a better style than you and your geeky friends have.”
What friends? I thought. But she had hurried away.
I realized that having a friendship with my sister would be impossible. I was not in her league.
Chapter Four
After I gave up on Allison, I got a clue to why she believed our parents would soon leave Ajax. During dinner, Dad told Mom that an American company had quit ordering computer chips. I guess that’s what they made at the factory where he worked. Just to annoy Mom, he said he might soon have to get a job driving a taxicab. He had said the same thing when we were leaving Napanee and Fredericton. And just like those times, Mom reminded him that he was too educated for that sort of job.
“Is it for this reason you came to Canada, Aggy?”
Aggy is Mom’s nickname for Dad. I think it’s because we’re Ismaili Muslims, and our leader is the Aga Khan. Dad talks about him all the time, even though, as far as I know, we’re not religious.
Dad liked to be asked about why they left Uganda. Talking about those days prompted him to recall his own dream of becoming a professor. In this dream, instead of sorting and packing things in a factory, he sat in an office that was stuffed with books. Sometimes Dad would tell me that he would have reached this goal if he had stayed in Uganda. Mom would never miss the chance to add, “Or if you had been born in Canada.”
All my life, I had felt that both of my parents were pushing a burden onto my back. As if I was supposed to fulfil my father’s dream in some way. It was really unfair. Why me?
Why me? Well, as I grew older, I slowly began to understand this burden. I also got a better grasp of Dad’s Uganda stories. He and his brothers had worked in their father’s store every evening after school. For sure, working instead of studying had blocked his ambition. That was why he had never asked me to get an after-school job, even though I was seventeen years old. He was determined that nothing would stand between me and my education.
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