No New Land

by M G Vassanji

  Nanji began an instinctive step towards his compatriot, but then realized he would draw attention and stopped. At that moment a shiver ran down his spine. The three louts had come up behind Esmail and began their abuse. “Paki!” one of them shouted joyfully. Esmail turned towards them, looking frightened. “What do you have there, Paki? Hey, hey? Paki-paki-paki.… ” They leered, they jeered, crowding in on him in front, behind him the subway tracks. Bystanders looked away, embarrassed, uncomfortable. It was clear that unless a train quickly came here would begin and end the main mischief of the bullies. A heavy, oppressive feeling overcame Nanji. He wanted to run to Esmail’s aid, to shout at the impassive people to do something, to call the police, to raise the alarm … but his legs didn’t move, his mouth didn’t open. He would make himself stare at the spectacle of three big youths bullying a cowering man, a man he knew, then he would look away, in a mixture of shame and fear, hoping that when his eyes moved back again the ordeal would be over.

  Perhaps Esmail had answered them back, or perhaps his silence simply goaded the gloating, prancing youths beyond control. Because at some point Nanji became aware of shouting and pandemonium, the youths shouting, pounding up the stairs and out of the station. An alarm was raised, and suddenly people were gathered where Esmail had stood – but they were looking down onto the tracks.

  Esmail, punched in the stomach, had been thrown down and was crying in horrible, pathetic moans, “Save me, save me, I have done nothing.” People shouted encouragements: “Get up! Stand up!” But Esmail couldn’t get up. An attendant arrived, then two policemen from the street. Brakes screeched somewhere along the tracks in a tunnel, in which a light was now visible. An ambulance arrived, Esmail was removed, taken away on a stretcher.

  Nanji went home numb, depressed. The whole brutal incident was shocking, the more so for being wanton and racial, directed at someone who could have been himself. In that very real sense, he too had been attacked. What ached now, and horribly, was the recollection of his own behaviour during the attack. He had not moved an inch, not uttered a syllable, to defend the man. True, neither had anyone else – but what of his idealism, the long hours he had spent formulating it? He had fallen into the hole he had himself dug, setting standards impossible for an ordinary person to follow … and he was a very ordinary man where physical courage was concerned. He was a coward. Until now, what he had suffered was pleasurable pain, an indulgence, a luxury of the idle because he could talk of choice. Now he knew he could never make the choice, but simply go on. And the moral standard he had set for himself, through hypothetical examples, he had failed, not out of cold-bloodedness but out of cowardice. He wished Jamal had been there. Jamal would have known how to act, he would have acted. Because there was more to the cruelty and rough edge in Jamal, there was also the hot blood of instinct. Jamal would have been roused to an act of courage. Jamal was life, he, Nanji, was death.

  In his apartment he sat down on his bed and wept tears of regret, of shame, of hopelessness. Where have we come, what are we becoming? He wished she were with him, the girl, his nemesis in New York, whom he wryly referred to as “she.” To regain his composure, he made himself some coffee.

  Nanji’s parents had both died in a famous accident when he was very young. They had joined a marriage jaan, a procession on the groom’s side, all the way from Dar to Mombasa by bus, leaving the boy with his grandmother. A happy, lively bus, ringing with song and merriment, full of new clothes and spices and nuts and gold jewellery. To get into Mombasa town, the ferry which had to be taken capsized. All sixty passengers and the driver drowned. Only some of the bodies were recovered – the waters were shark-infested. For days loose items of clothing, luggage, or other belongings were washed ashore, which some families used in burial ceremonies. The community was cut deep by the accident, so many families were affected. Nanji’s parents were among those not found.

  This was the tragedy buried deep in his memory, which he only rarely invoked. It was something he could not look back on. In any case, he did not have many memories with his parents in them – something he could only turn away from to look ahead. Hence the new schools that were opened in Dar, and the new public library, had occupied him completely. His grandmother did not demand anything from him, as she lived on a pension. But he had to be with her when he could, that was obvious to him. So he had grown up, the silent brooding type.

  When he went to California to study, his grandmother first lived alone, then with one of her sons. It was while Nanji was away that she died; then the great nationalizations back home, and before he knew it half the community was in Canada. He was alone, adrift and floating.

  At university he underwent a major transformation. The war was on in Vietnam. He arrived immediately after the great student riots of the late sixties at Kent State and Ohio State, Chicago, Berkeley, Columbia, and Harvard. It was fall, leaflets abounded on the campus announcing a multitude of movements and meetings. What struck him in those early days was the sheer number, the tumult of beliefs, thought systems that seemed to make up America. He realized he could think, should think, on every conceivable issue in the world. He was of the world. His was a modest path, reading Nehru and Gandhi, catching up on Indian nationalism, a subject unknown to the colonial Dar syllabuses. Then Hanoi was bombed, and a strike called. Students wearing red bands picketed and chanted, holding hands in solidarity. He had crossed several picket lines, between classes, until a demonstrator once challenged him: “Why don’t you join?” That he could have joined he had never realized, until then. I am against the war, he reasoned. If one side stops it, the other side is not going to start a massacre. He did not cut classes, but every day for a few hours he joined the picket lines, expressing an opinion. Once, under an astute leader, the demonstration simply found itself marching and took over the ROTC building for the night. Nanji was there and appeared in the photo in the student paper the next day. Later from Gandhiism to a loss of faith, and to replace that, the constant search, which is what living had become for him.

  He met her, the girl whom he would later refer to as “she,” at a party in New York. He lived in Boston then. Shy as he was, he found himself obliged to escort her back to her apartment. A friendship had been struck and they had taken to visiting each other. She was so flighty, as he thought then, so superficial in everything. But that was the key: everything. She would do everything if she could, just to be doing it, not out of a special interest or passion. Like Jamal, she lived with a vengeance, which is why she attracted so many people around her. Unlike Jamal, though, she lacked bite, which made you feel protective towards her. She seemed so fragile, ever since that moment he insisted on accompanying her home, and upstairs to her door, after the party.

  She had delighted in him, sensing in him the genuine article. She took him around, in spite of his diffidence, to parties, to people he would never have dreamed of meeting. Everyone – their friends – knew, accepted: Yasmin and Nanji belonged together. But for them, him and her, there was closeness, there were tender moments and mutual concern, no more. Not for her anyway, she couldn’t be drawn closer, skating away expertly into her busy world of fashionable people. So that every time they parted, every time for a few weeks, he would be in pieces, swearing not to call her, not to see her again, until the next time she called, and his resolve evaporated. They developed their own peculiar brand of friendship.

  He had come to Toronto almost by chance. He had obtained his immigrant visa on a trip to Vancouver, automatically, as a citizen of a Commonwealth country, and had not been aware of his new status until Canada was in the news and someone asked him to check. So that the visa would remain valid, he came to Toronto. And stayed. Once on his way to New York, his name was punched into a computer by U.S. Immigration. He was, it was discovered, an undesirable alien. His student days had caught up with him. So he could not go back to New York, at least not on days when he was checked up on. His visits became less frequent. He had not seen her for more than a year, had n
ot heard from her for several months. Meanwhile she had become his “she,” not a name with a face and figure but a composite of emotion and memory, dormant for now but ready to explode. His last phone call to her had ended awkwardly and abruptly. She was obviously busy with her social schedule, and he had no trouble imagining it.

  Having finished his coffee, and calmed himself somewhat, Nanji went to the Lalanis’.

  The family had just sat down to watch the news. A place was made for him, as a matter of course, but he remained standing and said, “Have you heard – about Esmail?” His manner suggested something ghastly had happened, to himself, so that he was made to sit down and receive Zera’s ministrations. He told them what had happened, and Zera telephoned Esmail’s apartment. Esmail’s sister, with whom he lived, knew of the incident, in fact people had already begun to arrive to show sympathy. Zera could hear them in the background. Hanif and Fatima were told to stay home, and the three adults walked up two flights of stairs to join the sympathizers.

  There were people from all the neighbourhood buildings, some thirty in number. How had they all heard in such a short time? The sofa and chairs had been moved to the walls and were all occupied. More people sat on the floor. They looked like mourners gathered in the first hours after news of death – with uneasy sighs and subdued murmurs and sympathetic glances towards the next of kin, the sister sitting in a prominent place, distraught and tearful, flanked by solicitous relations.

  They seemed to be waiting, for something, for someone, to break the tension. Waiting and thinking: What now? Was this a sign of things to come … danger to self and property, to wife and kids. Have we come to the right place after all. In all these years in Africa not to have seen anything so wanton, so arbitrary, so public. If they had wanted money, yes. Anything political, yes, riots, yes, they were understandable. But this, public humiliation, by kids. And where had they learned this hatred? Not from their parents? not from their elders? – that was hard to imagine. How can you send the children to school, to play, to the supermarket, how can you let the girls out?

  From the corridor came Jamal’s voice, nothing tentative about it, and welcome as the tinkle of ice on a hot day. He entered, in a black suit and red tie, tall and handsome, just in from a late rendezvous, and instantly anticipatory eyes full of unanswered questions turned to him. Jamal sensed the unspoken honour and braced himself. Slowly and deliberately he walked up to Esmail’s sister and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. Your brother will go down in history. His suffering will not have been in vain. He is the first and last. From now on we will fight back!” His voice had risen in pitch. Jamal had addressed many student rallies in Dar, as Nanji recalled.

  “Aré, man, we are not Sikhs, you know.” This from the clown who is always present at such meetings.

  “The blacks kicked us out, now the whites will do the same.… Where do we go from here?”

  “Looks like Pakistan for us.”

  “There are worse goons there. Did you hear of the two murders – ”

  A woman cut in impatiently. “Why doesn’t someone tell these Canadians we are not Pakis. I have never been to Pakistan, have you been to Pakistan? Tell them we are East Africans!”

  “You tell them.”

  “Aré,” Jamal’s voice came in derision, “it is because of milksops like you that we have to suffer such ignominy. Your time has come and gone. The blacks fingered your asses and you let them. We will fight back.”

  A fight would have erupted right there if the counsel of the women had not prevailed, and if that excellent soother of nerves, masala tea, not been produced.

  It was past one o’clock before the meeting ended, when an elderly female relation simply stood up and said, “Now everyone go.”

  Esmail had broken both shins, but he would live.

  When he heard the story, surprisingly, Jamal expressed no contempt for Nanji’s lack of initiative. In order to discuss the incident, for there was much on their minds, they had taken a stroll on Rosecliffe Park Drive. It was a cool, starry night. Except for themselves, and the odd car, the street was empty. The solitude drew them closer, into a communion they had never known before. Their voices, though controlled, rang clear in the open space.

  “Scared shitless, were you?” Jamal said.

  “Yes.”

  “The bastards. You know, it burns me up.”

  “What – ”

  “You know that Somerset Arms girl?”

  “The manager?” The woman in question was quite a few years older than Jamal.

  “Yes, the bloody manageress.”

  “Well?”

  “She’s spurned me all this while. ‘You give me the creeps,’ she told me. But now she’s giving me the eye.”

  Nanji was silent. Jamal’s sexual escapades did not really interest him.

  “You see it was Kassam who was fucking her meanwhile,” Jamal muttered on.

  “Oh, and now they’ve broken up.”

  Jamal looked furtively around him. Nothing moved. “You want to know what really happened? If I tell you, don’t tell anyone.”

  “Except the rest of the world, you mean. Go on.”

  “You know Kassam – Gorilla? Here’s what he says to me, listen: ‘I had just finished fucking this woman. We were lying on our backsides, smoking, and I was thinking what a wonderful world this is, if I had to give up everything for this, it’s been worth it.’ What’s he given up, except the jungle! Now listen, Nanji. This is Gorilla: ‘Then this gauri who’s been oohing and aahing me, she turns her flank to put out her cigarette and she says to me, “Why do you Pakis come to this country?” Just like that. I had been getting up to pee, Jamal, and I just burned up inside. I was halfway out of bed, but I simply let her have it.’ ”

  “What – you mean – ” said an open-mouthed Nanji to Jamal, who was doubled over in soundless laughter.

  “He peed on her, man. ‘This is what we Pakis are going to do to you,’ he said.”

  “Don’t tell me, you plan to do the same thing,” said Nanji.

  Jamal, almost recovered, brought his hands together in a silent clap.

  But Nanji was impressed. Not at the exhibition but at the sheer energy and anger expressed. Some of his compatriots would move mountains if they didn’t aim so low.

  9

  The incident at the Yonge and College subway station marked a new beginning in the lives of the Dar immigrants. For one thing, the outrage expressed officially, though perhaps too piously, by police, newspapers, and ordinary citizens decided once and for all that the line had been overstepped, that this was beyond tolerable limit. Toronto the Good would not have it. It brought home, to everybody, the fact that the immigrants were here to stay, they could not, would not, simply go away.

  The incident had such an effect that afterwards some would attribute to it the small but perceptible rise in car sales. Immigrants, if they could afford it, and sometimes even when they couldn’t, simply stopped using public transport. Many seized on the aftermath of this well-publicized incident to begin a new career – that of selling cars – and you could see more and more of the jolly-faced salesmen on the community TV channel on Sunday exhorting in a multitude of accents.

  Esmail took a long time to recover. But he became an instant celebrity. His photos appeared in all the newspapers, depicting various stages of his recovery. There were even photos, in a feature article, from his childhood. In hospital he was showered with gifts and goodwill messages from many communities. When he was discharged the entire staff on duty came to see him off. When he returned in a wheelchair to Sixty-nine a welcome sign greeted him, under which, surrounded by other well-wishers, stood the local MPP and a local representative from the Asian community – none other than Jamal, whose idea it had been to invite the politician. During the following weeks, Esmail was deluged by visitors, bringing words of comfort and reassurance, bearing presents of all kinds, and even envelopes stuffed with money. All this culminated in a major
demonstration that turned into quite a fête, and a salutory lesson for Jamal.

  It was a warm late-spring day, a Sunday, and a large number of Asians, many of them prominent, met around noon at the school on Rosecliffe Park Drive. Teachers, professors, doctors, and government employees, most of them alien to Rosecliffe Park. To the Dar people, in the buildings just across from the school, the event came as a surprise, even though announcements had been posted in English and Gujarati. But who reads posters? For them the important news was read out in the mosque, then travelled by word of mouth for those who missed mosque. On that bright Sunday afternoon they finally got wind of the rally – Rosecliffe Park Drive had become a promenade with unfamiliar faces, posters flew about – and they took note of it, but warily. A Paki rally was not really their cup of tea – weren’t they from Africa? A few of them went to the meeting, to see what it was all about. It seemed that they were being forced into an identity they didn’t care for, by the media and public, and now by these Paki Asians who meant well but couldn’t keep their distance. None of them seemed to realize, or care, that Esmail belonged to them, their particular East African Asian Shamsi community.

  The meeting had been called for by an ad hoc group of successful Asian immigrants setting themselves up as leaders of the community. It was well organized but, initially, tedious. A communiqué had been drawn up and was read out. No one beyond the first few rows heard it, and there were grumbles. It was read out again, then one more time when the janitor of the building had been discovered, the headmaster telephoned, and the PA system brought out. Speeches followed. Just when rival factions from the floor began vying for attention, Esmail was opportunely wheeled in, and received a standing ovation. He said a few emotional words and gave up, tearful, and received once more a standing ovation. A demonstration had been planned and, since it had to go somewhere, Esmail was quickly wheeled away to the gate of Sixty-nine to await it. There followed a rally the likes of which Don Mills had never seen. Several hundred people – including children – of all backgrounds, smiling, chanting, carrying provocative placards: ESMAIL WE ARE WITH YOU, NO TO APARTHEID, LET MY PEOPLE COME. At the gate they stopped. They filled the driveway, overflowed onto the sidewalk, the road, and the parkette across from it. Esmail was presented with a cheque.