by M G Vassanji
One day, when she was younger, Nurdin had gone to her school to pick up her grades. A single B had bothered him, though he could have lived with it. But she would have sulked all day, so he went to talk to her teacher. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s a course that doesn’t matter.” “Even then,” he said. She changed it. Then, as he was leaving, she called, “Bye, doctor.” There was no one else there, he stopped in his tracks and turned around. She saw the look on his face and said, “What’s the matter, aren’t you a doctor?” “No,” he replied. “Well, Fatima always talks about her doctor father.” That was one of the few wringers their little Fatima had put them through.
He was grateful to Nanji for having made that remark, defusing the situation. She was in awe of Nanji. How much so, Nanji himself wasn’t aware of, being under the impression that her wearing dresses now and more fashionable clothes meant she no longer thought much of him. But that remark of his had cut her to the quick.
Always in a hurry, she had skipped a year in high school and had applied to several universities. Soon she would be off, and glad to be away. She would never miss her father. She would mellow surely, but not before she had gone through a few more years of life … quite a few more. Nurdin always found it unfair that although she would laugh at her mother, she still liked her. Because her mother had been a student and a teacher. That was one more thing against him, he had brought her mother to this.
Then there was Hanif, a little monkey until recently, who had caused no end of embarrassments. His voice had started to change, and he had shot up as tall as his sister and was still growing. She would need him. He was the stronger of the two and not only physically. Hanif was a good boy. He had respect and he was quietly spoken. But he didn’t really need anybody. He liked to talk to Nanji, though, whom he called Eeyore. He would seek out Nanji and get him talking. And then afterwards, feeling his sister’s envy, he would talk about what Eeyore had said.
They were waiting for the Master, Missionary, whose departure from Dar was imminent. He was waiting for tickets and passports and foreign exchange, all to be acquired illegally for him by Nurdin’s own younger brother, Shamshu. One brother making millions in the diamond business, the other making his – so Nurdin had heard – in the black market. Always he, Nurdin, the middle one, neither here nor there.
He was sitting in his armchair, looking out; Zera was on the phone making one of numerous arrangements for Missionary; in the distance, in front of him, the CN Tower blinked constantly in the darkness. At times like these, all to himself, he would on occasion think of the old days … of his stern old father who had terrified him so much … of his brothers and sisters and the family … of his schooldays … of his buddy, Charles, and the days and nights they spent in the forest together on their way to sell Bata shoes. Charles was the only person he’d come really close to, in his life there, to whom he opened his heart. And he a black man. Those times in the forest, on the road, were what he treasured most out of his memories. They were moments he could truly call all his own.
There was one scene that came vividly to his mind, often, when he sat in his armchair, watched the CN Tower, and let his mind wander. It took place one midafternoon. He and Charles had cooked some maizemeal and beans under an ancient tree, and, while eating, quiet and absorbed, something had made them both look up. They saw an eerie sight that shattered their peace, that sent a shiver up Nurdin’s spine. They were being watched. Some fifty yards away stood a group of people, black people in rags, in loose formation. Looking strange in the distance, waiting and watching, silent and intimidating … until suddenly the details of the men, women, and children registered horribly, in Nurdin’s mind. Thin, emaciated, the women with sagging breasts and exhausted looks; the children with flies buzzing around their noses, eyelids, and sores; old, pathetic grey-haired men shorn of all dignity – all patiently waiting. From time to time someone would go to take a drink from a muddy puddle. The area was suffering a drought, he recalled. Nauseated, feeling the hungry eyes on every morsel of food he tried to raise to his mouth or swallow, he could not finish the meal. And finally, when he and Charles walked up to the dump to throw the leftovers, they were surrounded by a swarm of children begging for the remains. To this day he could not recall what he had done. Perhaps he’d let his plate be snatched away by the nearest and fastest pair of hands. It was a memory that tugged at his heart.
In Toronto’s Dar immigrant gatherings it was considered positively uncouth to recall with any seriousness that previous life. Not quite realizing this, he had on one or two occasions attempted to point out a minute detail, something precious that brought out the nuance of a life once lived, only to be scorned by the grinning mouth of his sister-in-law, This-Is-Canada Roshan. Of course, the Shamsis of Dar had recreated their community life in Toronto: the mosques, the neighbourhoods, the clubs, and the associations. They even had the Girl Guides, with the same troop leaders as in Dar. But no Boy Scouts: some things were different. That was the whole crux of the matter now. Their Dar, however close they tried to make it to the original, was not quite the same. Rushing to mosque after work in your Chevy, through ice and slush, for a ceremony organized in a school gym, dumping your coats on a four-foot mound of other coats and throwing your shoes and boots among the several hundred other pairs – and then afterwards scrambling to retrieve them – was not the same as strolling to your own domed, clock-towered mosque fresh after a bath.
More than this – more than appearances – the sparkle was missing. That intangible that lights up the atmosphere – the spirit, perhaps – was missing, as everyone, even Roshan This-Is-Canada acknowledged. All this said was that they, themselves, waiting for their master, Missionary, to come and reinforce their faiths, were also not quite the same.
And he, how much had he changed? Had he changed enough … and for what purpose? Out (the balcony and across the valley his thoughts flew, to her.
He had gone early this time to Sushila so he could be there a little longer. As he turned onto her street and approached the market, he saw her take a momentary glance down from the first-floor window and then withdraw. He walked up the ancient wooden stairs at the side of the two-storey building. They made an incredible racket. The door upstairs was unlatched, as he expected, and he walked in. She had gone back into the bedroom and he sat down in the living room to wait. Moments later she appeared at the doorway between the two rooms, in the midst of draping a sari around her. There was a safety pin between her lips. The sari was green and white, the blouse a dark green, opaque. Holding the folds in place at her waist with one hand, she raised the other to take the pin. Already, a little wet patch in the armpit. From this sideways pose she looked angular, the neck taut, the bun of hair small and hard at the back. Strands of white above the ear. Not a word yet exchanged between them. He had helped himself to the tea from the waiting pot.
An exclamation, tch, then the folds loosened, the pin went back between the lips, the freed hand arrived too late to prevent the sari from unwinding by the loose end. The slip, opaque, of the same material as the blouse.
The sari enhances the hips, really gives shape to a woman, he thought, watching her closely.
The process was repeated, and when she had wound the sari round the waist and hips, she said, “Nurdin, I think you’ll have to come and help me with this pin.”
His teacup did a nervous tattoo on the saucer and he firmly pressed them together.
“It’s okay. I got it.” She looked up brightly, coming into the living room finally, walking gracefully, the sari in place. “It’s not easy to put on, you know. You men have it easy.”
“But it’s worth the trouble. It looks good.”
There was a freedom in her, a wholeness, a self-sufficiency. Drudgery had not destroyed her charm, and here she was, almost intact. From such a woman you can learn much. With someone like her you could do anything, not be afraid to go anywhere. He realized the illegitimacy of the thought, the hidden desire it contained.
“I am thinking how different you are from other women.”
“When you’re a widow you learn to cope.”
“Don’t you get lonely … when your daughter is away?”
“Yes. I tried to gas myself once … with my daughter. In London.”
“What happened then?”
“I woke up. Found her looking out of the window at the snow falling. Christmas Eve. For some, God comes down on that night bearing gifts. For others, there’s nothing in the world. I’ve learned to live with myself, but I enjoy company, as you can see.”
He was silent. It was as if he had taken a deep dive underwater and come up a little dazed. He wondered how much more there was to her.
“You asked the wrong question,” she said, at length. “Tell you what. Let’s go downstairs. I want to do some shopping. I’ve invited some people for dinner.”
She seemed to know all the shopkeepers downstairs, for some of them she had worked before. There were similarities in what they would buy, of course, but now and then, with a knowing smile she would pick up something that was a total surprise – and a source of delight – for him, like a vegetable he didn’t know the name of. This pointed to her different upbringing, of course. To be a Hindu you have to know your vegetables. He found on the other hand that she did not like to spend time buying meat, and he had to help her.
Mission accomplished, they sat down at the bakery. It was running late for Nurdin, but today he could make an exception.
She was looking earnestly at him. “Nurdin, I would like to tell you something.”
“Shoot,” he said, using an expression he had learned from Romesh and feeling rather good.
“You know, Nurdin – forgive me – but the time at which you come … it’s a little awkward.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”
His heart sank. Just when his life had received a spark, just when he was feeling the best he had felt in a long, long time.
“Oh, no. Please don’t misunderstand me. I do like you to come. But, you know, I never know when you’re coming.”
“I figured if you were not in, I would go away.”
“That wastes your time, doesn’t it? Makes you late at home for no reason. Why don’t you call before, and come for a longer time. This way I feel like I’m running a tea shop.”
They both laughed.
“Listen. Why don’t you take the afternoon off, Monday week. It’ll be fun. Hunh?”
He had not made the proposition, she had. By it, his thirty-minute stolen visits had been shorn of all innocence, the pretence of teatime chitchat. He could go forward or step back, there was no neutral ground, had never been one. What to do? Let his life slip by, this golden opportunity escape – for what? He was a mere servant, slaving away for his children, whose lives now all lay before them, full of possibilities – did they really need him any more? And Zera was wedded to God, it seemed. If he procrastinated, he would never do it, never break these chains which bound him to a term of work and service to which no end was in sight. Sushila promised release. She was waiting for him, he only had to give the word … simpler, only had to take the Monday afternoon off and go to her. She needed him, sure. But she was not a whore. A little free, perhaps. But wasn’t it this freedom that was so attractive, that made possible a new world – his own freedom?
He had begun looking more at himself, become aware of his looks, took greater care with them. He used a simple ruse at home to carry this through: “Eti, Zera, do you think I look scruffy? The director of the centre wants me to dress up.… ” So easily it came, this deception. He explained it to himself by saying that he hated explanations. A simple friend, yet talking about her would raise all kinds of complications. A simple friend? Now the time had come to choose. The simple phase of his friendship had ended.
Lately he was avoiding Zera’s eyes, although he was certain she could never fathom what lay behind his. With the kids it was different: they were always in a hurry, had no time for anyone but themselves. There was that photo on the wall, those eyes that bore into the sides of his head, digging up guilty secrets. And that constant abstract signal in the distance, from the concrete god who didn’t care.
The local chapter of Missionary’s followers, a group of women, had started regular evening meetings at the Lalanis’. They discussed and meditated, but mostly they liked to discuss. Sometimes they sang late into the night, so that he would wake up to humming sounds he wasn’t sure were in his head or outside – until he turned to check if Zera was beside him. And now there were three boys, whom Zera had found. One had volunteered to be the Master’s chauffeur for as long as he was needed. The second one collected and classified all the tapes of the Master’s talks. Nurdin hadn’t figured out the third one yet.
15
The rubber-tiled floors of the Ontario Addiction Centre are spotless and the walls are plain white, as would suit the look of a medical institution. But the corridors in this square building on the main floor face an open courtyard with windows all along their sides; this, with an abundance of well-situated greenery on both sides of the windows, and the loud, cheerful voices, particularly those of the doctors, make it generally a bright and pleasant place.
The basement level, quiet and windowless, is bright and gleaming in artificial light. It houses the supply rooms. From one of them Nurdin Lalani emerged at eleven o’clock one morning, a few days after his last visit to Sushila. He was pushing a squeaking trolley heaped with bed linen. The door clicked shut behind him, and he turned a corner and pushed towards the elevators. As he approached the small lobby facing the two elevators, he saw in front of him a girl in blue jeans sitting on the floor, leaning against the side wall. Her legs were drawn up in front of her, her hands hung limp on the raised knees, and her head was lowered. Obviously she had been crying, the blonde hair was dishevelled, the face – what he could see of it – was puffy and red.
Instinctively he hurried towards her, parking the trolley on the way. “Madam – Miss – is anything wrong? Can I be of any help?”
There was no response. He looked up again, turned around, there was no one coming. He tried again. “Miss, shall I call a doctor?”
He was almost squatting beside her now, his hand was on her shoulder. He realized he had never been so close to a white woman before. And he realized he had become aware of her femaleness. He caught, quite strongly, the whiff of creamy makeup. Her blouse was white, embroidered at the neck. A button was open and he could see the curve of a breast. The skin there was pale, almost white, and dull. He was waiting for her to respond to his offer of help.
The response, when it came, was not quite what he expected. His hand was still on her shoulder when suddenly she gave the alarm.
“RAPE!” she cried. “He’s trying to rape me!”
Nurdin got up. “Heh-heh-heh,” he laughed. “You had me fooled.” For the first time their eyes met. Hers flashed with anger. He felt nervous as he backed away, the situation looked threatening. He pressed the elevator button and got in, without the trolley, as she was still yelling “RAPE! Help, someone!” There was an oppressive empty feeling in the pit of his stomach which was to stay with him for a long time to come.
He went to find Romesh and told him all about it. They concluded that the matter couldn’t be serious, the girl was probably an outpatient drug addict who would calm down.
They always took their lunch late, after one o’clock. In the cafeteria that day, pushing his tray along the counter behind Romesh, he came face to face with the server, short Mrs. Broadbent, hair inside a net, fiery eyes glaring at him behind glasses with open hostility, hands at her waist.
“There he is – you shameless man!”
His heart sank and he became truly fearful.
She had liked him at first, calling him “dear,” until once he had asked – half in jest – for a larger piece of choice meat obviously reserved for a “boss,” one of the male doctors
or administrators. From then on, a glaring eye was his lot, his piece flopped on the plate. This had been a source of great amusement to him and Romesh. Now she had her revenge.
“I’m not going to serve this rapist!” she said, turning away.
“I thought in this country a man was innocent until proved guilty,” said Romesh, to no one in particular.
“Where he comes from, both his hands would be chopped off,” announced Mrs. Broadbent. “Yes, and – ”
“And his marbles too,” added Romesh.
The West Indian cook served Nurdin.
As they went to sit down, everyone present, it seemed, turned to look at him. He tried to eat, wondering what would happen next.
“I think I’ll go and explain to the director,” he told Romesh desperately. The incident loomed larger than he had thought was possible. How could a girl make an accusation and have everyone believe her. He should not have walked away. He should have stayed and defended himself, there and then.
They were still drinking their coffee, slowly, there were a few people around. It was not yet two o’clock when two policemen showed their faces at the door, short Mrs. Broadbent dead centre between them.
He was asked to accompany the policemen.
“If I’m not back by five, call my wife,” he said to Romesh.
He had touched her, and he had an indecent thought about her – was that enough to qualify as rape? There was that guilty thought and perhaps … perhaps during that instant of which he could recall nothing, perhaps then he did do something. But no. If he had touched her breast, he would know, he would feel it on his hand, the place where it had touched her. His hands felt pure, only his mind had deviated. He should not have walked away.
