by Sharon Bala
Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha. As they chanted, Mahindan heard his voice expand, strengthen into certainty. Agitation dissipated. His mind was a still, clear pool. His body empty, a vessel for the holy sound. Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha. He was one with Rama, one with all creatures. The Divine.
They ended with three final oms. And when they were finished, Mahindan turned to his cousin and beamed.
Better? Rama asked.
You know, machan, Mahindan said, I always think of that as Rama’s song.
Lord Ganesha’s song, not mine, Rama said. Now stop your foolish talk. Must get back to work.
They took their time leaving, dallying in the sanctuary of the temple, all the gods watching over them. Rama sang a hymn from the Thiruvasagam under his breath. Mahindan felt a dreamy contentment as he pulled his shirt from his back pocket and slid his arms into the sleeves.
A long colonnade led out from the temple, the underside of its roof garlanded with orange blossoms that swung and released their scent in the breeze. Rama was singing the upbeat verses now, drumming out the rhythm on his trouser legs.
Come on, turtle, he called, sauntering down the colonnade with his feet turned out.
The temple bell clanged and Mahindan, still fiddling with his shirt buttons, glanced up. Rama stopped in his tracks. Parked opposite the temple was a tractor, a group of sombre boys seated on the flatbed and two cadres in camouflage waiting with their guns.
Mahindan remained very still. The dark gloom of the temple was at his elbow. He thought how easy it would be to slink back inside. The cadres raised their hands as if in a friendly wave and Mahindan felt a sickening lurch when he recognized Arun. Mahindan could see they wouldn’t come forward into the colonnade. But Rama could not remain a statue either.
The bell tolled again and he saw a teenager yanking the rope with both hands. He was not one of the ascetic, thin-limbed temple boys. His trousers were rolled up at the ankles; his shirt, unbuttoned, flapped open.
Rama, as if hypnotized, moved forward to the cadres. Guilt compelled Mahindan to follow, sharp pebbles digging into his bare heels. He and Rama had been in school with Arun, who even as a child had been an infamous bully, the kind of person war was made for. When the recruiters came, he was the first to sign up, hadn’t even waited for school to finish.
Mr. Ramachandran, Sri Teacher, Arun called over the tolling bell. It had been years since they’d last seen him and in the interim he’d lost his left ear. We have brought an invitation, he said. On behalf of the Leader.
The boy under the bell tower giggled. Mahindan, halfway down the colonnade now, steps behind Rama, turned and saw his glassy eyes, his unsteady stance. He had relinquished the bell pull and had a cricket bat in his hands, pressed into the ground like a crutch.
Me? Rama’s voice betrayed him, rising to a shrill. Mahindan could see the tremor in his back, the fragile, unprotected nape of his neck. But I am a…a…teacher…my students…
Any fool can teach maths, Arun said. Tamil Eelam needs you for a higher cause.
A higher cause, the drunk boy cackled. He began walking toward Mahindan, swinging the bat.
In the back of the lorry, the captured boys stared straight ahead. Mahindan’s vision blurred. His centre of gravity wavered and he had to brace himself, feet planted. They were now out from under the colonnade, at the mercy of the unforgiving sun, the burning earth scorching their soles.
What is the matter with you, machan? Arun came forward and clapped Rama on the back. You’re a teacher, no? Help us teach these Sinhalese buggers a lesson.
Mahindan watched, helpless, as his cousin was led away past their cycles, cast aside with their slippers under the cool shade of a palmyra tree.
The other cadre had been holding the rifle that was strapped around his neck. He dropped the gun and took Mahindan’s arm.
You’re a teacher also? he asked in a friendly way. He was older than Arun but didn’t seem to resent not being in charge.
Mahindan felt himself being led forward. Rama’s chanting still rang in his ears. Om. Gam. Ganapataya. Namaha.
Mahindan’s legs began to shake. He could barely stammer out the word No. Then an idea came to him like a gift from God. A mechanic, he said. I…am a…Cars, buses, lorries…I…
His mouth was parched. He thought he might choke on his own words, and coughed instead.
I repair them…in my…my…(cough)…shop.
You know to convert an engine? Arun asked.
From diesel to kerosene? Relief flooded in, and with it came courage. Yes. I’m doing this for everyone these days. Engine, brakes, new tires…all, I can do.
He heard the words spilling from his mouth and hated himself.
Arun waved his accomplice away and Mahindan’s arm dropped free. Praise God! He wanted to fall to his knees.
Let the mechanic fellow be, Arun said. He flung Rama so he stumbled toward the lorry. Get in! Get in!
Rama struggled to hoist himself onto the flatbed, pulling up halfway before his feet crashed to the ground. His legs buckled. Mahindan turned away, ashamed, and from the corner of his eye saw Arun give Rama a rough push up.
Tell Ruksala, Rama called, his voice breaking.
Mahindan couldn’t meet his eyes. I will.
Where is your place? Arun asked, and Mahindan gave the directions, eager to be helpful. He tried not to stare at the puckered skin where Arun’s ear should have been.
Useful to have a mechanic, Arun said, getting into the driver’s seat. Reaching his hand out the window, he slapped the side of the door twice and called to the boy. Hurry up, idiot!
He started the engine. The boy leaned heavily on the bat and contemplated his feet.
Catch up on your own, then, Arun shouted.
The passenger door slammed shut and Rama raised a hand. Mahindan did the same and for a moment they held each other’s gaze. Then the lorry drove off.
The drunk boy swayed and staggered forward. He looked young and terrified. Mahindan felt only his heart thumping relief. Their eyes met just as the boy opened his mouth and vomited.
The nature of things
Priya let herself into the family home, left her flip-flops on the mat, and cranked open a window. The house smelled like burnt garlic and frying onions. Her father and Rat were in the living room, playing chess. Appa held the black bishop, squinting through his specs at the battered old game board as he considered his next move. A paper clip stood in for the white queen. Rat had laid it mid-board to stare down a black knight.
Priya’s father was a small man, five foot six with slender limbs and a basketball for a belly. When Ma was alive, she used to tease him about being five months pregnant. Twin tufts of wiry grey hair sprouted up around his bald spot. Priya pecked his cheek and said, Hello, Appa. She didn’t know why, but she had started calling him this after Ma died. Before, he’d always been Dad.
Her elder brother was taller by several inches, darker skinned with close-cropped hair and a lanky, lazy frame. He had come straight from work and sat slouched in a recliner, tie slung across the armrest, legs spread apart.
Priyanke, he said.
She saluted him military-style. Lingaratnam.
At eleven, Rat had announced he wanted to be called Michael. I hate my name! Do you have any idea what they call me at school?
Ma had cried and Appa had grown sullen. But for his eighteenth birthday, they’d brought the paperwork home and made it official, though Priya still refused to call him anything but Rat.
A documentary played in the background on the TV: two monkeys in side-by-side cages interacted with an unseen experimenter whose blue-gloved hands moved in and out of the frame.
The Nature of Things? Priya asked.
Rat put a finger to his lips and scrutinized the chessboard.
The familiar voice of David Suzuki narrated: The capuchin monkeys trade a stone for a slice of cucumber. As long as they both get the same reward, they will happily make this trade over and over.
I saw you
r firm is involved with this illegal ship, Rat said.
Appa made an incoherent grumble, but when Priya glanced over, she saw Rat’s castle take his bishop. Not illegal, Priya corrected. Arriving at the border and requesting asylum is completely legal. The government is throwing around a lot of false accusations to obfuscate the issue. She heard Gigovaz’s words in her mouth – obfuscate – and stopped.
Rat raised his hands in mock surrender. Hey, I’m just repeating what they said on the news.
Yeah, and reporters just parrot every false claim the government makes, Priya said.
So what’s the story, then, with these boat people? Rat asked. What’s your firm doing?
Priya, her father said, without raising his head. Go help your uncle.
Uncle Romesh had lived with them for years – ever since he’d moved to Canada – an indulgent third parent, more affectionate than stern. Growing up, Priya had always felt a distance between her father and uncle, a coldness she couldn’t understand. Once, after witnessing a sharp interaction, she’d asked, Don’t you like Uncle? Appa had only said: Of course, of course. He’s my brother.
But when Ma got sick, she had told Priya: Romesh must not leave.
Leave? Priya had asked, wondering if chemo was fogging her mother’s mind. Where would Uncle possibly want to go?
Don’t let your father send him away, Ma had said, pressing Priya’s wrist. This is Romesh’s home too.
But whatever clash Ma feared never came to pass. It was Uncle who kept the household running when she was sick. Afterward, he had allowed for a six-month mourning period and then instituted a schedule of activities. On Mondays, he and Appa played euchre at the Vietnamese community centre. On Wednesdays, it was cricket with some Bangladeshi friends. They had become addicted to The Young and the Restless, which they taped on the PVR and watched before bed every night. Loss had bound the brothers in a way that Ma, during her life, never could, and the distance Priya had intuited seemed to disappear.
Uncle Romesh was in the kitchen, wearing a sarong and a checked shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The counter was dusty with flour. There was an open bottle of coconut oil and a Pyrex measuring cup of water beside it. He was wrestling a hardened ball of dough, trying to roll it out flat, and listening to a call-in radio show.
Ma’s cookery book lay open. Priya turned a page, time-worn and almost see-through, like onion skin. Her mother’s precise writing decorated the margins. Her notes were in English, but the letters retained the rounded swirls of Tamil, more art than writing. Priya touched her fingers to the faded lead.
Gothamba roti? she said. Ambitious.
Uncle knocked the dough against the butcher block cutting board. Impossible!
The radio host was opining on the G8 summit. Priya tried to ignore his grating voice as she came around to Uncle’s side of the counter. Just buy it next time.
He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. How are you, darling? How is work?
My boss is a drunk, Priya said.
If Ma had been alive, she would have said, Chi, chi…don’t speak like this. But Ma was gone and there was no one left to admonish her.
I thought you liked the boss. Uncle opened the cupboard door under the sink and threw the dough into the compost bin.
Priya took out the rice cooker and explained about Gigovaz and her new assignment. She measured basmati and poured the water from the measuring cup. Uncle spooned in a bit of turmeric and rolled a handful of cardamom, cloves, and curry leaves into a cheesecloth. Priya had taught him this trick. Ma used to throw all the spices straight into the rice and they would have to pick out the debris while they ate. Priya and Rat would whine over the effort, the unexpected bitterness of a cardamom pod when accidentally bitten. And Ma would scold them for complaining. Didn’t they know there were children starving in Ethiopia?
Uncle had heard about the ship. Five hundred people! he said. Shook! And now they’ve put all the fellows in jail, isn’t it? He lowered his voice and added, It’s good they have you.
Why are we whispering? Priya asked, amused. Sometimes Uncle could be as superstitious as an old woman. The whole time Ma was sick, he’d refused to say the word cancer.
Just, he said, and nodded in the direction of the living room. Let them listen to their program.
My clients would be better off with someone who knew what they were doing, she said.
Gigovaz had loaned her a copy of the refugee law textbook and she’d been making slow, grudging progress. The unfairness of her new assignment gnawed away at her. The entire trajectory of her career blindsided by skin colour.
All I’ve done so far is fill out forms, she said. Monkey work.
More and more, Priya got the feeling she was there for Gigovaz’s benefit. He fancied himself a professor and liked to hear his own lectures. Priya noticed the pride he took in introducing her as my articling student. The way he turned his impatient, fleshy hand was maddening. He still didn’t know how to pronounce her name.
A caller on the radio was philosophizing. His accent had a buried South Asian undertone, all the w’s pronounced like v’s. Uncle turned on the tap and, in the conversation’s pause, they heard the caller say: There are two ways of immigrating. There is the hard way that I took of getting higher education, learning English, and gaining work experience. And there is the easy way of becoming a terrorist and claiming refugee status.
Ah! Uncle flinched and pulled his hand out from under the water.
Lock and load would be my approach, the host agreed.
Priya turned the radio off. Why do you listen to this station?
From the living room, they heard Rat roar, gleeful.
Priya poked her head in, glad for a distraction. She didn’t want to think about work anymore. On the screen, a monkey flung a slice of cucumber at the researcher, smacking the cage and rattling the bars in a fit of pique.
David Suzuki explained: Capuchin monkeys act out when they sense an unfair advantage. They’re content with the cucumber until they see another monkey receive grapes.
Rat, still sniggering, paused the program and stood. What’s for chups? he asked, rubbing his midsection and walking into the kitchen.
Priya punched him in the stomach. You got a little bun growing in there too?
Godfather
The ceiling in the attic had sprung a leak. Grace held the ladder as Steve descended. He wore his tennis whites and a baseball cap.
It’s the flashing again, he said, hopping off the last step. I knew those guys from Burnaby did a hack job.
Roofers are impossible, Grace said.
They carried the ladder to the garage and hung it horizontally across two nails.
We really need to get it fixed, Steve said. Some of the beams in the attic have begun to rot.
They returned to the house through the back door. The big family calendar was spread open on the kitchen counter. Grace flipped forward a couple of pages and said, Okay, I can’t do this coming week, but the one after isn’t bad. I could probably find an hour to duck out of the office.
Great. Steve took a glass from the cabinet.
And this week? she asked. If I find a roofer, could you make it work?
I can’t do this week. Opening the freezer, he scooped a couple of ice cubes with his bare hand.
Grace noticed an appointment she had forgotten. The girls have their violin exams on Thursday afternoon, she said. And before Steve could reply, she added: It’s your turn.
I’m in back-to-back meetings, he said. You know how these music things are. You have to get there early, even though they’re always running late, and inevitably there’s traffic. When it’s all said and done, you’ve lost half the day.
I started this job a month ago, Grace said. How would it look, already asking for time off?
I’ve used all my personal days, Steve said, and poured lemonade into his glass.
Grace felt guilty. It was true she had been out of commission for the past few months arranging
Kumi’s move, and it had fallen to Steve to pick up the slack. But then he walked out of the kitchen as if the matter was settled and Grace was annoyed. What about the rest of it, she wanted to say. What about the away games when he was gone and she flew solo, all the times she had to leave work early or refused to stay late because even with Kumi on call, a substitute parent, the twins still needed their mother.
The doorbell rang and Grace closed the calendar. The girls could take the bus to their music exam and the roofer would have to wait. Let Steve put the buckets out the next time it rained.
Fred had his hand cupped to his ear when Grace opened the door. Courier them to my house, he said. I’ll be there later.
Grace waved him in and signalled to the back of the house. He followed, still talking on his phone.
The wiretaps and the warrant, he said. Yes, both.
They went out through the French doors, the stonework on the patio hot under Grace’s bare feet. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky, casting a beneficent light over the expanse of green lawn with its neat riding-mower tracks. She opened the umbrella over the patio table for shade. Over the privet hedge, Grace could see the sloped roofs of neighbouring houses, their brick chimneys and conical evergreens. In her own garden, the peonies in full bloom hung heavy from their stems.
A jug of lemonade stood sweating on the patio table. Grace poured out two glasses while Fred wrapped up his call. She was sorry her mother wasn’t here, that she’d gone to the pool with the twins.
Kumi had been disappointed when Grace went to work for Fred. Administrative assistant, she’d said, making a face of distaste, when Grace came home, excited, with the job offer. You’re going to bring this man his coffee and answer the phones? That’s what you went to university for?
For all Grace’s success, the promotions and raises, Kumi remained unimpressed. In her eyes, Grace had never risen past secretary. But if she saw Fred now, a cabinet minister here in her house, maybe then Kumi would understand the prestige of Grace’s work.
Fred had last visited just after Christmas, before returning to Ottawa for the next session of Parliament. For weeks, Grace had caught him only in glimpses – commanding behind a podium or haranguing the Opposition in the House of Commons. In person, without his pinstripe armour and bow tie, he was shrunken, awkward in khakis and short sleeves.
