English Lessons and Other Stories

by Shauna Singh Baldwin

  Now she stopped protesting her innocence as much as before and began to sit in her room for hours on end.

  “What are you doing?” I would ask.

  “Thinking,” she would answer.

  With her three-week visit drawing to an end and with the phone calls showing no sign of abating, Veeru and I had a difficult decision to make. How could we send her back to America knowing that Muslim fellow was lying in wait for her there? Of course we could not. We did not want her to be ruined.

  If I had any remaining doubts about her absolute ingratitude and total disregard for our feelings, she managed to dispel them completely the day we caught her trying to give Kanti a letter to post. It was addressed to that Muslim fellow. She swore it was only to tell him to stop calling her, to go away, but by this time I wanted no more lies.

  “Why don’t you read it if you don’t believe me?” she wept.

  I said, “I don’t have to read it, you shameless, ungrateful girl. You think I want to read your love letters to a Muslim?”

  Veeru said, “That’s enough. You are not going back to America. Not now, not ever.”

  I expected her to be repentant, to beg for forgiveness. But she didn’t. She just went into her room, and after a few seconds we heard a quiet click. She had locked the door.

  She never used to lock her door before she went to America.

  MIRZA

  I went to the railway station to meet every train for three days before the new term began. Then I took the bus to her dorm and saw the residence hall manager in Simran’s room packing her belongings into cardboard boxes.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. How dare she touch Simran’s clothing?

  “She’s not coming back. I have to pack up all this stuff and ship it back to someplace in India. I oughtta get extra pay for this work.”

  I sat on Simran’s bed and looked out her window. They had engaged her to some fat Sardar, maybe someone with a business in London or the Middle East.

  Then I smiled at the January sun. She would find a way to contact her Mirza. I just knew it.

  Toronto 1984

  PIYA

  DayTimer, lipstick, briefcase, skirt, slip, pumps — not too overstated, I’m training bankers today. Power blouse, though — black for authority. Pearls look Canadian, don’t they? But I can have ethnic individualism in my earrings. Let’s see… lucky I have fair skin.

  Yes, I know, Bibiji. Airport cab’s arriving in a few minutes. If |they send an Indian driver he won’t mind waiting a bit, and if he’s from our area of India we’ll have a nice long talk in Punjabi all the way to Lester Pearson. You heated the milk, Bibiji? I can’t drink that — Omigod, with sugar! I keep saying I like it cold. Yes, Canadian way. OK, give it here — don’t look like that.

  Where’s the computer? Yes, I have to carry it. Achcha, on the luggage cart, then. No, it’s not that heavy, Bibiji — how you fuss. It’s the-top-of-the-line-Compaq. What? Yes, I have my make-up powder packed away.

  Haanji, yes, I will be home tonight. Windsor is very close, Bibiji. Tell Bhaiya hello when he comes home from the factory. He’ll be asleep by the time I come in. Awright, Saala kahin ka! Bye, Bibiji. Have a good day. Keep busy — talk to Masi on the phone, all right?

  BIBIJI

  She’s not all that young, you know. Twenty-four, she’s going to be. Eat your dal, I made it special strength today because the talk is serious. All day at the factory. You must be tired, son. But listen — don’t say you’ve heard me before — this time I’m serious.

  I ask you, is it decent for a not-married girl to go travelling all over Canada, computer or no computer, ji? And when her brother is not a nobody on the street but a foreman in Metal Products and Co. Don’t tell me it is a small factory. Your masi’s son — he’s not even a foreman, just a welder. He was never very bright.

  Haan, where was I? Your sister, son. Everything till now has been good. First you got us immigration here, she did her classes at the Polytechnic. But now I don’t like this too-much freedom. I’m telling you something bad will happen. Now she’s talking of buying a car — did she ask you? No. She says, “I need a car — I think I will buy one.” And she’s gone to the dealers, looking, you know.

  Beta, I know they won’t allow her to wear salwar kameez in her big company, but now she won’t wear it in the evening either. Says it is too much “hassle.” I tell you, this is not good and something has to be done.

  Are you listening? Eat some baigan. It’s your favourite, no? What I am saying, beta, is that it is your duty to find her a proper match. A boy from a good family. But then I was thinking — when do you have the time, all day working. So I think if you write a letter to my brother in India and ask him to find a decent family — Jat Sikh, of course — I am sure he will do the needful. She’s got a fair complexion, send a picture.

  See, I made kheer. It’s your favourite, no? Best basmati rice, I used. Will you promise to write? I know you love your sister…

  PIYA

  Four weeks since I was hired at the accounting firm, but even if it had been four years I doubt if my behaviour would have been forgiven. Company party, yesterday. Open bar, then they planned a sit-down dinner complete with motivational speeches.

  Just before dinner, some old fellow with a red face and white hair stands up at the next table and says, “Please stand for a toast to the Queen.” I thought I heard wrong. Stand for a toast to whom? The people at my table began to rise to their feet. My boss nudged me — “All rise for a toast to Her Majesty.” My face flamed red. I finally understood what they wanted me to do. They wanted me to stand and toast the British Queen, the symbol of the empire my grandfathers fought against for independence, the one whose line had sent my grandfathers to prison.

  I would not stand.

  Soon the entire room was full of men and women in business suits standing around white-shrouded tables and raising their glasses solemnly, saying, “The Queen.” My boss gave me another chance, hissing, “Stand up.” But still I sat, staring at my plate. Then they all drank in unison, and I felt everyone in the room watching our table through the bases of their upturned glasses.

  My boss sat down first at our table. “What’s your problem?” he said.

  “I cannot stand for the British Queen.”

  “She’s Canada’s Queen.” I know when a man is angry.

  “Maybe she’s your Queen, but she isn’t my Queen,” I said. I heard the red-faced man at the next table say, “Uncivilized, positively uncivilized.”

  “Where are you from?” asked my boss.

  “Why, India, of course.” I was surprised. The guy hired me. Surely he’d read my résumé.

  “My Lord,” he said. “You’re a damn Paki.” He looked around at all the white faces at the table. “I would never have hired you if I had known you were a damn Paki.”

  I couldn’t think of a thing to say. A tightness held my throat. I pushed my chair back, rose to my feet and walked out of the banquet hall to the coat rack. There, with shaking hands, I lifted my coat onto my shoulders. I left the door open so that the freezing Dundas Street air could choke them if there was justice…

  I drove my new car home. On the radio a blind dark man was singing, “I just called to say I love you…” Bibiji met me at the door with sweet hot milk and elaichi and I wore a salwar kameez to dinner.

  But today it never happened and the boss was jovial at the coffee machine. “How’s our little Paki?” he said. I pretended not to hear and poured myself a styrofoam cup of bitter coffee instead of my usual cup of tea.

  BIBIJI

  Masi called, son. Are you listening? Masi called, I say. So? So don’t you want to know if a good boy has been found? Yes, yes, I know you wrote to my brother, so what if he answered to my sister — are we not all one family? Getting Canadian, all of you. You want to hear or no? Achcha, listen. My brother knows many people — he’s found not only one boy but quite a few. He says we should all go back to India and choose a good one. Masi reminde
d me about our cousin Sohan Singh. He has a travel agency so we have to buy our tickets there, otherwise his father, Sardar Mohan Singh, will never speak to me again. He’s a good boy. I met him when he was about seven years old. He will give us a good price. What is this time-off? Oh. So tell your boss you have to get your sister married, he will give time-off; are you not the foreman? And when have you ever taken time-off? That was because you were sick. Tell him two weeks. It is very important.

  If you had not had a vasectomy, perhaps he could have found a daughter-in-law for me also — then my duty would be done. Achcha, baba, sorry, baba. I know you said the Congress workers took you to that sterilization camp, but I still can’t understand how they were allowed to make an operation before you had the chance to father even one son. Achcha, baba. I don’t know anything. I am just an old foolish woman who wants the best for her children. If your father was here I would not have any worries. Who listens to a widow?

  PIYA

  There’s a falling silent in the hallways as I pass. The Chinese South African who works in the next office drops in for a technical discussion on the merits of different IBM clones and I am comforted. And as he is leaving, he says, as if imparting a warning — work hard. I will. I will. For now I am not only myself, but I am all of India and Pakistan and Bangladesh. I am a million and a half people sitting in one small office in Mississauga. I wear a label and will take pride in being a damn Paki.

  BIBIJI

  Your brother is going to India, daughter. He has told me to tell you we will be going too. Why must he tell you himself? Am I not your mother as well? Typical Canadian, you got a new car, you think you can give answers back patak-patak like a firework. Too much freedom, that’s what I told your Bhaiya. A trip to India costs money. Still, he’s willing to spend it on you. He’s a dutiful boy — not like you, always answering back before anyone can even say, “Howdy Doody.” Achcha, daughter, where was I, you made me forget…

  Haanji, he is willing to spend two thousand dollars more for you and me to fly home. Now two weeks time-off. That is all you have to get. You just started the job, so what. Can a girl work all day and night? Every day you drive here, fly there. Too independent, you’re getting. All week you came home late — are you seeing some fellow or what? Don’t answer back to your mother.

  It’s all settled. You will come with us. Bhaiya has said so, and I am asking you to be a good girl and listen to his wishes. If your father was here, he would tell you for me — but what can I do, one poor foolish widow. You have all studied in college how to answer back your elders; I have not. Drink your milk, now. I have made it with my own hands for you and it is getting cold.

  PIYA

  It’s getting cold. Early December frost on my windowpane. We leave tomorrow. We’re all packed, and I called the airport taxi and asked for a Punjabi-speaking cab driver for the early morning ride. I told them I needed a leave of absence for two weeks. The boss’s eyebrows rose. Personal reasons, I said. The silence was triumphant, but I got the “time-off” like Bibiji says.

  Maybe India is just what we all need. Can’t sleep. The BBC should be on shortly.

  BIBJI

  Sat Sri Akal to you too. Let an old woman sleep a little longer. What’s the matter? Not the flight? What happened? Who got shot? She got shot? Mrs Indira Gandhi? When? Early morning in Delhi — two hours ago. Who did it? Was it a Hindu — like the one who killed Mahatma Gandhi? What — a Sikh did it? Son, stop it. You must not show happiness — what will people say? Yes, yes, I know, the sterilization. But her sin was greater than a sin against one man, beta. Pride. A widow with pride. She thought even the house of God was her enemy. Cancel the flight, son. Yes. A Brahmin has been killed and every Hindu will be looking for blood.

  Tell Sardar Mohan Singh’s son, the travel agent, what’s his name, we want full refund. We will buy more tickets in exchange, tell him. For my brother, for his wife and their son. Daughter, you will move into your brother’s room when they come. Call the airport taxi — the owner’s family is also Sikh. They will understand.

  You know, daughter… that is not a bad family. They are doing well; I saw their son at the Gurdwara. Not a bad-looking fellow. He uses computers too, you know, for his business. I should think he went to college. I will ask his mother next time we meet — they have been here many years, but I think he is still a good boy. Not too much freedom gone to his head. You know, not become too Canadian.

  Achcha, no more time for talk. I must say my prayers for all the Sikhs in India.

  Lisa

  Brenda eased herself out of the light blue Horizon and came around to Jaya’s side of the car. “Slam that good, now. It doesn’t lock anymore, but no one’s going to steal it around here. C’mon, let’s go. Move it, move it, pal. Lisa’s going to be here at nine.”

  Jaya adjusted her embroidered chunni and followed Brenda into the hubbub of Hooligan’s Bar. She wasn’t really slow, just a little afraid. “I’ve never been to a bar before,” she murmured.

  “Hey, dude, where ya been?” Whoever she had greeted didn’t answer. Brenda was unfazed. “Two Alabama Slammers, Mike.”

  Mike obliged and Jaya found herself holding a strange-coloured liquid. She took a sip as if it was brandy and Brenda laughed. “It’s a shot, kid. You drink it all in one go, see?” Brenda downed hers, and Jaya smiled. “You better not make me drunk,” she said, her voice sounding a little prim even to herself.

  She looked around and discovered that the only other woman present was Brenda. The men sat on the well-polished bar stools and their voices made a low-grade hum. “Isn’t Lisa late?”

  “Nah.” Brenda dropped her voice. “Hey, Jaya, I got us here early so I could talk to you. See, I need your advice.”

  “Why, certainly, what is it?”

  “Well, see, Lisa’s an old pal of mine. We used to work out at Body Stretch together, weightlifting, and then I got the job at the print shop and she went to work for them as an aerobics instructor.” She paused.

  “I’ll take a beer, Mike. Miller Lite.”

  Mike served her and Jaya noticed he had a shamrock tattooed on his arm. Brenda took a gulp, marshalling her thoughts.

  “Well, Lisa met this dude. I mean, he was a real schmuck, see, and I told her, I mean, I knew he was a schmuck — like when we went out and he was always, like, putting her down, see?”

  Jaya nodded.

  “Well, she’d been talking about gettin’ married from the day they met, that’s how stupid some women can get, but I figure she’s a friend of mine, she’ll get schmart once she figures out he’s no good for her, see. But now, get this, all of a sudden that no-goodnik throws her over.”

  “Throws her over?” This was an Americanism Jaya had not heard.

  “Says, Forget it, no way babe, or something like that.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Jaya sympathetically. Some men who looked like construction workers had started a dart game at the end of the room. She still wished Lisa would appear as a reinforcement — a tragic young Miss Havisham, perhaps.

  Brenda continued. “So anyway, she’s all cut up about it, and I figured maybe you could help.”

  “Me?” said Jaya.

  “Yeah, well, see, this guy says he’s gotta go away for a while, like two weeks or so. Then Lisa finds out he’s going home and he’s going to be married to some other woman. And then he tells her he wants her to move out by the time he gets back.”

  “They were living together?” Jaya’s disapproval showed.

  “Yeah.” Brenda shrugged.

  “So?”

  “See, he’s from India, too, so I figured you’d be able to tell her what’s going on with him.”

  “Oh.” Jaya swirled the last of the Alabama Slammer around in the glass.

  “Hey, Lisa, get your butt over here. Hey, Mike, this woman needs a beer.”

  Jaya’s dark eyes met Lisa’s green ones. Well, no wonder, she thought.

  Like some prostitute, Lisa had blonde hair.

  Bre
nda’s hatchback was crammed full of Lisa’s belongings and Jaya was struggling to close it with a bungee cord.

  “Wait’ll we have to carry this up four floors,” said Lisa.

  Brenda was usually a careful driver, but today she was trying to get Lisa to laugh. “Hey, just how many Indians does it take to change a light bulb? None, they don’t want it changed.” Jaya was quiet.

  Lisa said, “You want some Indian cookbooks? I got lots.”

  “That’s OK,” said Jaya.

  “No, I mean it, I never want to eat Indian food again.”

  Brenda said, “Hey, you can’t get away from Indian food, living with us. Jaya makes it good, real hot curry, see.”

  Lisa looked out of the window. “Made it every night for two years for him.”

  Jaya was ironing a salwar kameez when Lisa’s wail shook the apartment. She put the iron down carefully and went to the bathroom door.

  “What’s the matter, Lisa?”

  “Son-of-a-bitch. I’m pregnant,” said Lisa.

  “Oh, dear,” said Jaya helplessly. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to call that son-of-a-bitch and ask what he plans to do about it.”

  Jaya said, “I know what he’ll say.”

  Lisa was suddenly cat-still. “What will he say?”

  “He’ll say to get rid of it.”

  “The hell I will. I’m anti-abortion.”

  “Well, he won’t be.”

  “I’m gonna slap that bugger with a paternity suit and he’ll be paying child support till he’s a hundred.” Lisa was getting tearful.

  Jaya sighed. “And what are you going to do for eighteen years to support a child? How are you going to work in the next few months — I’ve never seen a pregnant aerobics instructor.”