What You Are

by M G Vassanji

  She had rented an apartment in one of the Flemingdon Park high-rises in Don Mills, where there were already other folks from back home. They seemed to be many, though actually they were perhaps fifty at most. Often, catching the elevator you would meet someone from Dar, and with relief burst out in a spate of Kutchi or Gujarati, which had been pent up unspoken inside. In the basement of the local mall the former denizens of Dar rented a room where they held their khano, their religious gathering, every weekend in the mornings at four and evenings at six. At the khano all their sense of alienation fell off. Information was exchanged, including the specials that week at the mall, new arrivals and visitors were greeted, food offerings were brought and auctioned. The steady news from Dar always reminded them of how fortunate they were to have escaped the hardships there.

  Unabashedly they would recite their Arabic prayer and sing their Gujarati ginans. On festival days they would play a music tape and dance the raas. It was on these days of their muted celebrations, however, that the feelings of doubt and regret about where they were and the certainty they had lost would fall upon their gathering, for they would recall the joyous celebrations that took place in Dar, when a few thousand people sat together for the communal feast, and people danced the dandiya-raas to a live band well into the night and the music reverberated unrestrained throughout the city. On the final evening a stately procession led by the elders wearing red robes and gold turbans, accompanied by the beat of a dhol and the sound of a trumpet, would make its way through the neighbourhoods. Everyone was dressed in their finest. The khanos of Dar, prominent city landmarks with clock towers, were adorned with series of lights. All that, they had left behind. But then they had also left behind bribe-giving, food queues, ruined schools, and racial discrimination, and come to freedom and safety, even if imperfect. Gulnar prayed for her brother and her parents to be allowed to join her, so they could be a family again, even if in new circumstances. She had hopes of getting married, but not before they arrived. She wanted to learn to drive and buy a car, but she would wait.

  Kamru’s application was rejected again. Gulnar had half expected that, for he had no qualifications except as a shopkeeper, and so she applied to sponsor him. In her interview she showed them that she could support him when he arrived; her expenses were modest and she had a savings account. She had a letter from her employer. Besides, Kamru would be certain to find a job soon. He spoke English well, and he was a businessman; wasn’t a shop a business? He did his own bookkeeping.

  She was keenly observant in her faith. Back home—as she couldn’t help thinking of Dar—she went to khano every evening at six, and on Friday mornings at four. Here in Flemingdon Park, she went to all the three evening gatherings of the weekend and the early-morning ones on Saturdays and Sundays. Even in the winter, in the bitter cold. In Toronto the spiritual need was greater. Four a.m., the quietest point of the night, was the designated time to meditate. The meditation brought her a sense of calm and well-being, a perspective that told her what should be important in her life, and what was merely superficial and transient. Not everyone went, of course. But those who did were a special group, a spiritual club for whom the fate of the soul was everything.

  If I want to get married and have children, should I be so spiritual? she sometimes wondered. She had yet to live a life of the world. A life of the senses. She desired the presence of a man beside her, to feel a baby in her belly, a child at her breast. This made her feel guilty and blasphemous, but she said to herself, Our faith asks us to lead a life of the world too, doesn’t it?

  Among that first group of Dar immigrants in Flemingdon Park were a few couples with young children, a widowed grandma who was a darling, and two men and three women, all single like her. One of the men was called Amin, modest in manner and respectful, perhaps because he came from a small town, Kigoma. She had never visited it, on the shores of Lake Tanganyika and at the end of the railway line. He worked as a night security guard at the mall but went to college during the day to study accounting. He would sometimes grin and say, “This is what happens when you don’t pay attention in school, even when the teachers beat the lessons into you. You become a watchman.”

  At a little before four in the morning on weekends he would come over from his duty and help to set up the prayer hall in the basement. Gulnar and another girl, Kulsum, would be there already. The three of them were the Set-up Committee. There was the floor to be vacuumed, prayer books to be placed at the front on a low table, the incense to be lit and taken around to every corner to render the place sacred. At exactly four the lights went out. At five a soft alarm would sound, the lights flickered on one by one, and after a recital of a ginan they would share the blessed water, niaz, in small cups. Afterwards, chatting cheerfully—you couldn’t help but feel good—they would go and sit at McDonald’s or Dunkin’ Donuts.

  They were Canadians, almost, and beginning to settle and to dream. Amin was an attractive prospect for both Kulsum and Gulnar. He became an accountant finally, but ended up marrying neither of them.

  * * *

  —

  The pink face of the inspector was intent upon her, he was saying things which she did not follow. Her head felt heavy, she needed to take her nap. She got up and brought back two glasses of water. When would he leave?

  “It’s been a long time,” she said.

  “I’m glad you think of it that way, you’ve put it behind you.”

  “But I’ve not forgotten.”

  Every day all these years I’ve said to myself the same thing, I wish they die a horrible death, these men, White and Granger, who dirtied me indelibly; I wish and pray they meet a terrible death. But such men don’t always get what they deserve.

  “You know what they did,” she said.

  He did not respond. They never believed her then, it was her word against two of their own.

  * * *

  —

  When she was young, sometimes during the holidays she joined her mother and other women of the neighbourhood on their long walk to the morning congregation. They made their way slowly up an eerily dark and depleted Uhuru Street, and could be heard blocks away, people said, the light shuffling and the soft murmurs approaching or receding. No untoward incident on the way had ever been heard of. Here in Flemingdon Park too it felt safe, even when she walked alone to the khano in the mall basement. All was as still as in Dar, except the street lamps were brighter, the buildings loomed larger. Only the cold was a worry, in the winter. A few times the men had been stopped by police cruisers, curious to know where these immigrants were headed to at this hour. Amin was one of those who were stopped, and when he explained that he was going to pray, he received a ride to his destination. He boasted that the angels had hailed him and flown him over. One morning the cops appeared outside the hall, and having spoken to a few people as they arrived, and watched the silhouettes already sitting cross-legged in the darkened room, they departed. It was joked that the two policemen had seen the light in the dark.

  Some weeks later, in early spring one morning, Gulnar came out of her apartment building and had hardly walked fifty yards on St. Dennis Drive when a police cruiser braked beside her.

  “Where are you headed at this hour, Miss?”

  Gulnar turned and smiled. “I’m going to pray,” she replied primly.

  “To the khano, we know. You should not be walking alone at this hour. And it’s too cold. Hop in at the back, we’ll chauffeur you there.”

  It was Officer White.

  She didn’t want to hop in, but who was going to argue with two cops, so she got into the car and they drove on and turned into Don Mills Road, then into the mall parking lot.

  “Shall I get off here?” she asked.

  “ ‘Shall I?’…Well, well,” Granger, the driver, turned around and grinned. “If you want to.”

  “But if you are nice,” said his partner, “we’ll drop
you right at the entrance.”

  There was something in the voice, and that briefest exchange of looks between them. Suddenly she was frightened, and froze. The two officers had opened their doors and rapidly got out and were at the back now, on either side of her. She tried to push past White, who was on her right. “I’ll get off here, please let me go.” But they were too powerful; one held her by her arms while the other quickly reached and pulled down her panties. They took turns with her and later even dressed her before dropping her off at the entrance. “Now, not a word to anyone,” warned White edgily to her back as she stumbled away. The other one added something.

  She hurried, half stumbled to the mall entrance; she hit her head against the glass door, and inside, she lurched forward and vomited, threw her guts out. She would remember her breathless cry of “Ya Ali, Ya Ali, Ya Ali, Oh God!” She barely managed to go down the basement steps to the prayer room, which was already dark, it being just past four. She ran inside for its shelter, choking on her sobs, “They…they…they…and fell down with a thump. No sound came in response, it was as though the room were empty, but for that faint human odour and a stirring somewhere in the air. Moments passed before a dim light came on hesitantly at the back, then more lights and they ran to her assistance.

  The women took her to the washroom first. When they returned, the men had held a conference, and they all then went to Gulnar’s apartment to discuss the matter further. Over a quick cup of tea they planned a strategy. It had not been her fault, she should not be afraid or ashamed. She had been attacked. And those two cops should not get away with that; they should be punished. Or they would go on and target someone else. Gulnar should file charges at the Eglinton Avenue police station. She agreed and they helped her think through her report. It was understood that the women who had washed her would testify to the rape. They were eight and all decided to accompany her.

  At the station they were made to wait as though they had come in with a trivial matter. While they waited, cops came and went, drunkards and brawlers were brought in and dealt with. It was an hour before Gulnar was summoned and taken by herself to a conference room to tell her story to four grim-looking officers. They looked older than the other two. But it was clear from their cold stares that they were not going to believe her. Are you sure it was a police car that gave you the ride? How could you tell in the dark? It could have been two men dressed as officers in a police car. A cruiser, she was informed, had in fact been driven away by miscreants at about that time outside Dunkin’ Donuts; the two officers would be reprimanded for losing their vehicle. They were White and Granger, whom she was accusing of having picked her up and violated her. She should not take this matter lightly. If she insisted on her accusations, she could be charged with mischief and even lose her immigration status. What were they up to anyway, men and women meeting in the dark at four in the morning—doing what? Could it have been one of her friends who was responsible, and now they had decided to blame the police? The cops were there to serve and protect, to serve and protect, she should bear that in mind. They interrogated Amin and scared him out of his wits.

  “Gul, we can’t win against them,” he said, as he emerged from the conference room, ruffled, as though he had just faced a pack of cheetahs or something.

  Her humiliation ran deep. In the days and weeks that followed, she couldn’t look in the eyes of her men friends from khano, her worship companions. What must they think of her, what must they imagine? She had been dirtied. They were men after all. When she went to see the doctor in the mall, he gave her a lecture on sex and the nurse handed her a safe-sex kit, “if you must.” She was afraid to open her door, and suffered nightmares in which the two cops used all kinds of means to attack or intimidate her. Scenes of the rape clung stubbornly to her mind. Now she always walked to the morning congregation along with two others, one of them sometimes Amin. A few times a police cruiser followed them all the way.

  Six months later her brother Kamru arrived, and her life filled up. She cooked for two now and they went to khano together. Through a friend from Dar, Kamru got a job at a subway booth, and soon they had a car, a white Chevy Malibu. Amin married a girl from Uganda, whom he met at a new khano that had opened on a school premises on Lawrence Avenue. Gulnar herself had received proposals over the years. She went out a few times with a man from Uganda who was a teacher; he was her best prospect, a gentle soul as observant as she was. They reached the point of discussing marriage, but then abruptly he backed off. His mother needed caring, and so on. Almost the same thing happened with another guy, who was from Tanzania. Some excuse about a sister. She knew then that the story of her rape had spread. Even the widower with a daughter, desperate to marry her at first, later changed his mind. There were two other prospects. A white guy in her building, and an Indian Guyanese she met at work, but it was she who refused to take the friendships further. Meanwhile Kamru married and bought a house in Scarborough. Gulnar didn’t go to live with him. It was eight years since she had arrived in Canada and she had hardened. But she was a good aunt to Kamru’s two kids and watched them grow up. She continued to stay in the same one-bedroom apartment as before, on the seventh floor of 99 St. Dennis Drive, next to Flemingdon Park Mall. And she took the 100 bus to the city as always, to get to work. She drove her own car when she needed to. Besides her savings account, she steadily put away some money in cash in a small suitcase that she kept at the back of her closet.

  Thirty years had passed. Today she would be believed with her story. There would be a hue and cry in the Star and she would become a hero. There would be reparations. Those bastards would be in jail.

  * * *

  —

  Kevin Leary was waiting for her to speak.

  “Do you believe my story?” she asked.

  He squirmed. “I cannot say. But my sympathies are with you. It’s been a long time. Better to let it be. Do you believe in revenge?”

  “Sometimes you wish you could do something, sir, when you have been hurt so much.”

  He was silent and looked away to stare towards her balcony. It was a bright May morning outside. He turned to her and pronounced slowly, “James White had a good family. He had three grandchildren.”

  “That’s nice. And Granger?”

  “A widower. They had no children. I believe he’s not well.”

  He got up and moved towards the door.

  “This Idris Pal,” he said, turning around to face her. “He’s our prime suspect in the shooting. Did you see him often?”

  “Maybe a few times at the mall. I don’t pay attention.”

  “Yes. His mother said he received a lot of money recently. He left ten thousand dollars for her in cash on the kitchen table before he disappeared.”

  “Could be from drugs,” Gulnar said.

  “Yes. Well, thank you, Mrs. Lalji—”

  “Miss,” Gulnar corrected him. “I did not marry.”

  “Excuse me. Miss. Thank you. I appreciate your time.”

  * * *

  —

  Yes, sometimes there’s a need for revenge. And I waited a long time.

  One morning outside the supermarket, as she was about to pass the young man, she stopped and came to stand before him. She knew about him because she had seen his picture in the Don Mills Shout. He was so startled by her presence that his mouth opened.

  “You need something, Auntie?”

  She said nothing.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I want a gun.”

  “You think I carry guns?” He laughed loudly, derisively.

  “Where can I buy one? I’ll pay well.”

  “You want to do someone. Who—your husband?”

  “No.”

  “I know people who can do it for you. You ever shoot a gun? Hold one in your hand? There’s people who can do it. For money. Lots of it.”

  “I have a lot of
money.”

  She told him what she wanted.

  MEMORIES

  —Do you remember this one? Lateef jabs a finger on his tablet, and a song comes on. Thin, high, beautiful. Ancient.

  Yeh zindagi usiki hai…

  —Of course I do!

  …jo kisika ho gaya…

  The love song of our time. Truly she lives who lives for love, sings a plaintive, dishevelled Anarkali, escorted by two soldiers to be bricked behind a wall. No door, no window, a living burial. Named after the glorious red flower of the pomegranate, she was the maidservant who dared to return the love of a Mughal heir. The empire stood balanced on the edge of this unthinkable passion. The story is not true, she was not real, say the historians; yet she has a tomb in Lahore which people visit. Thus, love.

  Nasir thinks of Zaynab. A love not returned. Or perhaps returned, but fickle—sold and bought on Wall Street forty years ago.