Monkeys!
“But they know what they’re doing,” Uncle said. “They wait for midday, when people are napping.”
Pedro hoisted himself up on the window ledge. “Priscilla said you play football?”
“Yes,” I said. So this was Priscilla’s brother.
“You should come play.”
“Let him eat first. I’ll take him to the tea stall and then I’ll drop him off at the field after.”
Pedro agreed, and dropped down from the window.
Uncle and I locked up the house and took a two-minute scooter ride to a tiny tea stall tucked in between several banana trees. Dark metal tables and chairs were arranged under the shade of a roof of thatched coconut leaves. A glass display held candies and sweets, and bottles of cashew fenny were lined up on a shelf behind the counter.
As soon as we sat down, a man came and poured us water in steel cups. Uncle said something in Konkani to him, and he took away my cup of water. He returned a moment later with a bottle of water and two steaming cups of chai.
“Your mother told me you left school,” Uncle said, picking up his cup and blowing steam away from the rim.
“I can go back if I want,” I said quickly, and tried to take a sip of my chai, but it was far too hot. I thought back to that year of engineering. It had been a shock at first to have so many other Indian students in my class, coming from a town where my sister and I were the only ones. In my engineering circle, my nickname was Coconut—brown on the outside, white on the inside. I didn’t like that name: it implied I was missing something, or faking or concealing my identity. But as the semester wore on, that began to feel true.
“I’m glad you can go back. But you should have finished your studies first, then come.”
“But I needed to come now.” I put the tea down. “I did well in my courses first semester, but things changed second semester when I went to the bookstore to buy my textbooks. On the way to the checkout, I stopped at a table and picked up a copy of Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance. I didn’t read a word of my textbooks until I finished that book. Soon after, I felt India calling me.”
The waiter returned with two plates filled with potato and onion bhajias.
“India will be here. And I will show you Goa. But your education is very important.” Uncle picked up a bhajia and took a small bite. He blew steam from the fried treat before popping it into his mouth.
“Did you go to school, Uncle?”
“Of course. I went to VJTI, a technical institute in Bombay. I got my Weaving Manufacturing Certificate. Then I was able to get a job for Swadeshi Mills, part of Tata.”
“What did you do, though?”
“Textiles. We took cotton and made cloth. Nowadays everything is electronic, but back then we used huge looms. ‘Swinging monsters,’ we used to call them. It started with Platt Brothers looms, plain looms. Then came the Japanese Sakamoto looms; these were semi-automatic. And by the time the shuttleless Nuovo Pignone looms came out, I was Assistant Weaving Master.” He described each loom like it was an old friend.
“How long were you there?”
“Twenty-five years. But the price of land in Bombay went through the roof, so they moved the whole operation to Gujarat. Everyone lost their job. I was almost fifty, and no one hired you that old. We fought for years to get the pension we were owed. In the end we got half of what we were supposed to. Although, without it, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I felt guilty for having worked just a few months after leaving school and being able to afford the plane ticket to travel here. Just as I thought about leaving some money for him when I left, the waiter brought the bill. I reached for my wallet, but Uncle pulled the bill away and paid it.
“It would be different if Maria was working or married, but she isn’t. I’m still supporting her.” Uncle downed the last of his chai as if it were a shot of alcohol.
“Kitem adlem nisteak?” one of the boys playing soccer asked me.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I only speak English, unfortunately.”
Pedro replied to the boy, then said to me, “He’s asking what you got for fish today.”
“Fish?”
“What food you ate? Your meal. We eat fish for lunch so often, everyone just asks what kind.”
“Oh. I didn’t have fish, but my meal was very tasty.”
The seven other boys were all different ages and all barefoot. After Uncle had dropped me off, I wasn’t so sure about playing. The field had a slight slant, then dropped off precipitously on one side. The earth was hard: red dirt, with tiny, rounded stones scattered everywhere that the boys called “xencare.”
We divided into teams and began to play; the kids were half my age but all fast and strong on the ball. Pedro was on the opposite team and the best of the bunch—I couldn’t get the ball off him. Running on the small stones was difficult at first, and I slipped around a bit.
After Pedro scored his fourth goal in the metal nets with no mesh, I asked him, “Will you play for Portugal or India?”
“Football I’d play for Portugal. Cricket I’d play for India.”
There was once a time I’d dreamed of playing soccer for Canada.
It felt great to do something I did back home and was good at, but after half an hour, I hadn’t got off a single decent shot. The game was out of reach, but I still wanted to score at least one goal to prove myself. Maybe it was because I was older and not born here, but I wanted to show them a Goan from Canada could really play, too. I was near the edge of the field and kicked the ball with the outside of my foot. The ball sailed toward the net, but I lost track of it when I skidded on the small stones—I landed on my side and slid down the hill. I could feel my right arm scraping the ground before my slide turned into a roll.
When I opened my eyes, Pedro was running down the hill.
“Are you alright?” he asked when he reached me.
“I think so,” I said, embarrassed. Then I remembered about the shot. “Did I score?”
Pedro looked like he wanted to lie, but then he shook his head.
“Damn,” I said.
“It was close,” Pedro added. The church bells rang, and he said, “Time to go home.”
We said goodbye to the other kids, and Pedro and I walked back together. Seeing the scrape on my arm, he said, “Come, I know a plant for that.”
“No thank you,” I said, remembering the sting of the last one.
“This won’t hurt, it’s just aloe.”
We stopped off at Pedro’s house and he broke a leaf off the spiked aloe plant growing in his front yard. He told me to hold out my arm and with two fingers squeezed the gel from the leaf. I spread it over the scrape and felt a cooling sensation. I didn’t notice my uncle Quinton walk up behind us.
“What happened?” he asked. Molly followed close behind, tongue out and tail wagging.
“I’m fine. Just slipped down the hill while playing.”
“What will your mother say?”
I felt like a child again. I repeated, “I’m fine.”
“You have to be careful.”
“Uncle, you didn’t give him fish for lunch?” Pedro asked.
“No. Tomorrow we’ll have to get one. Aiden, after church I’ll show you the beaches and we’ll get a fresh fish.”
The mass was in Konkani, so I understood none of it, but was surprised by how similar many of the actions and the order of events were to services at home. After the mass, everyone mingled outside, near the large white statue of St. Francis of Assisi. When I saw the cemetery and path leading up a large hill, I recalled distant memories of a story I’d been told by my father. Something involving coconuts rolling down the hill and a bad priest. I remembered he’d said he would tell me the full story when I was older.
Before I could ask Uncle about it, Priscilla and Pedro came
rushing toward us. She was in a dress, and he wore dress pants and a shirt. They switched from trying to be the first to tell me something to saying back and forth, “You tell him!” “No, you tell him,” and laughing too hard for me to understand.
Finally, Priscilla calmed enough to invite me and Uncle to dinner tomorrow.
I looked to Uncle, who nodded.
“That sounds great, Priscilla. Thank you,” I said. “Did you find your rooster?”
“No, he’s still missing.”
“Probably got eaten by a snake,” Pedro joked.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Uncle said.
“Can you play football today?” Pedro asked.
“We’re going to see the beaches today,” Uncle said.
As we said goodbye to the pair, I felt a small acceptance at their invitation to dinner and to play soccer again, even after hurting myself.
We went back to Uncle’s scooter and, after making a stop to change out of our church clothes at his house, we began the journey. I held on to the back of the scooter this time. We went to three beaches that day, each with a different seductive meeting of sand and sea. The first beach was mostly filled with pale Europeans lying on cabana chairs under large umbrellas and being served drinks. The next beach had only Indian tourists. They took pictures and frolicked in the shallow water in their ordinary clothes instead of swimwear; this made me smile, remembering how my aunt Delilah did the same on a trip to Sauble Beach long ago. I would have to remind her when I returned to Mumbai.
As we approached the third beach on Uncle’s scooter, we passed what looked like a slum. The small houses were a patchwork of corrugated metal, plastic, and thatched coconut leaves. Clothes hung on short lines. Women in saris washed pots near a well. A few kids were flying kites, while others laughed as they rolled an old tire back and forth.
We parked the scooter and walked down to the beach. This one felt more authentic than the others. Maybe because there were fewer people, and all of them locals. But there was something else as well. Something about the water and trees that felt familiar—the scene reminded me of a picture that hung in the living room of my parents’ house and had been in my dreams since I was young. Sitting in the sand and watching the water, I felt like I’d stepped back into one of those dreams.
As we returned to the scooter, Uncle stopped at a table that held a stack of coconuts. The leaves in the tall trees behind them moved in the breeze like shaggy hair atop a head.
There were two men at the stand; the younger one carried a machete.
“Two,” Uncle said in English. “One tender coconut for my nephew.”
“Very good.” The merchant made a kind of checkmark in the air with his head. He spoke in Konkani to the young man, who sliced the tops off two coconuts. He handed one to my uncle and another to me; a plastic straw floated in the water filled almost to the brim.
The merchant turned to me as I drank and asked, “Where are you from, my friend?”
“Canada. How did you know I’m not from here?” I hadn’t spoken yet and wasn’t wearing my backpack.
The coconut seller chuckled. “You have hope in your eyes. Too much hope for here.”
The water I was drinking went down the wrong pipe and I started coughing. I cleared my throat and said I was okay, before coughing again and turning toward the beach.
“Too much hope,” Uncle said. “Guess how much he paid for a train ticket to Mumbai?”
The merchant leaned in.
“Seven hundred.”
“Aye-ye-ye-ya,” the man said, then translated to the young man. Both of them looked at me like they were simultaneously impressed that I had spent that much and that I was foolish for doing so.
“They were sold out,” I repeated, clearing my throat again.
But Uncle had finished his drink and was paying the man fifteen rupees.
“Did this one cost more?” I asked the merchant.
“Yes, that’s a tender coconut. The young ones cost more.”
“Why?” I asked.
“The older ones we can just drop to the ground,” the coconut seller said. “But the young ones would get bruised or broken, so we have to lower them down with a rope. Takes more time.”
I took a slow sip and looked up at the coconut tree behind him. “I used to dream of climbing coconut trees when I was younger.”
“So long as you don’t dream under the coconut tree.” The man let out another chuckle. “Might be your last if one falls and hits your head.”
“You used to climb them, right?” I asked Uncle. “I remember hearing stories of you spending whole afternoons up the coconut trees.”
“That was a long time ago.” Uncle looked at the other merchant stalls down the road, squinting in the sun. “Let me see if I can go get one fish. You’ll stay here?”
Uncle left, I finished the water, and the young man split the coconut and gave me a small piece of shell to scrape the tender flesh from the inside.
The merchant must have noticed me staring at the trees. “You want to climb?”
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“Come. It’s not too difficult.”
I thought of Uncle coming back and finding me up in a coconut tree. I wanted to show him that I could indeed do it.
The merchant spoke in Konkani to the young man with the machete, who moved to the closest tree behind him and waved me over. I joined him at the tree, and he put both hands around the trunk and made a pulling motion. Then he angled his feet so they almost curled around the trunk. One hand after the other, he moved higher, shimmying his feet up in stride.
My sister, Ally, and I had climbed many trees back in Canada, but none without branches. I put my arms around the tree, like the young man had. The trunk had ringed ridges and the bark was as coarse as sandpaper. Though my feet didn’t bend the way the young man’s did, I pulled with my arms and pushed with my feet as hard as I could, moving my body upward.
“That’s it! You’re a natural,” the merchant shouted from below.
Up among the fronds, the young man was hanging on with one arm and smiling, encouraging me on. I imagined myself at the top, calling down to my uncle in triumph. A great story to tell when I got back home.
But I soon began to feel the strain in my arms and legs, and my climbing slowed. When my muscles started shaking, I stopped, wrapping my arms and legs around the tree and hugging it as tight as I could.
I looked up. The young man was waiting for me.
“Take a break, it’s okay,” the merchant shouted from below.
I glanced down at him. “I think that’s as far as I can go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. How do I get down?”
“Slide, slowly.”
I loosened my grip but didn’t move. I could feel sweat on my forehead and I wanted to wipe it away but couldn’t. When I loosened my grip more, I descended too rapidly. The inside of my thighs and chest chafed against the tree trunk as I tried to regain my hold. When I finally stopped sliding, I hugged the tree even tighter than I had before.
The young man climbed down the other side of the tree to the ground. He stood below me, and I felt his hands around my waist. I loosened my grip, and he helped lift me to the ground.
I was relieved when I felt the sand and stone beneath me. I stayed sitting there for a few seconds, but my back straightened when I heard my uncle’s voice.
“Aiden, what are you doing?” He was carrying a plastic bag with the fish inside.
“I just thought I’d try.”
“You’re not from here. You could have gotten really hurt. What would I have done then?”
I sat there with fresh scrapes stinging my legs and chest and my uncle standing over me. I glanced up at the top of the tree again, but it seemed impossibly high and out of reach.
W
hen I stood up and brushed myself off, Uncle added to the humiliation, saying, “Tomorrow I’m not going to let you out of my sight.”
The next afternoon, Uncle and I sat in the tea stall again, drinking chai and eating Parle-G biscuits.
“What time is your train tomorrow morning?” he asked, speaking louder than usual as a crow was cawing in the surrounding trees.
“Ten-thirty.” I dunked a biscuit into my tea, but when I pulled it out, the wet half crumbled into the cup. I pulled my chair in closer to the table and felt the bite of the cuts and scrapes all over my body.
“You’ll arrive on Christmas Eve. Maria will be happy.” Uncle dipped his biscuit in his tea twice, for only a second or two so it didn’t fall apart. “Just make sure she doesn’t take you to that cult. Or has she already?”
The cawing crow was joined by others, and I had to almost shout. “She took me, but don’t worry, there’s no chance of me joining.”
The racket in the trees grew louder until it reached an uproar. As we waited for the commotion to subside, I thought back to that evening in Mumbai with Maria. From outside, the building where the prayer services were held had looked like a government office. The inside was simple as well, with pews, an altar, and a hall where everyone sat on the floor after the service. Maria introduced me to Brother Abraham. He was a short man, about five foot two, with a thick moustache and all the charisma and confidence of a leader. When we were walking home later, Maria asked me what I thought of him.
“He’s very…passionate,” I said, trying not to offend her.
There was a lone, dim street light on the road we walked on, but otherwise it was only lit from the light leftover from the houses. “You walk this way alone, Maria?”
“Yes. I like to look into the houses as I pass them, and see how people live,” she said. “What did you think of the service?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever join any religion myself, but I’m glad you’ve found something that interests you.”
“That’s okay. You know my father doesn’t approve of me going. But he doesn’t understand how much it means to me. I’m going to be part of this my whole life,” she said with certainty.
Coconut Dreams Page 20