Coconut Dreams

by Derek Mascarenhas

  The crows quieted, and the customers’ chatter resumed. Uncle finished his cup of chai and said, “You know, when your father came, he brought me one bottle of Johnny Walker. I hardly ever drink, only one glass on holidays, but Maria poured the whole bottle down the drain because Brother Abraham says drinking is evil. If I ever meet that fellow I’d have many words for him.”

  I felt the urge to defend Maria then. “I met him when I went. He’s not someone I’d ever consider following, but I didn’t think he was a horrible person. I can see how it would be frustrating, though, if he’s telling people to pour liquor down the drain.”

  “You know that group doesn’t follow the Church’s teachings. I should have forbidden Maria from going. I had no idea they would take my daughter away.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and wanted Maria to hear how he felt.

  “Our priest recently warned us about this group. He said it was dangerous. If only they’d told us about it back when Maria joined.”

  The crow let out a single caw. I paused for a second to see if it would continue, but we were spared.

  “She seems happy,” I said. “And I don’t think it’s dangerous. They seemed like nice people, and what they do isn’t that much different from the Catholic Church. Actually, the most dangerous part, I thought, was walking back from their meeting hall at night.”

  “I’ve tried telling her how many times not to walk at night. Her mother always used to say she has no fear. Even as a little girl she wasn’t afraid of anything. I remember there was one day, when she was eight or nine years old, and I heard her talking to someone in the backyard. I looked out the kitchen window and saw a cobra standing right next to her.”

  “A king cobra?”

  “Yes.” Uncle motioned to the waiter, who refilled his cup. He blew gently along the surface of his chai and took a sip before continuing. “So I rushed outside. My first instinct was to pull her away, but the snake was too close. If I made a sudden move, it might strike.” Uncle’s leg now started to move up and down, his heel tapping the ground. “It was a horrible feeling, not being able to protect her.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I heard Maria’s voice again. She spoke to the snake like it was a person: ‘Why are you here? This isn’t a place for you. You need to go back home.’ And then, as if the snake understood, it lowered itself to the ground and slithered out of the backyard, into the jungle.”

  Maria hadn’t told me this story, but I could so easily picture her saying these things. When we were in Mumbai, the first thing I noticed about her was how she spoke, as if each word were selected with special care. However, what I soon came to appreciate most in Maria was how serene she was. I wondered if her tranquility came from knowing precisely who she was, where she came from, and why she was here.

  Uncle and I sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the chatter around us. “I remember when she was young,” he continued, “everyone thought Maria was older than she was. The other kids would always come to her when they needed advice and didn’t want to ask an adult. Even the adults spoke to her as if she were grown-up.”

  “You know what,” I said. “That evening I went with Maria, after the service, the followers gathered around Brother Abraham to chat and ask his advice. But there were more people lined up to see Maria and get her advice. She’s still helping others find their way.”

  For a moment there was a proud grin in the corner of Uncle’s mouth, but he caught himself and said, “She’s always been good with people.”

  The meal at Priscilla and Pedro’s was simple and delicious. Rice, chapatti, and two curries were served. One clam, one fish, both so succulent and rich in flavour I was tempted to lick my plate after a second helping. Their house was similar to Uncle’s, and the children gave me a tour. I felt ashamed when I asked Pedro, “Where’s your room?”—I’d forgotten that most families here slept in the same room.

  Outside, they showed me the small manger they’d made by hand, and told me about the contest in the village for the best one. Back inside, we sat down on their couch and I finally showed Priscilla where Canada was on the map at the back of my journal. She saw the pictures in the pocket and pulled them out.

  Priscilla and Pedro asked who was who in each picture, but the one they were most fascinated by was one of my favourites, too. It was a picture Ally had taken when we were kids, in the field near our home. It was of two snow-covered evergreens in the distance and a young sapling up close with snow falling all around.

  “What’s snow like?” Pedro asked.

  Before I could think of how to describe it, Priscilla asked, “Does it burn you when falling?”

  “No, it just melts.”

  “It’s so pretty,” she said.

  “Everyone back home would say this place is pretty.” I felt sad then, knowing I’d be leaving Goa tomorrow. “One day you’ll both have to come visit.”

  They kept staring at the picture. They had far too much wonder in their eyes for me not to give it to them so they could imagine a world they had never seen before. I had done the same with Goa. I thought then how much more precious the dreams of the young were—they could so easily be crushed or broken.

  The next morning, Uncle and I ate a quick breakfast of tea and toast. I had packed my bag the previous night but did a final check to make sure I didn’t forget anything. Molly had been trailing me the whole morning and began to lick my heels.

  “She knows you’re leaving,” Uncle said, and asked if I had packed everything.

  I zipped up my backpack and said yes, and told him I just had to go to the washroom. He said he’d go fill gas in the scooter and went out the front door.

  I flicked the light on for the outhouse. So Molly couldn’t escape, I opened the back door just enough to slide my body out. I entered the outhouse and closed the door behind me. The door slammed harder than I had intended, and I thought I heard movement in the pile of wood, but figured the door closing had just dislodged it.

  As I pulled my pants back up, I heard a much louder noise come from the wood, like onion tossed into a pan of hot oil. Disbelieving, I saw a snake’s head float out from the wood. Its body followed, dark brown and shiny. Two metres of it slithered along the ground, looping and coiling to block the door.

  Molly began to bark fiercely from inside the house. My instincts arrived a few moments later. I grabbed a stick from the pile and held it like a baseball bat, ready.

  The cobra spread its hood and rose to half my height.

  I took a half step back, but there was nowhere for me to go.

  The snake hissed again. Looking into its eyes was both mesmerizing and terrifying. The cobra flicked its tongue and moved its head in a wide circle.

  It was then, in the middle of my panic, that a strange and calming thought came to me. The way the snake bobbed its head was just like the way so many people here did.

  “Easy,” I said, lowering the stick very slowly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The snake remained standing.

  I took two long, deep breaths. Gently, I said, “You need to go home.”

  The snake stood for a few seconds more, then lowered to the ground. It flicked its tongue twice more before it turned and slithered under the door. I waited a little while in the outhouse. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I should have been trembling, but the calm feeling that had come over me remained. Once Molly stopped barking, I opened the door.

  The train station felt relaxed compared to the ones in Mumbai, and the peace I’d felt after the snake stayed with me. Uncle and I sat drinking chai, waiting for my train. I put the three postcards I’d bought at the station into my journal: one each for Ally, Eric, and my parents.

  “You sure you didn’t find anything?” I asked.

  “I checked the whole yard and Pedro and Priscilla’s yard as well. Nothing. It must have
gone away.” He asked if I was done my chai and took my empty paper cup and put it in his. “You were very lucky. A snake in that close an area is usually deadly. You did well to stay calm.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” I said. “But if you hadn’t told me that story with Maria, I don’t think I would have survived.”

  Uncle looked off into the direction my train was to come from, then turned to me and said, “I think you’ll have a lot of tales to tell about your time here. But look, there’s your train.” He pointed in the distance. “One minute, stay here. I’ll be back.” He rushed back to the stall where we’d bought the chai and postcards.

  As the train rolled to a stop, Uncle returned, clutching a package of cashews.

  “Can you give these to Maria?”

  “Of course.”

  “They’re her favourite.”

  I wasn’t sure how I could explain to Maria the love I saw in his face at that moment.

  “Take care, Aiden.”

  “You too, Uncle. And thank you—for everything.”

  We hugged, and I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

  On the train, I found my seat and put my bag away. But I held my journal tight, excited to tell my tales.

  Outside the train, Uncle came up to my window and reached through the bars to shake my hand one final time.

  Then the whistle blew. The train began to move.

  And still Uncle walked alongside the train, holding my hand. As the train collected speed, he jogged. He let go when it got too fast, but kept running beside the train—and I felt it then. Whatever I’d come here to find. What I thought I’d been missing. Running alongside me.

  Acknowledgements:

  I am incredibly grateful that this book has made it into the world, and into your hands. I did not always think this would be the case. Coconut Dreams is in some ways the book I would have loved to have read growing up, but it never made its way to me. I strongly believe that seeing oneself in stories is important—for everyone.

  I would like to thank:

  Jay and Hazel for believing in this book and in me, striving to make the literary world more inclusive, and bringing so much warmth and authenticity to all you do. Stuart—thank you for your love of language and such thorough work. Malcolm—thank you for your understanding, and all of your efforts on this wonderfully designed book. Pasha—thank you for diving into this complicated project and providing such shrewd and insightful suggestions. I have learned so much by seeing how you think about stories.

  Early readers, writing groups, and supporters over the years for your feedback and community. Thank you, Sabrina Ramanan, Ron Schafrick, Deepa Shankaran, Adam Elliott Segal, Becky Blake, Mia Herrera, Sanjay Talreja, Rebecca Fisseha, Terese Pierre, Kathy Friedman, Tina Surdivall, Jane Foo, Sharon Overend, Robin Sutherland, Simone Dalton, Phillip Morgan, Darren Bradley Jones, Djamila Ibrahim, Julia Chan, Sonya Wilson, Emily Stilwell, Matthew Ogden, Joelle Moutou, and many others.

  The University of Toronto School of Continuing Studies. Most of these stories were initially workshopped there. The feedback and words of encouragement from classmates and instructors kept me going. Thank you, Lee Gowan and everyone at the school, for being so supportive over the years. Kim Echlin—your guidance during the final project and unrelenting belief in my writing made all the difference. My heartfelt appreciation to Alissa York and Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer for your support, along with Denis Bock, Kelli Deeth, Kent Nussey, Catherine Graham, Ibi Kaslik, and Michael Winter. You have all taught me so much, and I still sometimes hear your voices when I am writing and editing.

  The literary journals and editors that published earlier versions of these stories. Thank you, The Rusty Toque, Joyland, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Writers’ Community of Durham Region, Maple Tree Literary Supplement, The Antigonish Review, Switchback Magazine, The Fieldstone Review, Shorthand (Diaspora Dialogues), The Dalhousie Review, and Three (University of Toronto/Penguin Random House). Special thanks to Kathryn Mockler, as well as Amatoritsero Ede, Veronica Ross, Sheheryar B. Sheikh, Jennifer Lambert, Bükem Reitmayer, and Madeleine Maillet.

  Helen Walsh, Zalika Reid-Benta, and everyone past and present involved in Diaspora Dialogues. The connections, support, and programs made the publishing world easier to navigate and the process less daunting. Thank you, Andrew J. Borkowski, for your amazing workshop, and Cynthia Holz, for your astute mentoring and advancement of each of these stories.

  The Toronto Arts Council for your support. The Ontario Arts Council, Jack Illingworth, Bushra Junaid, Phoebe Wang, and everyone involved in Fuel for Fire. Jael Richardson and the many people that make FOLD possible. I first met Jay and Hazel at these events—having the time and space for those conversations was invaluable.

  All those who organize and put on reading series and literary events, as well as helping folks feel comfortable at them. Special thanks to the Emerging Writers Reading Series, Mahak Jain, Marcia Walker, and Jess Taylor.

  Matthew Whitten for generously sharing your story with me. Anosh Irani for answering my email many years ago. Lee Maracle for your feedback on “Hold It Like a Butterfly.” Also, thank you to some of the women in my life and writing circles who helped shape “Snapshots”—I wouldn’t have attempted it without your direction and voices.

  All the families that shared our small pocket of Burlington, especially the children of Forestwood, Deerhurst, and Blue Spruce.

  My many Bal Ashram brothers and sisters; please know I cherish our connection and time together.

  Dear friends over the years (you know who you are) for sharing your lives with me, for being there for me, and for understanding. Thank you to the Ravens for the many memories. And thank you to all of my current and former colleagues for your encouragement and friendship.

  The D’Souza, Mascarenhas, Fernandes, Rattos, Rebello, Correia, D’Costa, Pinto, Montazeri, Benoit, and Carney families, as well as all of the Hamilton picnic and Goan families.

  Nunna, Pappa, Mai, Pai, Sabina, Ozzy, Nisha, Mila, Gaurav, Prashant, Zachary, Angela, Arlette, Joaquim, Julie, Rev, Vamsi, Joe, Maggie and family, Joaquim, Lorraine and family—I am very lucky to have experienced India through your guidance. While any inaccuracies remain my own, I also want to thank Florinda Da Silva for help with the Konkani words.

  My great-auntie Nita for telling me ghost stories from your childhood in Goa, and so much more. Theresa D’Souza—your resounding laughter, wisdom, and heart are missed often.

  Christine, Merces, Troy, Sherwin, Raul, Travis, and (baby #2) for a lifetime of loving memories. My parents—I couldn’t have asked for more love and support every step of the way. Dad—I have always admired your genuineness and ability to connect with people, and I am fortunate your values and work ethic were instilled in us at a very young age. Mom—you have been my first storyteller, reader, editor, and inspiration; you will always be my hero. Ash, Miss, and Jo—I am so lucky to have shared my childhood with you and watched you become the adults you are. I appreciate all you’ve done over the years; so much of this book is also yours. Shan—this wouldn’t have been possible without your daily support, critical thinking, and loving feedback.

  I am beyond grateful.

  About the Author

  derek mascarenhas is a graduate of the University of Toronto School of Continuing Studies Creative Writing Program, a finalist and runner-up for the Penguin Random House of Canada Student Award for Fiction, and a nominee for the Marina Nemat Award. His fiction has been published in places such as Joyland, The Dalhousie Review, Switchback, Maple Tree Literary Supplement, Cosmonauts Avenue, and The Antigonish Review. Derek is one of four children born to parents who emigrated from Goa, India, and settled in Burlington, Ontario. A backpacker who has traveled across six continents, Derek currently resides in Toronto. Coconut Dreams is his first book.

  photo: khadeja reid

  Colophon

  Manufactured as the first edition o
f Coconut Dreams

  in the spring of 2019 by Book*hug Press.

  Copy edited by Stuart Ross

  Type + design by Malcolm Sutton