Aunt Sue-Lin gushes, “You will be the envy of all the Tangra girls. So many mothers came to me hoping I would introduce their daughters to him, but I saved Peter for my favorite niece.”
I make a face as her chubby hands grab mine and she slips a twenty-four carat gold band on my engagement finger. It has Peter’s Chinese name engraved on top, where the band widens into an oval disc. With a forced smile, I show her the ring engraved with my name, which I will give to Peter in Toronto. She praises the two rings as though she had made them herself.
Lee Ah-Poh, my maternal grandmother who arrived early with Grandpa Lee Ah-Kung, invites the guests to red chicken soup, spiced with ginger and red yeast rice, regarded as auspicious. She coaxes everyone to eat the fluffy pastries from Flury’s. She has a knack for pressing food on guests and family. I am surprised that Lee Ah-Kung is as skinny as he is.
I serve the ceremonial tea in tiny tea cups to all the elders. Aunt Sue-Lin places her hand under my elbow and nudges me from one new kin to another. She reminds me of the fat tabby cat that spilled our milk pan one morning and greedily slurped every drop. I suppress a smile at the dark smudges along her hair line and the freshly dyed hair that gleams charcoal black.
When all the elders have a cup in hand, I lean against a wall and wait. A few minutes later, Aunt Sue-Lin finds me. “Come, it’s time to collect the tea cups.”
With a tray in my hands I shuffle from one relative to another. Aunts, uncles, Mr and Mrs Chou, my grandparents from both sides, and of course, Papa and Mama. As each cup lands on my tray, a hung pao containing money or gold jewelry accompanies it.
Robert, my fourteen-year-old brother, is the self-appointed photographer, and stops us every now and then to click on his new camera. It's a relief that we don’t have to go to the studio for formal engagement photos, because Peter isn’t here. Those black and white portraits always distort our faces.
For lunch, Mr and Mrs Chou invite us and a hundred other guests to their place for a grand banquet. My aunts and cousins compliment me on how pretty I look in my new dress—a lilac dress from Hong Kong—and the way the fresh perm on my hair falls in soft, silky waves over my shoulders. Everyone has a good time, it seems. The unmarried girls sigh with envy. My cousin, Amy, says, “You are so lucky. I wish someone from Canada would propose to me too.”
“You’re too young to be married at sixteen. You’ll find someone soon enough,” I tell her.
Amy looks away. I follow her gaze toward a young man seated near the front entrance. She doesn’t know what she wants yet.
After lunch, when I'm back alone in my room for the first time since the day started, I gaze at the mirror. I look for a change in my appearance. Nothing . . . still the same face, my dark brown eyes stare back at me, large and pensive. If the eyes are truly the windows to one’s soul, what stories do mine tell? How should an engaged woman look? Woman? Am I not still only eighteen? This all feels so unreal.
A sense of helplessness grips me as I contemplate the commitment I have just made. In this community, getting engaged is as good as getting married. Broken engagements are rare, divorces are even more uncommon, and always accompanied by a scandal.
What would Deepa say. I owe her a call. I peek out my door—no one using the telephone in the living room. As I dial her number, I visualize her shocked face. We were team captains and passionate student advocates, the vocal ones who stood up to the nuns and teachers. We excelled in the classroom and on the hockey field and basketball court. And we dreamed aloud about our future husbands—the Mills and Boon romance novels having fed our girlish visions of the perfect hero.
Deepa’s mother answers the phone.
“Mrs Mathur? This is Jillian. Is Deepa home?”
Mrs Mathur yells, “Deepa . . . Jillian wants to talk to you!”
A soft thud follows and Deepa’s voice floats through a few seconds later. “Jillian, why didn’t you call me last week like you promised? I tried to ring you, but no one picked up the phone. I thought you wanted to see Sholay with me. I heard the movie is fantastic!”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot. I had a lot of things on my mind.”
“What’s wrong? Spill it out. I can hear it in your voice.”
I hesitate. Normally, I confide in her. This time is different—I’m ashamed. I take a deep breath and say, “I got engaged today to someone from Canada.”
Silence . . . and then, “Oh . . . my . . . gosh. Tell me all about it. How did that happen? What are you going to do with our plans to go to college together? Are you going to Canada?”
I fill in the blanks for Deepa, fighting back my emotions. Before we hang up, we make plans to meet. I used to scorn girls who married young. My teachers and classmates expect me to go to college, but instead, I am enrolled in a data entry course—Peter wrote that it would come in handy when looking for a job in Toronto. My future is being laid out for me.
I return to my room and catch sight of Peter’s framed photo on my dresser—it was Mama’s idea to put it there. A few weeks after I accepted his marriage proposal, Peter sent this picture of himself. He looks more relaxed, with Niagara Falls in the background. His back rests against a railing while his face tilts away from the camera, sunglasses covering his eyes.
I replied to his letter and enclosed a picture of myself as well. Robert took it when I tried on a new dress I’d just picked up from Singh Tailor’s shop. I had browsed through several American fashion books before selecting the pattern. My straight long hair is tied in a loose ponytail. In the picture, a smile hovers on my lips as I relish my new dress.
With a sigh I turn away from the mirror and pick up the paperback I started a few days ago. I prop up the pillows against the wall, and settle into my bed. Before long I lose myself in a make-believe world of the novel.
March brings warm weather, but no news of my application for immigration to Canada, which has been pending for more than a year. It’s been a long year in which I’ve had time to weigh the consequences of my decision to go along with my parents’ wishes for a wedded bliss with Peter. I wonder if the application found its way to the appropriate authorities—not that I wish to rush the process. Perhaps if I pretend to have dreamed it, my engagement will go away when I wake up the next day. But like clockwork, Peter sends a letter the first week of every month. That and the wedding gown fittings at Beau Mode Tailor remind me of my impending departure.
With my data-entry and key-punching certificates tucked away among my other official documents, I now take dress-making classes every morning. In the afternoon, I read a novel, having helped Mama in the factory. She insists that I learn how to cook, so I help Ah-Poh make the evening meals.
One afternoon I'm working in the factory, the workers having brought in a big batch of freshly-dried leather after lunch. I smell the sun in the hide stacked a foot high on the work table before me. My hand moves the sharp knife with little effort around the curled edges.
A bicycle bell rings behind me, and someone calls out, “Postman!”
I turn and see the khaki-clad postman dismount. He approaches me with the mailbag slung across his shoulders, his loose dhoti hitched below his knees, and a brown envelope in his hand. I hold out my palm, but he grins and says sheepishly, “Baksheesh.”
I roll my eyes—he will not release my mail without a tip. “Offo . . . why can’t you just do your job?” I fish in my pocket and hand him a one-rupee note.
My fingers trembling, I slit open the envelope. The papers inside seal my fate—a letter and immigration documents. I have three months to get to Canada.
Would the postman not have given me the mail if I hadn’t tipped him?
The fastest three months of my life fly by. Mama having consulted with Mrs Yang (whose daughter has already immigrated to Canada) about what items will be useful to take to start a new life there, we have been on many shopping sprees. An
d now that my friend Mandy is married and already settled in Toronto, her letters are full of advice. Armed with lists Mama and I head for the markets of central Calcutta. Judging by the way we shop for articles of everyday life, it would seem that Canada must be lacking in basic necessities. I know better, and so does Mama, but those who have already blazed a path to this new country tell us that Canadian bed linen and towels are too dear for their pockets. And why should they part with their hard-earned money when doting and prosperous parents back home in Tangra can buy good-quality cotton sheets for next to nothing.
But these trips allow me to spend more time with Mama. I cherish every moment. She indulges me, letting me off from the chores I normally do. I feel close to her and remember the happy times we spent together shopping when I was little and would hold her hand while we walked from store to store.
Papa never accompanies us. Every morning he drives his scooter to the rawhide markets and then to other suppliers and his customers. By mid-afternoon, all outside business activities are concluded. Then he sizes each piece of leather with his measuring tape, writing the results on the backside with a piece of white chalk. The buyers come and bargaining goes on.
But my life is about to change.
·3·
I face the sliding door in front of me with a pounding heart and clammy palms. Eighteen months after the fateful “yes,” I am about to meet my future husband, a stranger in more ways than I care to think of. When I step through that exit I will see him. My stomach flutters in dread or anticipation. The immigration officer didn’t scare me as much as I thought he would. He browsed through my papers, asked a few questions, gave me a warm smile, and sent me on my way.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and push my loaded luggage cart through the automatic door. My eyes scan the sea of expectant faces behind the barrier. People step forward to greet their relatives, all smiles and relief.
Suddenly, I hear excited Hakka chatter, and I let my gaze follow the sounds to a group of Chinese. Two children jump and clap their hands as two men and a woman smile and nod in my direction. This must be my welcome party.
One of the men ruffles the boy’s hair and says something to him. The boy nods. When I approach, the little girl buries her face in the woman’s skirt and wraps her arms around her legs. These must be Peter’s sister, Kathy, her husband Henry Liu, and their children. Peter has mentioned them in some of his letters.
A few paces apart, a second man is staring at me, his expression inscrutable. Medium-built, he has a few inches over my own five-foot-five frame. His short-sleeved shirt in blue and white stripes, dark blue jeans and white sneakers give him an air of casual indifference—Peter, in the flesh. Even without looking at the Kodak print in my hand, I recognize the stern face, the bushy eyebrows, the thick mop of hair clipped in line with his ear lobes and patted down with gel.
My heart almost jumping out of the rib cage, I pause when we are a few feet apart. Our eyes meet briefly and I look away, embarrassed. How does a girl behave when she meets her husband for the first time?
“Jie-Lan? Here, let me get your cart for you.” He speaks Hakka in a gruff voice.
Tongue-tied and red-faced, I stick a hand out to shake his. My body tingles and I wish the butterflies in my stomach would stop fluttering. The sounds and the crowd no longer exist during these few seconds as I try to absorb this first meeting with my husband. Then he smiles in a standoffish way, lips curling.
The family gather around me. My senses return. After the introductions, Kathy prattles on about the warm weather for this time of May. Her round face, framed by short curls, contrasts sharply with her brother’s severe features, and complements her husband’s permanent grin. With a wispy mustache and a large somewhat flat nose Henry looks almost comical behind his large black-framed glasses.
A tug at the bottom of my shirt distracts me. Five-year-old Eric lisps in Hakka, “Are you my new auntie?”
“Yes,” I reply and dig into my purse for two white nougat candies. Eric eagerly takes the wrappers off his while his sister, Rachel, holds on to hers.
How do I appear to these people, my new family in Canada? Before I picked up my luggage, I had detoured to the ladies’ room to freshen up. There were puffy bags below my eyes, and my bell-bottoms were all wrinkled after the thirty-hour journey. My earlobes shone raw and red from the fresh holes made for the gold hoops Lee Ah-Poh had bought for me.
“Are you coming to live with us?” Eric slips a tiny sticky hand in mine.
I cast an inquiring glance at Peter. He didn’t mention our future living arrangement in his letters. He nods. Eric flashes another disarming grin.
“Okay, we should get going.” Peter starts towards the doors with the luggage cart.
Sunlight greets us. I check my watch. Almost eight PM local time. In Calcutta, where it is nine and a half hours ahead, Mama would be getting ready to go to the market. When she returns she will prepare breakfast for everyone. The thought of her brings a pang to my heart. I miss her and I’m afraid of what the future holds for me in this foreign land.
At the crosswalk, while we wait, the vehicles stop for us. Peter leads the way across to the parking garage. I glance around confused, and then quickly follow. I did not expect the cars to stop for us. In Calcutta cars, rickshaws, carts, scooters, pedestrians, and even cows, jostle with one another to gain even an inch forward. Instead of the blaring of horns there comes only the quiet hum of cars.
Inside the garage, Henry and Peter load my suitcases into the trunk of Peter's shiny black car. Then Henry herds his family toward a brown car parked farther away.
“Is this an expensive car?” I ask Peter as we emerge from the garage.
“I guess it’s about average,” he says. “It’s a Chevy Impala. I bought it last month.”
“Back home, most working people can’t afford cars,” I tell him, thinking about Papa’s much-abused Ambassador, and Gopal, our Indian driver who sometimes got into sticky situations while edging the car into small openings.
“It’s different here.”
I sneak a glance at Peter. Did he just rebuke me? Perhaps he doesn’t like conversation when he drives. I turn my attention to the world outside. The green signs over the road indicate we’re going eastbound on Highway 401. Buildings whizz by, short ones at first, then tall ones with apartments. The glass surfaces gleam from haze-free sunlight. No two structures lean against each other like they do in crowded Calcutta.
I steal another glance at Peter. The road absorbs his full attention. I wish he would say something—after all, we will be married in a few weeks. We’ve barely spoken. I try again. “How long before we arrive at Kathy’s house?”
Without taking his eyes off the road he says, “Another twenty minutes, maybe.”
“Your address said Scarborough. Is that in Toronto?”
“No, Scarborough is next to Toronto.”
“Oh.” I turn my face towards the window to hide a tear. A lump lodges in my throat. I wipe my cheek with my handkerchief, already soiled from the teary goodbyes two days ago. I knew Peter would be reticent, based upon his letters to me, but his reserve borders rudeness and cuts like a knife.
The irony is that before I agreed to Peter’s proposal, I had dreamed of leaving one day for some foreign country where I could be independent and have a career, and date anyone I chose, fall madly in love, and get married. I wanted to be free of the watchful eyes of my parents and the Hakka community. Living under Papa’s domineering, protective patriarchy smothered the independent side of my personality. Yet now I would gladly return to my sheltered existence.
We pull up at a brown brick bungalow with a large fir tree overhanging the front lawn. Two windows peek out through the green branches. We get out and enter the house through the main entrance into a living room. A green velvet sofa and chair, covered with gleaming, clear plasti
c, occupy most of the space. The kids jump on the couch, their little faces already mesmerized by the cartoon on the television screen.
Kathy shows me to Peter’s room, where I see a twin bed that takes up half the floor space. She switches on a lamp on top of a three-drawer pine chest.
As though reading my mind, she says, “You’re staying here until your wedding. Peter will move into the children’s room.”
“The kids don’t mind?”
“They’ll get over it. It’s only for two months. In any case, Rachel likes to sleep with us, so Peter will share the room with Eric. He has rented an apartment at St. James Town. You’ll move there as soon as you’re married.”
“How far is it from here?”
“It’s downtown and takes about twenty minutes to get there by car.”
“Oh, is it that building where a lot of Hakka people live?”
“Yes, that’s the one. There are actually two buildings, side by side. We lived in one for three years when we first arrived. The rent is cheap. That’s how we saved our money to buy this house last year.” Kathy beams. “Before you know it, you and Peter will be able to afford a house too.”
I grin weakly at that distant prospect—owning a house hasn’t crossed my mind yet.
“Are you going to sleep with Uncle Peter?” Eric asks as I return to the living room.
I turn red.
Kathy, in the adjoining dining room, waves her chopsticks at Eric. “Didn’t I already tell you that Uncle Peter is going to share your room while Auntie Jie-Lan is here?”
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