Nostalgia

by M G Vassanji

  THIRTY-FOUR

  —WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, FRANK?

  We had come to meet at Iqbal Restaurant in Rosecliffe Park, Radha and I, and I was feeling joyously unburdened. It was not the local chai that brought on this euphoria—though I would never have thought that the sweet, cloying tea with the scent of Eastern spices would come to suit my taste, which has leaned towards the austere and straight; it was the accomplishments of the previous two days, satisfactorily shedding a life (and in the process benefiting two young people), that had done it. There remained a residual ache, but I shan’t dwell on it.

  I had done what was right. That sounds corny, as they say. Other, more clever adjectives come to mind. But it is only by pursuing this single-minded purpose that I’ve been able so far to thwart Frank Sina’s complete unravelling—the evaporation into nothingness of Arthur Axe’s creation. The destruction of his fiction. Into nothingness? Even a fiction has its impact, leaves an imprint—people might say there was Frank Sina, somewhat stern of visage, broody; he was an expert on Nostalgia and rejuvenation and performed creative memory implantations; he was Joan Wayne’s unlikely lover, and disappeared perhaps into another life. As real as Tolstoy’s Pierre Bezukhov.

  Arthur Axe and I must both have been relatively young when I was transformed. And I ended up a specialist in the same field as his. As I’ve said before, irony is his strong suit. I wonder what his taste in literature is—or do only his own fictions interest him nowadays?

  The creamy tea was strong and subtly spiked. On one wall, a television was turned to XBN, which was hectoring viewers with more news and analyses, but happily it was on mute.

  In front of me, Radha had an anxious, wide-eyed look.

  —You can’t be serious, Frank.

  —I am. I’ve decided I will not consume resources any longer, I will bequeath what I own and what I will potentially consume to the young ones. The Babies.

  —You can’t just die.

  It is flattering to think that she will miss me.

  —There’s no death, remember? You yourself said that we simply change bodies, the soul is eternal.

  —But that…that’s not for you, Frank. And you don’t believe in the soul.

  —Who’s talking now?

  —I know you’re joking.

  —I’m not, Radha. I don’t think I have a choice. I’m suffering from a certain malaise of the brain—the Nostalgia syndrome, as we call it—and my previous life is coming back to me and will soon overwhelm me in waves. It’s as simple as that. So it’s not all out of altruism. But I do feel good about whatever is happening. It’s right.

  Not as simple, of course. I needed a place where I could let it happen, a refuge with a friend…where I could expire with dignity, let that other life reclaim me. And where I could also complete this account of my recent experiences.

  Radha is the only friend I have. Whatever she proclaims, deep in her heart she understands me.

  —We can control it through yoga, Frank. And meditation.

  She didn’t ask me about my previous life, but then she’s known me only as Frank Sina, the rejuvie doctor whom she likes. Regardless of her beliefs in karma and the cycles of life, she lives her life as if nothing else matters but the here and now. But for me there is something else, and it does matter.

  —I don’t want to control it, Radha. I want it all to come back to me. I want to know who I was—actually, who I was born as, who I really am. I want to recall my real family. I want to know my friends and relations even if they are now dead or unreachable to me. My brother, my cousin…

  And a wife and a child, though I can hardly picture them yet, except the child peering through a sheet of rain. There’s much that’s trying to repossess me.

  She was staring at me, trying to read me.

  —What use is it anymore, Frank, if it’s unreachable? All memory? You are here, and that’s all that matters. Am I not real? And Joanie? And your patients? Don’t we all matter?

  What to say? Yes, but—?

  She continued,—This is all there is for now, all this around you, you have to live it.

  —There’s a life I must reclaim, Radha…even briefly…even if it’s in shreds, it’s mine. And as a scientist I am also curious about it.

  —What a funny thing to say. Were you a scientist there, in this other life you are talking about?

  I couldn’t help but grin at her.—Touché. Just being vain, I suppose, in this life…Maybe I was always vain.

  —We’ll see. Meanwhile you are here with me. You’ve left your home?

  —And my work. I left a note for Joanie and her beau.

  And the Department will be looking for me.

  She was smiling.—You’re a romantic, Frank.

  She had a wedding ceremony to attend, which was why she was dressed up so gorgeously, and yes, she said, I must go with her. My suit would do, because for a man almost anything was all right at these occasions. Afterwards she would take me home and we would talk more about my plans.

  When we departed, night had fallen and it was dark outside but for the dim light from the small supermarket next door still doing business.

  —

  The wedding was in a public hall decorated to look like the interior of a large and opulent marquee, with light arrangements, paper frills, and flowers. The floor was covered with a lush, red carpet. The chairs were all taken, and the remaining guests stood in groups at the back. Reedy ceremonial music screeched in the background, bouquets of sensual fragrances rode the air, their wearers looking brilliant and happy with excitement, oblivious of their partners, some of whom had broken loose to cluster around the drinks table like painted iron nails at a magnet. The noise was indescribable. Children ran about like dressed engines, screaming at the tops of their voices.

  The groom arrived, dressed in white-and-gold long shirt and pants, a veil of white flowers covering his face, and went to sit on the stage beside the two priests in front of a small fire. The bride arrived, dressed in red and gold, decked in gold and diamonds, and was walked, leaning on her father, to sit next to the groom. The priest began a chant, and when he was finished, he tied the frilled hems of the couple’s clothes together, and they walked around the fire.

  —Seven times, whispered Radha next to me.—Seven times, according to Indian tradition.

  —Aren’t you from Vancouver? I whispered.

  She slapped my arm, then gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  After the ceremonies I was taken around and introduced to the bride and the groom, who turned out to be a nephew of the now famous demigod Professor Kumar. When I was introduced to the professor’s wife, Anita, I couldn’t help but utter my condolences, to which she came back sharply,

  —Why? He’s free, he’s attained moksha.

  —Salvation, Radha explained to me as we walked away, then added,—That means he’s found eternal bliss and will not return.

  —Thank God.

  —He’s now a god. They have applied for a space for him at the Mall of the Spirit.

  It is this kind of unthinking certainty which modern science deplores. You are dangerous, we say. Knowledge must stand on empirical fact and logic. This is a man, we say. This is his brain, we explain. These its circuits and functions. Ergo, this is what he is. But is that all he is? Perhaps we do need the anarchic, irrational certainty of the likes of Anita Kumar and her husband, and the happy, contradictory philosophy of Radha, if only as an antidote against the smug certainty of my kind? Arthur Axe’s kind. Any absolute certainty is tainted by its very nature. Is this Dr Frank Sina, ScD, opining or Elim Angaza, the country teacher from Maskinia?

  We departed and walked along Rosecliffe Park Drive, past the Mall of the Spirit. Even at this late hour a fair number of people were paying their respects at their special places of worship. A string of red-and-yellow taxis stood idly in a ring round the island mall. A series of bright lights ran along atop its wall. The Kali temple twinkled high atop its pyramid, and the mosque was bathed in
a soft blue glow, a rich, male sound emanating from its depths; there would be Mary with Child benignly blessing the restless world from her perch, and the god Shango with his thunderbolt. And all the various others.

  —All these devout worshippers, I asked,—they would not like to be rejuvenated, to live longer?

  —Most would if they could afford it. People are not consistent, as you know. They want everything. And rejuvenation is attractive.

  She smiled. A bell gave a single distant peal high up at the temple, announcing a worshipper.

  She lives in a townhouse with her mother, Sita, who greeted us happily at the door from her wheelchair. She spun around and led the way in, saying,—You’re late, Radha. Did you eat?

  —Yes, we ate, Mom. This is Frank. We took a stroll after the wedding. The Mall looks beautiful.

  —It always does at night, doesn’t it, especially when it’s clear and cold as tonight. Now tell me about the wedding—how was it?

  Radha described the wedding, naming all acquaintances who were present, what they wore, what food was served, what was said by whom. She went to the kitchen to make tea. Meanwhile I answered Sita’s questions as discreetly as I could. I had problems at home, I told her, and Radha had kindly offered me space to spend a night or two, if Sita didn’t mind. As her daughter laid out the green tea with biscuits, Sita described her life in Vancouver. Her husband had been a policeman who was shot in the streets two decades ago. She herself was a homemaker; she had two sons besides Radha.

  There had been conflicts with her sons, so she followed Radha to Toronto.

  The sensations of the past hours had numbed my own thoughts, but now I felt tired and somewhat depressed. I sensed Elim calling me from somewhere in a jungle of thoughts inside my brain. Sita stopped talking abruptly, said goodnight, and wheeled herself to her room on the ground floor. Radha showed me to the guest room upstairs, and I sat down on the single bed. Instead of leaving, however, she sat down on a chair at the bedside and put on a bright smile.

  —Let’s meditate together, she said enthusiastically.—We can be seated where we are.

  —No, can I just be alone, I replied.—Do you mind?

  —Will you be all right? Why don’t I stay with you for a while?

  —Thank you, but I will be all right. Thank you again. I will see you in the morning.

  She stood up to leave, and on her way out paused at the door, and for that anxious look on my behalf I felt grateful. It was tempting to yield and let her administer to me, meditation and all the rigmarole. A cool hand on my forehead. But I’d had enough for today, I needed time to gather myself and prepare. Soon it would be time to call it quits. Time to enter that chaos and return to that tumultuous world that beckoned vaguely but persistently. It was mine, after all.

  —Tell me, Frank, you’re not serious. That you won’t…that you’ll at least let me try to help you…You’ll call me.

  I believe she was close to tears.

  —But I thought you believed in such a step, Radha. There’s no death, you’ve always said. You quoted your Krishna to me and…at Lovelys, remember?

  She blushed. It was our first meeting and she had argued there was no such thing as death. That it was pointless to prolong life. Don’t you see, there is no such thing as death.

  —Krishna didn’t say you don’t live your life. Choosing to die is for people who are so advanced spiritually that they know when their time has come. They are not ordinary people.

  I smiled at her.—I may not be advanced spiritually, but I know my time has come. I am not ordinary either. I have a past life and suffer from Nostalgia.

  —I will help you.

  In that interlude of silence now, I wondered what Joanie was doing in that house by the river; how lovely it was just to watch her when I returned from work, to hold her tenderly…we did make a home together. Perhaps she was at the club now with Musa. I thought of the fragments I’d recalled recently of my former life. I gazed at the woman at the door who made me feel so unfettered and released and loved; and whom, I thought, I had come to love too.

  —I have to do it, Radha. I have to go home…You must let me, when the time comes. Be with me then, comfort me.

  She nodded.—Okay. I’ll pray for you. My mom and I and my friends will gather round you and pray so hard together it will be a deafening send-off!

  I watched her leave and picked up my notebook and pencil.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Notebook

  #57

  The Bridegroom

  On my wedding day I was not allowed to see Roxana. While I showered and was perfumed, and waited with the men, her male folks came around to banter, and to make certain I would not venture out with others to take a sneak peek at my bride. There was my father the Nkosi and my brother and my cousin. I wore a white collarless kurta brought by my mother from Boston. My sister had not come. As we sat there on the decorated front porch there came from the backyard kitchen the scent of fragrant rice pilau, and the smell of goat roasting and potatoes frying. From Roxana’s end further up the street and outside the compound came the sound of women singing. Little girls went to and from our houses to report on the proceedings. The compound gates that day were left open. Finally a band was heard, tambourines and drums, and a trumpet, as the bridal procession approached, the women singing in a lilting chorus about the bride and the groom and the wedding night. She arrived at the door escorted by the women, her face pink with shyness, wearing a pure white robe with a red binding at the throat and a thin veil also brought by my mother; her hair was bedecked with jasmines, her hands and feet were hennaed. The music stopped, and we sat on the low stools and my father the Nkosi began to officiate. Her lips were full, her hair thick and wavy, we spent the most joyful time together possible…

  On the day I left it was raining in sheets, Roxana and the baby Saida were on the porch waving.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ARTHUR AXE: Well, Tom, here we are. Two more bite the dust.

  TOM: Yes, Art. I feel for you—your two favourite fictions rejected.

  AXE: It’s more the technology, as we both know, that began to unwind. Though I get your point, both characters, Presley and Frank—I can hardly call him Dr Sina, can I?—both rejected the treatment that could have saved them.

  TOM: The irony is, Art, that the doctor refused to heal himself.

  AXE: The irony is, yes, Tom. Though I myself would call him an unstable fiction. An unviable character. I was young when we made him. Perhaps we put too much of himself into the new fiction. Not always a good idea. As he himself could have told us.

  TOM: Yes, he could have, Art.

  AXE: Mind you, they both lasted a long time; both were called in and repaired, weren’t they?

  TOM: Sorry, that was before I myself was transitioned, Art. But we have the records.

  AXE: Well here we are, then, all transitioned. Nothing wrong with us, is there?

  TOM: Not that I can see, Art.

  …

  AXE: Now, Frank…

  TOM: What about Frank, Art?

  AXE: You would hardly call Frank a terrorist.

  TOM: No, Art. Elim Angaza was a doctor and teacher.

  AXE: Not just that. A Norbert Weiner Fellow in mathematics at MIT. What made him drop all that and return home? What is home, after all? What a waste of talent, to take it to wither away behind the Border. What would they know in that hellhole about the beauties of science, mathematics, or art?

  TOM: It makes you think.

  AXE: It certainly does. We brought that talent back, though. And it aided us. But he didn’t know that—and that’s the irony, if you want one.

  TOM: It certainly is. I can see that, Art.

  AXE: Amirul, on the other hand…

  TOM: Definitely dangerous.

  AXE: Yes. Even transformed. Of all the practitioners available, he sought out Frank Sina. And Frank Sina protected him. Amirul knew exactly where he could find sympathy. The worm knew just where to go to survive. What d
o you say?

  TOM: They were brothers, Art. And blood is—

  AXE: Yes. Thicker than water. It’s in those relationships that the worm hides…

  …

  TOM: You’re thinking, Axe.

  AXE: That’s my job. There’s much to ponder after this.

  TOM: I can help you with that.

  AXE: Tell me, Tom. What accuracy would you place in Frank’s so-called entries in his Notebook? His feats of imagination. Always dangerous, flights of imagination, no telling where they might take one. How much truth do they contain? How much of Holly Chu’s story as imagined by Frank Sina, Tom, would you consider to be close to truth?

  TOM: After a thorough search, Art, and according to certain parameters, I would say eighty-three percent. Which is not a bad mark.

  AXE: Not bad at all. An A grade. A fictionist, would you say?

  TOM: I would say that. Like you, Art.

  AXE: Stop the flattery. And why, Tom, why this fixation on the reporter. That all three turned out to be connected to Maskinia is uncanny. But not a coincidence, for certain. What’s the connection of Frank Sina to Holly Chu? I could guess, but—you tell me, Tom. Consider that a test.

  TOM: Of course, Art. I already have the information. Holly Chu was Frank Sina’s great-granddaughter—and therefore a great-niece of Presley Smith. Elim’s daughter Saida attended university in Nairobi, United East Africa, where she married a Chinese expatriate called Kerson. The couple emigrated to the north. One of their offspring was Kelvin, Holly’s father.

  AXE: Well I’ll be doggone.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MY THANKS TO MARTHA KANYA-FORSTNER, my editor, for her patience and indulgence; Kristin Cochrane for encouragement, often over tea; to my agents Bruce Westwood, Tracy Bohan, and Jackie Ko; Professor Chetan Singh and the staff, the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla, for their generous hospitality; Lathika George for making possible my stay in Kodaikanal. And to Nurjehan for indulgence, understanding, and companionship; and of course, for going over the final manuscript.