“I’m Rakeem. And your good name is?”
I didn’t want to converse with him. I opened my mouth, about to tell him I needed to look for my sister.
“Nina?”
I whipped around. It took me a moment to register the speaker. “Imran?”
He looked different. Older, of course, and tired. He was wearing a powder blue suit with pants that flared from the knee.
“You know Rakeem?”
“She does now,” Rakeem answered, reaching out to touch my shoulder.
“Oh,” said Imran. “You look different, Nina. Like a heroine from the movies. Although your legs, they still look the same.”
I blushed. Rakeem didn’t seem fazed. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I have settled down here.”
“With Zarina,” Rakeem filled in.
“How do you two know each other?” I pointed at the two men.
“Rakeem and I went to engineering school together. But Rakeem here dropped out. It would appear that becoming an engineer was not my buddy Rakeem’s destiny.”
Rakeem shrugged. “Destiny is overrated. We are born; we live; we die. Destiny is invented by people who can’t accept this universe is a meaningless cloud of dust expanding with no real purpose. They pick gods to worship and leaders to follow because they’d rather be governed by somebody else than live out their own lives. Like Pink Floyd says, people need to wake up and stop punching clocks for other people. People need to stop letting their parents arrange them into marriages based on stupid factors such as wealth and status … ”
I cut in, annoyed that Rakeem was not allowing me to speak to Imran alone. “Marriages are most successful when arranged by loving parents.”
“Forget back home and all of its superstitions. Open your eyes. See the world here and don’t be afraid to speak your mind, that’s what I say. Nina, can I get you a soda?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved Rakeem was leaving.
“Nina, it’s good to see you,” Imran said, his fingers grazing my wrist. His hair still had that 1950s touch to it.
“So you’re married?” I said breathlessly.
“Yes,” said Imran, now pulling at his suit. “I looked for you, you know. Your house was empty.”
“It was a chaotic time. In fact I never thanked you properly for saving me from the soldiers.”
“I was just being cautious. I’m not sure I saved you.”
Imran locked eyes with me. For a moment it felt as if it was just the two of us in the room, and I could imagine a life with him. Two children. A boy and a girl. A mansion. New silk saris. Luxurious cars. Chocolate cakes dripping with fresh fruits. Crystal goblets. But then I saw Zarina, standing outside the mansion, with her jade necklace and chandelier earrings and white-white skin the colour of lilies. She was the girl I had ripped out of the airplane magazine on the way to Pakistan, the one with the flowing black hair and perfect husband and children, not me.
“Would you want to meet me again?” he said softly. “I haven’t stopped thinking of you.” Before I could reply he put a card in my hand. “Call me if you want to talk. About Uganda. About pantyhose. About anything.”
Rakeem was back, suddenly, handing me a paper cup filled with soda. I wondered how much he had heard. “Have you ever been to Stanley Park?” he asked, ignoring Imran.
“My parents would never let me date casually,” I mumbled, my stomach sinking as Imran walked away.
“Why? Am I not a serious prospect? If you let your parents arrange your match, the guy they choose will think Black Uhuru is a colour, not a band. I am saving you from a life of eternal boredom married to some guy in a suit.”
I thought about my Saturday plans. Anisa sitting on the couch looking forlorn. Mook-Mook hurrying out the front door to get away from his boring sisters. My new white go-go boots, waiting by the door to be worn. I sighed and agreed to follow him back to the snack table.
***
THE TREES IN STANLEY PARK were so laden with blooms they hunched. The park floor was pasted in pink and white cherry blossoms, transparent and overlapping like lace sheathes on a fine gown. Springtime showed me a world of women not afraid to wear short skirts. Pastel was all the rage and the Vancouver weather agreed, painting the sky Easter egg blue. Children flew kites, reminding me of the kite flying festivals of Pakistan. Rakeem did Ugandan bird calls, scaring the ducks in the pond.
Today he spoke in Gujarati, and all the wrinkles English caused in his speech were ironed away. “I’d rather read Nietzsche all day but philosophy doesn’t pay the bills,” he said. “Someday I’ll have to nail down an actual career, or I’ll crush my Dad. But I’m in no rush to figure things out.”
“What do you do for money then?”
He shrugged. “Paper routes.” My eyes bulged in surprise, and he smiled. “I am taking an accounting course. Just maybe I’ll be an accountant.” He shrugged again.
“You don’t sound too sure,” I said.
“I’m not. How can I be sure of anything? Are you very sure you will live to see your eightieth birthday? I mean you can plan all sorts of things but that doesn’t mean they will happen.”
Many Gujarati Muslims bought the popular notion that in Canada, rich and poor immigrants could succeed equally, provided they worked hard. Some had achieved immediate success, while others were still looking for a magical key to a vault of riches. I looked up at Rakeem, wondering if being a new immigrant was harder for men or women. My parents only wanted to see me marry well and have children; they weren’t looking for me to make something of my family name. At twenty-four I should not be kunvari, a single Gujarati girl. Only Canadians thought it was attractive to call a woman young and single.
Walking back to the car, Rakeem asked for a second date. I hesitated. Today had at least been more fun than staying at home, reassuring Anisa that our parents and little brother were safe in Pakistan.
“Do you remember where we parked?” he asked.
“You don’t remember where you parked your own gaadhi?”
“It’s my friend’s. On loan, if you will.”
“Have you lost your friend’s car?”
“It is just misplaced, yaar. At least I picked you up in a car. I thought you would be impressed about that. Let’s just do one more round, teek che?”
“Do you know how long it takes to walk around this park on foot? I am starving!”
“You just had ice cream.”
“Is ice cream enough for dinner?”
“Sorry, I’m on a tight budget. I have several paper routes but there isn’t much left after I pay for school. You must know how it is coming here from Pakistan. We aren’t all born with silver spoons in our mouths like Imran. Vyadi nay kur, I’ll find the car.” He fished a hand into his skin tight bell-bottoms for a quarter. “I’ll call my friend for help. Don’t be boring, chokri. Adventures can be exciting.”
“I’m a bore because I am not excited about being lost in a park with someone I barely know?”
“You barely know me?” he asked in mock surprise.
“I guess a little more than barely.” I teetered on the edge of the grass tucking my hands under my arms for warmth.
“Relax, ker. I might not be the richest guy in the world, but I’ll take care of you. I am not the type of guy that is always on the lookout for something better.” He jogged to a pay phone, leaving me alone to let his words sink in.
Thirty minutes later, a car rolled toward us. I held my breath until I realized it was Rakeem’s cousin. He rolled down the window. “I thought you guys would be waiting by the car.”
We got in and Rakeem directed him through the park from the front seat. “There it is!” Rakeem cried finally. He hopped in the found car and started the ignition. “That is so killer, man,” he said in English. “It appears to be running now!”
As we
made our way home, I shook my head in irritation. “Why did you lie to your cousin?”
“How could I borrow the car to take you out again if word got out I’d lost it?”
Before I could answer, he gave me a good-bye peck on the cheek. When I opened the front door to the apartment, I found Mook-Mook and Anisa grinning.
“So, when is the wedding?”
“Please, this guy is not marriage material. Now, if you two will excuse me, I am going to soak my feet. God knows he made me walk enough. Did you know Helen Khan soaks her feet every single night to keep them smooth and silky?”
“Such a maharani our Nina is. At least we can rest assured one guy in Canada is willing to put up with her!” Anisa said, and Mook-Mook laughed.
“Mook-Mook,” I said, ignoring their laughter. “Set me up with one of your friends.”
“You said they were no-good hooligans.”
“Set me up with the ones with real jobs, then.”
“You said the ones with real jobs were boring.”
“Nina thinks ‘love marriage’ means she can avoid all the no-good, boring hooligans,” Anisa said, flipping a channel. “Men are the same, however they are packaged. Best you can do is pick one you have a genuine connection with and call it a day.”
I huffed, closing my bedroom door on Anisa’s soap opera love advice.
It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t supposed to be worrying about things like sponsoring my family from Pakistan, or working to make sure my parents had a decent place to come home to in Vancouver. I was supposed to be young and carefree, going on dates with a proper future husband, not some daydreaming philosopher. Wasn’t it every mother’s duty to set up their daughter in a new life of her own?
I opened my purse and smoothed out Imran Sadiq’s business card on my bed. Lifting it, I rubbed it between my fingers, feeling the bumps the raised ink left on the paper. Beyond the bedroom, the theme song to Soul Train started up. I put the card back in my purse and rose to turn the volume up.
3
A GOLD ENVELOPE BEARING my name in calligraphy. I opened the card on the way down to the kitchen. Heavy, royal blue stock covered in crystals and Indian stencilled art. My favourite cousin was getting married in Vancouver.
Laughter reached me from below.
“Is that you, Maya? Join us for a drink!”
It was Riri and Hanna, scavenging sake glasses from the stockpile left behind over the years by tenants. A pretty Thai girl with contoured cheeks, Riri lived on the third floor. Hanna lived down the street. It had been ages since we’d seen each other.
I scrunched up my nose. The air that came in from the upper windows smelled strongly of boiled eggs; even after four years I had not gotten used to it. “I don’t know … I’m pretty hungry. I was just going to go and … ”
“Come on, Maya. If you’re not clubbing in Roppongi you’re taking off to Kichijoji by yourself … ”
“My Japanese teacher lives in Kichijoji,” I said defensively. I loved biking through the bohemian neighbourhood, past the Buddhist temple wedged between the artsy shops burning incense. Kichijoji had the best Indian restaurant in Tokyo and a quaint English bookstore run by an American expat.
“The point is,” interjected Hanna, “you’d have a better time drinking sake with us in Riri’s room. We are way more fun than those Finnish guys … ”
“Swiss and Norwegian.”
“Who the fuck cares? We’ll get some food, ne? Onigiri and strawberry Pocky, like old times.”
Oddly, what I craved was Western food. “How about McDonald’s?”
A short while later we sat on Riri’s floor, surrounded by Mount Fuji sake cups and greasy paper bags. A hip hop dance movie played in the background.
“Nice top,” I said to Riri, looking at it with envy. The palest shade of lilac, the sheer blouse was cinched at the waist with a wide belt. Yet, like the rest of us, Riri wore pajama pants.
“Riri always has the best clothes, right?” slurred Hanna, slapping Riri’s hip.
“It’s Stella McCartney. Some fucking hentai bought it for me,” Riri said. She undid the sash and peeled the blouse from her body, exposing a turquoise lace bra. “Take it. It’s yours.”
“Thanks.” In the palm of my hand, the scrunched shirt looked like a blooming orchid.
“You can wear it out with your European posse, ne?”
I set down the empty sake cup. It had been a long time since I’d been at home on a Saturday night. I guessed I wouldn’t be dancing the night away in Roppongi any time soon. “I’m thinking it might be time for me to go home. Back to Vancouver for a while.”
“Because of Elias?” Riri said.
“Girl, she mentioned the forbidden!” Hanna was Korean but had grown up in London. The more she drank, the more British she sounded.
“Honestly, I don’t care about Elias,” I said. And I meant it.
In Japan I had faded into the blanks between flashes of strobe light, becoming the person I wanted Elias to fall in love with, his idea of the perfect girlfriend. In a country where I was already a stranger, an alien, a gaikokujin, I had become a stranger to myself.
“I think I’m done. No, I am done. I’m leaving.” I looked at their serious-drunk faces.
“You can’t leave, Maya!” Hanna said, earning a nod from Riri.
I started warming to my own idea. “My mom will be thrilled. Maybe I can even make it home in time for my cousin’s pre-wedding events.” I held up the wedding invitation. “When I went to India my mom bought this crazy blue and green ensemble with tons of tulle and gems everywhere. It’s my goddess-rising-out-of-the-turquoise-sea outfit. Now I’ll have someplace to wear it.”
“You can’t be serious,” Riri said, more horrified at the idea of a bad dress than by me moving.
“Don’t worry, Ri. Indian clothing has the uncanny talent of mixing radical colour pairings and coming off looking okay.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re leaving straightaway,” Hanna said, filling our cups. “And now we have something to cheers to. Kampai!”
Riri nibbled on a cold French fry. “Tell us everything, Maya. What are your friends like back home?”
“Not as exciting as you guys. I can guarantee that no one back home wears Stella McCartney with pajama pants — or bras with pj pants, for that matter. They don’t know the beauty of sake and fries. Everyone is all serious and settled down, with real careers and young families. And I’m nowhere close to that. I don’t even know if I want that life. My mom saw my friend Matt ring shopping with his girlfriend in the mall. He was the one guy I could laugh with about settling down, you know? I can’t even imagine what type of girl would marry a guy who reads DragonLance.”
“So he is like one of those loser guys on the train who reads manga?” Hanna asked. Riri giggled.
“He’s the kind of guy who hates capitalism and wants to take down all the borders between nations. And now he’s going to walk down some fucking wedding aisle with rose petals.” The sake had loosened my tongue. “I’m tired of waiting for something to happen to me here in Tokyo. Earlier tonight, in Shibuya, a guy with orange hair flagged me down in the crosswalk. At first I thought, finally … something unexpected! But he was just handing out those tissue packets.” I pointed at Riri’s stash in the corner.
“Make fun all you want, but you are going to miss these free tissues,” Riri said, pulling one out to wipe fry grease from her fingers. The advertisement on the plastic wrapping featured an escort with sad eyes and bubble breasts. “You’ll miss the pachinko palaces, too, Maya,” she warned. “Canada does not have twenty-four-hour gambling heavens.”
“Pachinko? I’ve never ever been!”
“Just ignore the drunk salary men that come stumbling out with the smoke,” Hanna added.
“What about those dance studios you go to?” Riri tried again.
“Just ignore those Russian prostitutes in furs standing outside.”
Riri glared. “Whose side are you on, anyways, Hanna?”
“I’ll miss a lot. That pasta place in Kichijoji, for sure,” I said. “You know, the one with the raspberry cheesecake?”
“Not the winged cockroaches flying outside, though.”
“And I’ll miss you guys, obviously,” I cut in, before Riri snapped at Hanna. “But I won’t miss not being Japanese. You can work alongside the Japanese in the day teaching English like I do or party with them at night, but they will never let an outsider fit in. Even if you learn Japanese. Even if you bloody well marry a Japanese person, you won’t be accepted. I’d rather take my chances in Canada. At least at home I can be called a Canadian, even if I am Indian, too, you know? It gets exhausting trying to fit in here all the time.”
I hadn’t meant to come off so angry. But for the first time in a long time I felt fired up. I was going home.
4
GRAVEL CRUNCHED UNDERFOOT AS I looped around Burnaby Lake. It was winter and most of the trees were bare but there was pine somewhere — I caught a hint of it in my deep breaths. This was so different from running in Tokyo, twenty floors up on a human hamster wheel looking down on the concrete maze. I thought of riding the train crammed so tight with people a vacuum cleaner couldn’t suck out the extra air, of the salary men who caught the first train to work and the last train home. Japan wasn’t a country, I thought bitterly, it was a company.
Circling back by the railroad tracks and under the bridge, I picked up my pace. The tip of my nose and my cheeks were growing numb.
I could finally admit it — it was good to be home. Had I, at one point, lived in a place that required coins to start both the heater and the air-conditioner? It all seemed worth it when I bought my first pair of Pinky & Dianne heels in Ginza, but now I was finding it hard to conjure even a heart flutter over handmade chocolates in a city with an unpronounceable name with people I’d never see again.
I had no idea what I was going to do next, or where I was supposed to do it. My friends had split off into people who either had fiancés or pushed business cards. I had returned from Tokyo to avoid feeling lonely, but here I was, so alone.
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