Panting, I turned the knob to my front door. Now that I had stopped running I was sweating even more.
“Maya! Hello!” Instead of stylish Riri and Hanna for neighbours, I had Old Mr. Anderson. “Is your dad home? He said he was going to help me with my computer … ”
“I’m not sure, Mr. Anderson. I’ll have a look when I get in.”
“Your mother probably needs him for something and here I am, wanting to steal him away … ”
“I’m sure it’s not a problem.” My clothes were sticking to me like a second layer of skin.
“Your parents are so happy you’ve moved back … ”
“Yes,” I said, waving as I closed the door and stripped off my sweatshirt. My parents were glad to have me home, but I could taste their expectations in the air: marriage, children, and a Canadian postal code. Meanwhile, I was searching for the next destination. Tokyo felt like a burnt-out cigarette to me, with its ashy strips of sad love hotels, but the world was a big place. I taped articles about North Africa and Spain to my bedroom mirror.
Roman ruins and Red Sea diving. I could make it work …
“Look at all the dust and rubble!” My grandmother appeared in my bedroom doorway, eyes shining like two pots of gold.
“Nanima!” I ran to hug her, trying not to get sweat on her. “When did you get here?” I spoke in faltering Gujarati.
She shook her head at me in mock annoyance. “I finally got that father of yours to pick me up and bring me here. I didn’t want you forgetting about me.” I snickered at how she referred to my dad as though he were still some young dude in tight jeans.
Nanima squinted to get a better look at the articles, pushing me aside. “Am I right to think these places are in Africa?” she said, her Gujarati rhythmic and familiar. “I did everything I could to get out, yet you want to go there.”
“Some are, yes. That one is Volubilis.”
“Volu what?”
“It’s a ruin in Morocco, an outpost of the Roman Empire. It has these amazingly detailed floor mosaics.”
My grandmother nodded vaguely. “You know, my aunt’s house in Tanganyika, it had the most intricately detailed latticework on the roofs.” She waved her fingers in front of me, conjuring the splendid rooftop. “You looked up while you were turning the spices to powder and it was like you were staring at a ceiling of the sultan’s house.”
The phone started ringing and she turned to go.
“Don’t leave, Nanima. We’ll go for a walk,” I said, reaching for the phone.
She shrugged and mimed that she would wait for me downstairs.
“Hello?” I said, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I pulled off my sticky socks.
“Hi Maya. It’s me, Matt.”
“Matthew Antonin!” I laughed. “How are you?”
The last time I saw Matt we were sitting atop the mountain our university had been built on. Matt sat with his tall frame folded into a squat, smoking a cigar. The wind had peppered ash into his dark brown hair. He wore army pants and a t-shirt with a red star on it. I wore the uniform of a typical college girl in any decade: tight jeans and a pink t-shirt. We thought we were quite the adults as we discussed immigration policies and Marxism.
“What am I supposed to do with a degree in sociology, anyways?” Matt had said, blowing smoke rings into the air.
“Oh, you’re not done with school,” I said, waving the smoke away. “You’re going to stack degrees like pancakes to make the first one count for something. That, or you’ll overthrow capitalism. Just keep your revolution from disrupting my travel plans.”
“Japan for sure?”
“Yup. The sooner the better. My mom keeps pushing me to learn how to cook. Figures she hasn’t done her job raising me until I can make proper Indian dishes.”
“Cheers, then!” he said, holding out his cigar. “To escaping expectations!”
“To converting fantasy into reality!” I cheersed him back with a twig.
We smiled down on the lemon- and lime-coloured hills. A thin cloud stretched like a cotton ball smeared our view of the campus, but in the distance we could see the afternoon traffic starting to back up on the highway. We shared a look, appreciating at that moment that our lives were as far as they could be from stuck in routine traffic. Our future was anything we wanted it to be, and making it up was as good as making it happen.
I reached out and touched the article about Spain on my mirror. “What’s it been? Five years?”
“It has, indeed. How about a coffee, to catch up?”
***
I FOUND NANIMA SITTING patiently by the door, sandals on. She wore my grandfather’s windbreaker over a polyester floral dress — the same style of dress she wore all year long, no matter the season or the weather, which she made herself with cloth purchased at Fanny’s Fabric and shaped with two elastic strings, one for the neckline and one for the waist.
My mom had volunteered me to help out with Nanima — not that I minded. From what I could see, she needed to get out more. If she wasn’t at a doctor’s appointment or an event at the mosque, she was at home.
Outside, the wind puffed Nanima’s dress around her like a parachute. We walked in silence for a while, still trying to find common ground after so many years apart. When I was little, Nanima would sit and watch Sesame Street with me, at least until my grandfather came home from his job at the 7-Eleven and turned to The Price is Right. Nanima would pull out a deck of cards and teach me Gujarati with them. Badshaa. Maharani. King. Queen. Sometimes we had water drinking races, so fascinated was she still that water ran freely from the taps.
Later, I’d follow her down the stairs to the kitchen where she would make dinner — something I loathed, like goat trotter curry. I would pull the Ugandan policemen statues off the shelf and have them marry the pregnant African dolls. Goat hair coasters turned into stones floating on a lacquered lake. And then my grandfather would yell something at me in Swahili. I didn’t know the words but I could guess at their meaning.
“So, what about your ‘boyfriend’?” Nanima asked as we strolled along the cold, quiet streets.
“My boyfriend?” I asked, surprised. There was no word for “boyfriend” in Gujarati, not that I knew of — my grandmother had said the word in English.
“Is it someone from Japan?”
“What? No!”
“So you won’t tell me because you think I am just some ancient old lady. Is that it?’
“I am not telling you because there isn’t any one.”
“Oh sure,” she said, shuffling along.
I sighed. It was starting to get dark. The homes looked like little dollhouses, lit warmly against the winter sky. “Fine, there is someone. But he isn’t my boyfriend … ”
I’d been home just two days when I dug my salsa shoes out of my suitcase and headed downtown for a drop-in class at my old studio. When the class was over, I rushed down the rickety steps, tired but exuberant, and out onto the street, smacking right into Dylan.
“Watch out!” he yelled. “I have contaminated needles in my hand!” He swung the garbage pinchers away from me, nearly hitting someone else on the busy sidewalk.
I jumped back, looking down at my Carolina Herrera-inspired ensemble: camel pea coat and white, pencil-thin pants.
“You don’t have to look so afraid. I’m not a criminal doing community service hours,” he said.
“I … I’m not afraid,” I replied, recovering.
“Diseases are not going to leap off these needles and infect you, you know.”
“I know,” I said sharply.
“Then why do you look so petrified?”
I slung my beige bag over my shoulder and looked around. “It’s just a lot more chaotic down here than I remember.” Across the street, fencing from a boarded-up construction pit sagged onto the sidewalk. Just then
, a bus chugged by, splattering my pants with dots of mud. “And clearly I wore the wrong outfit.”
“You’re downtown, what were you expecting? An English rose garden?”
I bent down to assess the damage to my pants.
“There’s lots of green in Stanley Park. Maybe you should go there. Take a tour or something.”
“I’m not a tourist. I’m from here. I’ve been away for a few years, in Tokyo.”
He didn’t seem at all impressed by this.
“Well, if you’re looking for fancy clothes and sushi restaurants, you’re on the wrong street. Robson is that way. The perfect tourist imagining of what Vancouver is.”
“I’m not looking for souvenir shops and ten-dollar crepes, thank you very much.”
“Hey, now don’t go attacking the crepes. They’re worth every penny. You’d know that if you were a real Vancouverite.”
“I am a real Vancouverite. What happened to those vendor guys selling cheap hot dogs that used to park out front here? Granville is all fancy bistros and wine clubs now.” I looked up the block. “And what happened to all the sex shops posing as sketchy piercing studios?”
Despite himself, he laughed. “Gentrification. It’s happening with Gastown, too. You should see all the new high-rise buildings there — a spa and a gym in every lobby. But for all the shiny transformations, the city planners haven’t managed to push out the drug problems.”
He secured the bin and rolled off his rubber gloves, then put the collection materials in the back of a small white truck.
We fell into step heading toward the train station on Granville Street. He dug his hands into the front pockets of his distressed jeans and hunched against the cold. A shop selling bongs advertised a free hacky-sack with purchase. “I’m just a volunteer. The law office I work at is a couple of blocks up. We manage safe injection sites, too. Better than having people shoot up in alleyways, right?”
“If there were more safe injection sites then you wouldn’t be out picking up dirty needles. It’s not a good community feeling coming out of a dance lesson and almost stepping on one. I mean, as important as safe injection sites are, it would be even better if people actually knew what was in their street drugs.”
He stopped walking.
“What?” I looked back at him.
“No offense, but you don’t seem like the kind of person that would know much about this subject … ”
“Offense taken. And I’ll have you know I spent most of my late teens writing poetry in my notebooks on these very benches,” I gestured as we walked by, “listening to Alice in Chains and describing, in excruciating detail, Vancouver’s dark underbelly.”
“In those?” He eyed up my Gucci pumps.
“Are you kidding me? I wore knee-high combat boots back then.”
He laughed. “Yeah. I honestly thought I was rebellious because I started wearing Converse sneakers with my plaid shirts. My mom lost her head when I told her I went downtown to buy the Nine Inch Nails CD. She acted like I was confessing visiting an opium den for the first time.” He smiled. The white sky shone down and I got a clear view of his icy blue eyes.
“It’s Dylan, by the way.”
“Maya.”
“I have to ask: have you ever even tried a ten-dollar crepe? You can’t call yourself a native Vancouverite until you’ve had the Nutella and banana. Screw hot dogs. The place is right around the corner.”
Somehow, we had walked past the train station almost to the art gallery. I saw a cluster of Japanese tourists taking photographs and, for a second, it could almost have been a Tokyo street we were standing on.
“In Tokyo, crepes are rolled up like ice cream cones with scoops of cream and fresh fruit piled on top. There was this place in Harajuku that made them, and all the people who worked there dressed like anime characters … ”
“Girl, you are not in Tokyo anymore. No one will be dressed like cartoons serving you ice cream cone crepes. You’ll have a Canadian crepe, plain and simple and you’ll freaking love it.”
***
NANIMA WALKED SLOWLY. THREE children, one on a bicycle, two on tricycles, overtook us as we wound our way downhill, past skinny birch trees and the odd dog walker.
“It’s nice to get out. I used to like walking to McDonald’s to get a sandwich and look at people but one time I took a new way back and got lost. Now your uncles won’t let me go to the street corner by myself.” Nanima sighed.
“You can slow time down being out here.” I was starting to enjoy the calm of a gentle walk.
“In Uganda, we didn’t go for walks unless it was to fetch vegetables at the market, but the doctor, he said I am supposed to lower my cholesterol.”
“Do you still like driving to look at the Christmas lights?”
She nodded. “My favourite part was seeing your face when you first saw those houses with the inflatable snowmen and chaotic blinking bulbs. But nowadays, everyone is so busy in their lives, we don’t go out like we used to.”
At the base of the hill, we stopped for a rest in front of the community centre, the yellow glow from inside puddling on the cement in front of us. I peered through the snowflake cutouts dotting the windows. Some people had fluffy cotton clouds of hair. Others had walkers next to them. All wore orthopedic footwear. I looked down at Nanima’s sandals and wondered if she’d like a pair of proper shoes. A woman stood up, knocking over her cane, and yelled something. It was then I noticed the red-headed woman standing at the plastic bingo dome in which tiny balls blew up and around, and a table at the back covered with packaged cookies and tea and coffee.
Nanima peered in the window.
“Do you want to check it out?” I asked.
Nanima pulled my grandfather’s jacket around her tightly. She seemed about to say something when the door to the centre opened.
Nanima turned to leave but a friendly voice called us back. “Hello!” It was the red-headed woman from inside, the one calling the numbers.
I hooked my arm through Nanima’s as we faced the woman.
“We run a senior’s program here, in case your … grandmother? is interested.” She smiled at Nanima. “Every Thursday from two-thirty to four-thirty. Drop in any time.” She handed me a glossy brochure showing healthy white seniors ballroom dancing, baking, and doing chair exercises.
“Do you want me to bring you here?” I asked Nanima as we headed back home.
She pursed her lips and shuffled ahead in her all-weather sandals. “Your uncles and grandfather wouldn’t like it, I don’t think.”
A few days later the entire family gathered at my grandparents’ house. Nanima didn’t like to count her birthdays anymore, but everyone else loved an excuse to celebrate over yellow biryani. I helped my dad move the rent-to-own dining room table off to the side and we laid a large bedspread on the floor. Someone brought out a Black Forest cake from Safeway.
After the birthday song, the room went quiet. “What’s wrong with everyone?” Nanima asked, looking around.
“Maya told us you were invited to go to the senior’s day at the community centre. I was just saying you wouldn’t be interested.” My uncle Mook-Mook stroked his thick hair as he spoke.
“And why wouldn’t she?” my mom said. “Our mother needs to do something besides go to appointments and mosque.”
“Everyone, please, the answer is simple: I will see if the centre fits Mummy’s needs,” Uncle Faiyaz declared. “She doesn’t speak English. She might hate it there.”
My grandfather coughed and the whole family looked at him. He was the head of the family; whatever he thought would decide the matter. But he just signalled for someone to pass him the mango pickles.
I felt my face grow hot. I pulled out the brochure. “I’m happy to take her. And Nanima does understand English. I teach it to her all the time. Why don’t we let her decide for herself
how she likes it?”
My uncles looked at me like I had lost my mind, but didn’t object. From the kitchen, Nanima caught my eye, smiled, and winked.
***
NANIMA HAD WORN HER mama’s lavender perfume for the occasion. The scent enveloped me as we sat side by side on the centre’s plastic chairs. The coordinator, whose name was Cindy, had led us to a table at which sat three other women.
Nanima whispered in Gujarati to me. “That lady must be a Chinese, but I am no expert on these matters. Her face is so smooth, like a pebble found at the bottom of a river.”
I shook my head at her, embarrassed. “Shh, Nanima.”
“I know you have special English words to describe people who come from different countries,” she said, ignoring me, “but Maya, I only see colours. At this table I see white, brown … ”
The woman spoke. “My name is Lily.” Though she had only said four words I could hear the lilt of an accent and a hint of annoyance.
The woman next to Lily looked like an owl. She had parchment paper–thin lips and a nose so sharp it looked like a beak. The way she said her name, it sounded like “Aye-Leen.” The last woman had to be Indian. She was wearing a cotton Punjabi suit matched with serious running shoes. She did not smile.
Eileen pointed at her and shrugged. “That is Kulvinder.”
I sipped my tea. It was weak and watery; a tea bag floated in it like a dead fish. Nanima seemed lost in her own thoughts, so much so it took her a while to see the group was waiting for her to talk.
“Me,” she finally said, softly, pointing to her chest. “Myself Nargis. This Maya. Granddaughter.”
They nodded.
“Canadians don’t do tea very well.” Nanima announced to me in Gujarati as Cindy handed out art supplies, something called macramé. I was wondering if I should leave and return in an hour to take Nanima home, but Nanima kept talking. “Look Maya, first they make teas in all sorts of nonsensical flavours like peach or vanilla. And then the black tea, well that is the most murderous of all — it tastes like tobacco or ashes. No wonder they have to add so much fake sugar. Canadians don’t know how to have a good cup of chai. A good cup of chai tells you everything you need to know about the person who made it.”
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