I ducked my head under the pillows. Saturday mornings in Tokyo were best saved for recovery sleep after a hard night of drinking champagne and dancing.
My dad snuck in a guide book featuring the heavenly Haji Ali mosque. “In case you want to look at the pictures of where we are going,” he offered.
The guilt trip worked. I pulled off the covers, agreeing to get up and go. In some bizarre twist of fate my parents had become my tireless toddlers, always game for a park swing or, in their case, ancient caves. We got into a taxi and drove into the heart of Mumbai. Glum faced, I looked through the dirt-streaked windows. It was as if God had taken a few dirt roads, cows, polluting cars, old apartment buildings, and a crowd of people wearing bright but stained clothing, and shaken them up in a bauble. Makeshift homes, laundry, and gutted cars had landed helter-skelter everywhere.
As the guide book promised, the road leading up to the mosque was built on water. The pathway leading to the monument was lined not with flowerpots or sculpted trees, but with lepers — something the book hadn’t mentioned.
People with only their torsos intact rocked back and forth, singing hymns, clutching one another in a circle, holding onto any part of their neighbour’s body. The cult-like songs were mesmerizing, reminding me of kecak, a ritualistic chant I had seen performed in Bali. The lepers moved together in a circle with such force I saw an energy rising from them. Their voices crackled in different pitches, producing a loud cicada-like buzzing. Some lepers chose to sit alone and nudge a metal pan toward us with a sealed-off elbow. They depended on the few coins they were tossed. My throat closed up in a way I was growing accustomed to since arriving in India.
I thought of Matt and his socialist ideas of redistributing wealth to the poor. They had always been just words, ideas. Charity is not enough. Sometimes rebellion is the only solution. But these lepers could not form an army. They had no feet for marching. They averted their eyes from visitors, be it from shame or hopelessness, I wasn’t sure.
I had read somewhere about the big shot Bollywood actors who came to Haji Ali mosque to drink the famous milkshakes served from a snack hut. How could people continue to enjoy life, dining out, dancing, when others were in such dire need, right before their eyes? People told me that after a few days the poverty would become normal, that I wouldn’t see it any more. No words could ever have been more untrue.
At the mosque I took off my sandals. In a nation deprived of footwear, I was surprised no one ever stole my shoes. I heard a group of men saying how shameless I was for coming to the mosque with my legs exposed. The tie-dye skirt, a leftover from Goa, had been a poor choice. It had been stupid to use Bollywood movies as a reference for how to dress in India; no one actually wore crop tops or leather mini-skirts in public. I dabbed at the sweat gathering behind my neck with the sleeve of my Indian-print shirt.
Mumbai’s countless homeless children and their disfigurements, scars, and cleft palates — I wanted to return to the hotel, to get them out of my mind. To stop them from yelling, “Didi, didi!” as they chased me with their peddled flowers and pencils. I wanted to wipe the image of the band of lepers, begging for spare change, from my head.
My dad grabbed my arm. Did I need water? Should we head back?
“I won’t be but a minute,” my mom said, hurrying to the sari stalls, her eye on the rows of plastic packets. “Maya, you should pick some out too!” she called back to me.
“Not now, Nina,” my dad had said, trying and failing to catch her before she disappeared into a sea of people.
Everything was spinning round and round, like one of the pinwheels the homeless children sold. I saw myself walking by yet another video game palace in Tokyo, the youth pounding their way through another game of virtual drumming, dancing on yet another arcade pad to Dance Dance Revolution! How could I throw coins into a glass box and mindlessly fish for a Winnie-the-Pooh toy and not think of the children here, who made their own trinkets from litter? Or worse, selling real toys to earn money instead of playing with them.
My knees started to buckle. The world was starting to slant.
“Maya? You look like you have a fever.”
“I don’t feel so hot,” I whispered.
My dad’s face, petrified. Without waiting for my mom, he flagged a taxi. She came running after us, her arms loaded with packages.
In the back seat, she pulled out clothes wrapped in cellophane and unwrapped them. The Indian suits had no arms or pants; most had sweat stains and holes and had been repackaged to look like they were brand new. I felt sad for the vendors who had gone to such trouble to sell these worthless items. My mom had a different take. She felt the vendors targeted her because she wasn’t a true enough Indian or desi.
I nodded through my delirium. My stomach was being twisted like a balloon animal. My legs were weak and I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to get to the toilet to rid my body of the cursed Bombay belly.
My dad said the sickness was from eating street vendor food. If I was a person who subscribed to horoscopes or the notion of a karmic universe, I would have thought that I was being punished for reaping the benefits of healthcare while others in India suffered unfairly. I focused on the stupidity of walking through the circus that was Shibuya, where thousands of lights flickered and megaphones blared and people spilled out of every corner. Two places. Two realities.
When I came to from my fever, I packed away the scanty Indian tops. I embraced cotton Indian salwar kameez with dupatta that covered up my blond-streaked hair. I had my mom French-braid it like when I was a child. I snuggled next to her on the truck that took us through a tiger safari. I wandered Rajasthan ruins with my father, and let both parents fuss over taking pictures of me at the Taj Mahal. We examined the quarters of concubines in old castles. We took photographs of birds flying through a wildlife sanctuary. The bellboys at the hotels we frequented stopped calling me “Miss” and started calling me “Baby Miss.” I was a teenager again.
There were rows of colourful villages to be visited, dressed up camels in Rajasthan to ride, and hot pistachio milk to be drunk. Suddenly the octopus balls I had grown accustomed to in Tokyo seemed just as unappetizing as they would have when I was a child. Vegetarianism was unexpectedly appealing. For the first time in years, I was no longer hungry. I ate roti after roti, and put on the five pounds I had been missing from my life.
One uncharacteristically chilly night in Delhi, when a local heard we were “foreign-return” tourists, he took us for a rickshaw ride through his town, refusing to accept a coin over the set price. As he took us by the Red Fort at twilight, gleaming like an earthy castle, I finally understood that for all its madness, India was forever in my blood. And, for the first time, I found myself welcoming this idea. I wanted to speak Gujarati. I wanted to learn how to cook Indian dishes. I didn’t want to just tell people I was Indian for the sake of saying it, I wanted to believe it meant something. When the trip finally came to an end and my parents and I hugged and boarded our separate planes, I had to admit they were right in convincing me to go.
I wasn’t the same person after India. And Elias and the nightclubs and Tokyo itself, well they were exactly the same. Faking it just wouldn’t do anymore. The only thing that would do would have to be something real.
***
“MAYBE YOU FIND HOME at home,” Matt said, driving.
“Perhaps, once I figure out what home is.” Rain was collecting on the streets. The puddles sparkled.
“Is the idea of home really such an enigma, Maya? While you figure it out, we can watch Casablanca, eat home-made pasta, and drink Chianti. Maybe we’ll even go to a salsa club. You know, make Vancouver that much more homey for you.”
“Salsa is hardly your scene.”
“C’mon, Sepultura to salsa is a nice transition.”
“We can hang out, until I decide if I am moving to Spain or North Africa.”
�
�Not India? Sounds like you found something special there.”
“It’s true, I did. Meanwhile, the rest is here, with my mom and my grandmother. I ought to learn how to cook, while my mom is keen to teach me … ”
“So learn something about your past and then figure out your future,” Matt said, reaching for my hand. Confused, I saw he was doing one of our old basketball handshakes from seventh grade.
The car was heating up. Matt took off his jacket. He was wearing a sweater that Tabatha must have knitted for him. She was pretty good — the knitting looked neat and tight; the sweater could have passed for store bought.
I looked out the window. The North Shore mountains were a purple silhouette against the lilac horizon of the night sky. Kicking off my heels, I let the stream of heat hit my bare feet and tried to imagine exploring sand dunes in a jeep, in a country far from Canada. But right now all I could think was how the sand would seep through the windows. I imagined grains sucking my skin dry. Grit between my molars. When I got home I’d pop in When Harry Met Sally. Tonight, more than ever, I needed a predictable ending.
On my lap, my white flip phone flashed its rainbow of colours. I only bought the phone because it made me think of Tokyo — something in the present reminding me of an already glorified past.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“Nah, I’ll let it go to voicemail. It’s probably my mom anyways. She is always checking up on me. Some things don’t change that much.” We pulled up to my house and I put my shoes back on. “Thanks for tonight. It was a really good time.”
“I mean it wasn’t like chugging back kegs at the party house in Kingston, but we always have fun together.”
“I can just picture you, theory book in one hand and beer in the other,” I said, opening the car door. The street lamp outside was shining orange light down on the lawn beside my parent’s townhouse. The blades of grass glistened with raindrops.
“Hey, I came book-less tonight, didn’t I?” He threw his empty hands up as proof.
I shook my head at him, smiling, and said goodnight.
Inside, the house was dark and peaceful. I dialled the code to my voicemail. “It’s Dylan … I’ve been thinking of you all night. Did you know that crepe place downtown is open twenty-four hours? I am dying for something with strawberries and cream in it … that was your favourite back in Japan, right? It’s only fair I let you introduce me to something you like … ”
His voice brought to mind an eighties bad boy with a sloppy blazer, cuffs rolled up and a stitch of pink in his wardrobe. Half-breathless, I slid my body downward against the door, my hand poised on the clasp of my Robert Cavalli peep toes.
Who needed a predictable ending when there was Dylan Taylor?
5
I’D SLEPT IN. WHEN I rushed down to answer the door I found Nanima tapping her socked and sandalled foot impatiently at the bottom step.
I tied the belt on my short trench coat quickly. “Are you sure you are well enough to go today, Nanima?”
“Oh for goodness sakes! The lot of you will drive me insane. Anisa dropped me off and she is tougher to get through than a Ugandan police checkpoint … ”
“Okay, okay,” I raised my hands in surrender. “What’s that you’ve got?”
“Why, the tea and the recipe of course! Anisa helped me write it out in English. Here, you take it.” She held out the piece of paper, keeping hold of the giant thermos of tea.
We walked in sync, passing a row of naked trees. My thoughts drifted to Dylan, the way his blue eyes changed colour depending on his mood. How he became animated when he discussed his love for swashbuckler and action movies. His tawny shaded scruff, rough against my skin.
The windows of the senior centre were fogged up and inside it was stuffy and warm. I pulled a chair up to our table like it was my usual spot in the high school cafeteria. Eileen looked delighted. Lily gave us a brief nod, and Kulvinder stared at the space above our heads. Cindy handed out birdhouse kits.
“In Uganda, birds were pests you would hardly invite to your home with an offering of seeds or grain.” Nanima muttered to me in Gujarati. “What on earth am I going to do with a bird house?”
The ladies looked at me quizzically, waiting for an explanation.
“Uh.” I reached into the pocket of my coat and smoothed out a piece of paper. “My grandmother wanted you all to have this recipe.” I placed the paper in the centre of the table.
***
Chocolate Cherry Chai
Makes two cups
Ingredients:
1 cup of water
1 cup of whole milk
4 shelled out cardamom seeds
4 cloves
1 tablespoon of fennel seeds
A generous pinch of cinnamon
Pepper to taste
2 Tetley orange pekoe tea bags
Sugar (optional)
2 squares of Hershey milk chocolate
2 sliced up maraschino cherries, with a few drops of juice
Method:
Bring 1 cup of water, cardamom seeds, cloves, cinnamon, pepper, and fennel to a boil with tea bags. Add 1 cup whole milk and sugar, if desired. Bring to a second boil. Turn the temperature to low to prevent milk from boiling over, and simmer, covered, on low heat for up to twenty minutes. Add milk chocolate and cherries. Strain, pouring only the liquid into a cup. Enjoy.
***
EILEEN REACHED FOR THE page. “Cindy can make copies for us,” she said, holding the recipe up and waving it to catch Cindy’s attention.
“You try?” Nanima asked, pointing at the thermos.
I smiled, pride washing over me. Is this how Nanima felt when I strung together a sentence of Gujarati?
Eileen was the first to thrust her empty cup in front of Nanima. “Please!” She was quick to take a sip. “My goodness, this tea is better than a sloe gin fizz on a hot summer’s day, I tell you what.”
Lily raised an inky blue eyebrow. “Okay, I will try, too. We Chinese, we know our teas.” She swallowed and looked at us skeptically. “This is good. Maybe too sweet. You made this yourself?”
Nanima nodded. “I did … ” she trailed off in English. No words followed. She looked at me instead and spoke Gujarati. “This is my special tea. Next time I will make my regular tea. Does the Indian lady make tea, too? How does she make hers? Everybody makes their tea a little differently … ”
“My grandmother is asking Kulvinder to share her recipe also.”
“Oh honey, don’t bother trying to speak to Kulie. She’s been quiet the whole eight months she’s been here. Her daughter forces her to come here hoping she will talk one day,” Eileen said, waving a dismissive hand in the air.
Lily rolled her eyes. “She participates when the book cart lady comes by. Always picks a book, so we know something has to be going on in that head of hers.”
“Well, she will have to participate a little more for a taste of this tea,” Eileen said sternly. “Kulvinder, now you listen here. We know you can understand us. Old ladies who can’t understand English don’t go around picking up Pride and Prejudice from the book lady and stuff it into their purses, you hear? Just say one word. And we’ll give you the tea.”
I pulled her cup towards me and removed the used herbal tea bag.
“No!” Eileen shouted at me. Three old men looked up from their birdhouses at the next table over. “She has to say ‘please.’”
“She won’t … ” Lily started to say.
“Will you just wait a gosh-darn minute?” Eileen’s owl eyes bulged.
Kulvinder’s lips were pursed so tightly they were just a line. Deep wrinkles rose from them, like rays from the sun. “Please,” Kulvinder pushed the word through lips that barely opened.
Eileen clapped. “I, for one, think that drinking chai should be our tradition at this table.
I can’t go back to breakfast tea bags after this. In fact,” she sang, cupping her mug with both of her hands, “I have a fantastic idea. We don’t know one snicker-dinker real fact about anyone sitting here.”
“That’s exactly why I come here,” grumbled Lily.
“Hold your Albertan horses, I ain’t done.” Fiddling with her duck brooch, she continued. “I think each member at this table should share a story with us — something no one else knows. If we listen, we have to share. Since Kulvinder obviously reads English, she will have to speak. We can call ourselves the Chai Girls! Of course, what we say at the table stays at the table.”
“I don’t share a thing about myself with anyone. Kulvinder is a mute. Nargis doesn’t speak a word of English and needs her granddaughter to translate, and you, Eileen? Well, you’re way too peppy to have any real friends,” said Lily.
“I take it you are in, Lily,” said Eileen.
“Myself in,” Nanima said. She looked at me for confirmation. I shrugged. It looked like we were staying for a while.
“Kulvinder, by staying, you are participating. Otherwise, you take your two legs and march yourself right over to Wanda’s table.”
Kulvinder made no move.
“Here I go,” said Eileen. She paused to take the last gulp of her chai, swallowing it down like it was a shot of rum.
EILEEN
I GREW UP ON a farm in Alberta. I wasn’t the oldest, I wasn’t the youngest, and I sure as heck wasn’t the prettiest. That title belonged to my sister, Jane, with her blonde ringlets she called “a mess of hair” and her smile that had the whole town heady in love with her. No one expected Miss Camrose two years running to do any real work. I was the one who got stuck shovelling cow manure with my brothers. Ma and Pa had kept the farm running in good condition even through the Depression. By the time World War II swept over Canada, I had graduated high school and had never been kissed. But Jane? She was busy being courted by all the best boys in our town. In the end she got knocked up and married some farm boy who sold us seeds every planting season.
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