Today Vincent looks like a real Cantonese gangster, even though he has never been to the mainland. His black hair is short at the front, but a long strip trails down his neck. He has tattoos inked on his entire upper body. They look like pretty paintings I should hang on the wall: wen goldfish with fancy tails squirming; dragons with purple and green scales, all dancing on sculpted muscles. How I wish he had a handsome regular haircut like my friends’ children. How I wish he wore regular suits and worked nine to five as an accountant.
Vincent tries to give me money, but I won’t take a cent. I feed him when he visits. He seems to have gotten his taste for real Guangdong cuisine back. Together we feast on all the creations I make, and sometimes we even eat on my crowded little garden balcony. Vincent will smack his lips together and make new requests, like for dim sum. I am from an older generation. I would never call something you don’t eat for lunch dim sum; I would call it siu yeh, which translates to late night snacks, where we serve congee with small plates of appetizers. But no matter what you call it, Vincent likes me to make him char siu bao, steamed soft buns with fragrant roasted pork. Or har gao, shrimp dumplings made with tissue-paper-fine dough.
I imagine Vincent eats dim sum with the other One Hundred Snakes members. All of them dripping with platinum, diamonds, tattoos, fancy clothing, their black hair blow-dried and gelled into perfect gangster haircuts. I see him with his legs outstretched under the large table, looking at his pager and cellphone. I picture him throwing down ridiculous tips for the Chinese waiters, who have probably in all their lives never witnessed such exuberant displays of wealth. Yet I can’t imagine that the custard tarts he orders at four a.m. are half as decadent as the ones I make.
Vincent wants me to open up a restaurant. He says he will quit his business to help me run it, and he will fund it with his own money. I am too old now to open up a restaurant, but I pretend Vincent will be the restaurant manager and have a normal life. He says we will have a lavish garden I can tend to out in the front, with a miniature waterfall and a soft pebble walkway. He wants to call it Lotus Garden. He says I can design the menu myself, by combining some Guangdong cuisine with all the things I have learned here; mixing Eastern cooking with Western, now that is something most people in Canada have yet to try.
“You are the best cook I know, Mom,” he says, praising my mothering through my food. But no matter what he says, I know I have failed at motherhood. And I know better now than to believe he will ever change. Somewhere along the way he became Vinnie, and he isn’t the Vincent Chong I gave birth to.
8
DYLAN WAS STANDING IN front of a photo of neon lights and old hotels. “What do you think?” he asked, his arms crossed in front of his chest. The gallery display light filtered sparkles through his chestnut-coloured hair.
“I like the one of the white and blue mountains, snapped next to zigzagging tracks.”
“Herzog is a fucking brilliant street photographer. I’m glad we caught the exhibit. I mean, I’m on the streets all the time and I feel he really did Vancity justice, right?”
“Right,” I echoed. In my head I was thinking of Pacific Central Station the way Eileen might have seen it when she first looked at it with Johnny, or East Hastings when Lily went to meet her son.
“Hello? You there, Maya?” Dylan snapped his fingers at me. “Check out these ones of Chinatown.”
The day after Lily finished her story, the temperature dropped. Today, we had the first snow of winter. Nanima had looked out at it, recalling her first winter in Canada. She and my grandfather had stared for weeks at the dirty chunks of snow, hard and unmelting, while the neighbourhood children played in it happily. That first winter, she told me, all she could think of were the beaches of Africa, and the lively Indian festivals she would never see again.
Dylan slipped my hand into his and pulled me into a corner. “Are you in the moment, Maya?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“You always seem like you are anywhere in the world but with me.” His eyes darkened.
“It only takes a good chocolate and banana crepe to make me feel in the moment, don’t you know that?”
He pulled the glass of white wine from my hand and set it behind me. “What are we waiting for then?” he said.
After crepes, we walked the downtown streets and ended up by the old cinematheque on Howe Street, where a Bergman movie was playing. Just as I was about to suggest we check it out, Dylan pulled me across the street and into the new theatre.
Dylan dumped a package of milk duds into the bucket of buttery popcorn and shook hard, popping a handful in his mouth. We had missed the first ten minutes of the movie, but he didn’t seem worried as he passed me a set of 3-D glasses.
“What do you think of Vancouver now?” he asked, kissing me before I could answer.
A taste sweet and salty and everything all at once. Explosions lit up his face as he turned to the screen. The sound system rumbled with rock music and sirens. My senses were so overpowered I had no room in my mind to think.
Last Friday had been cinema day at the senior centre. On the ceiling Cindy had strung hearts with pictures of actors from Nanima’s day. She had rummaged up an old record player and some movie soundtracks on vinyl. I looked at the other ladies, feeling a part of the group. For fun, I had purchased an off the shoulder sweatshirt with a duck on it, which Eileen rather liked.
“Do you think Kulvinder is going to speak next? Or should I just go ahead and sit with the women who play mahjong?” Lily said.
Nanima sat beside me, her floral dress spread over legs like cloth over a picnic table. She nudged me, as if we were watching a play.
“Oh please, Lily. You don’t sit with any Chinese ladies here — you only sit with us.” Eileen rolled her eyes.
“I can ask Cindy if we can stay here, instead of going in to watch the movie,” I offered.
Lily raised her indigo painted eyebrows. “There’s not much point if Kulvinder isn’t going to say anything.”
Cindy clapped her hands and instructed people to go to the next room for the movie just as Nanima got up and went to the kitchenette.
“Ladies, aren’t you excited about seeing Fried Green Tomatoes?” Cindy approached us, fingers looped through her overall straps.
Nanima returned to the table, holding cups of Indian chai on a tray. She looked everything like me and nothing like me, all at the same time. She had my yellow eyes, of course. I was wearing skinny jeans while she had on a frumpy frock. But today she looked fresh, alive, happy. She was not a mother or grandmother, but simply Nargis. I saw her bringing chai to my grandfather’s family the first time she met them, cups tinkering against one another, her small body shaking.
“Cindy,” started out Nanima, slowly.
I interjected in rapid fire Gujarati, asking if I should help.
Nanima shook her head at me. “Cindy,” she tried again, setting down the tray. She drew a circle in the air. “We. Club. Tea club. Talk stories.”
Eileen and Lily beamed. Cindy did not miss their look of excitement. “Well,” Cindy said, “this gathering is all about people coming to socialize and make connections. I mean if all you ladies are all right with missing the movie … ”
“Of course we are okay with it,” Eileen interrupted. Lily nodded.
Cindy shrugged and walked toward the movie room. “Okay then. I’ll check on you all in a bit.”
“Kulvinder. If you share your story with us today, Maya can help us by translating,” Nanima said in fluent Hindi. I was surprised at the ease and expertise with which she spoke Gujarati’s sister language. “Our English is probably not so good. Maya is very well educated. Not like the women of our generation. We are not as smart or learned. We need her help today … ”
“My English is fine,” Kulvinder said loudly in English. “And I have an excellent education!”
I tried to hide my smile as Lily and Eileen squinted at Kulvinder.
“That’s one of my favourite books,” I said, looking at the book sticking out of Kulvinder’s purse. I leaned forward to examine the embossed, tattered-looking copy of Anna Karenina. “I used to take it every place I travelled.”
“It’s a very old version.” She straightened her posture under my gaze. “And I don’t need any help in telling my story.”
“Are you going to tell us your story then?” Lily said.
“I don’t know why you all care so much,” Kulvinder said crossly, in a strong Punjabi accent. Her voice was as clear and milky smooth.
Just as Lily was about to snap, Kulvinder sighed. “But I suppose fair is fair.” She shifted in her seat, adjusting the wide pants on her cotton Indian suit, and began.
KULVINDER
I STOPPED SPEAKING NOT to punish others, but because I don’t deserve the right to speak. If I didn’t believe in Guru Nanak Ji, I would have found a reason not to be amongst you ladies by now. But I believe in the gift of life. I also believe I am the kind of person that doesn’t learn from making the same mistake once or even twice. And the longer I go on speaking, the more likely it is I will repeat the same mistake. This mistake has one name: Jaspreet Maan Singh.
I first met Jaspreet in the village where I was born. The village still appears in my dreams. The terracotta brick farmhouse with the lazy buffalos lounging out in front; the buttery smell of the fresh cow’s milk we used to drink, still warm from the udders; the taste of the hot parathas made using homemade ghee. Just as I remember the farmhouse clearly, I remember Jaspreet Maan Singh. He stood tall and firm, like the antlers on a male blackbuck. He had a beard so black it looked like a lake at night, the kind you might want to take a dip in. Even in a plain turban he had the look of royalty. Mothers would meet Jaspreet once before deciding marrying their daughters to him was a novel idea.
But destiny had it spelled out that I was supposed to marry Baba Dhillon. Simple looking daughters of poor farmers don’t just go off and marry men like Jaspreet Maan Singh. Baba Dhillon was only ten years older than me, but he looked closer to twenty, with tiny shoulders and a concave chest. He was so weak no one dared ask him to carry a bag of basmati rice. Later in his life, Baba Dhillon would discover that muscular dystrophy was the cause of his skeletal demise. But no one in our village at this time had ever heard of such a condition.
Baba Dhillon was an employed engineer, and my parents found him to be an acceptable match. He was educated because he could never work on the family farm. Baba Dhillon had landed a good job in the big city of Lucknow. Every winter he travelled to the village for the Lohri festival, bringing along with him famous Lucknow sweets, dressing his sisters in the finest of garments and throwing extravagant tips on the dancers and drummers on the fairgrounds.
It was during Lohri that Baba Dhillon first noticed me. Tossing puffed rice into the bonfire, I was thanking God for a good harvest year, admiring the creamy biscuit-coloured fields ready to be scythed and gathered before our period of rest. I wore a saffron suit that hugged my fertile hips. My long black hair, as shiny as a rich man’s patent shoes, was braided tightly with gold ribbons. I was too busy staring at Jaspreet Maan Singh to notice Baba Dhillon. And Jaspreet was staring right back at me.
I knew Jaspreet could have any girl in the village, and there were rumours he had. But none of that concerned me. Jaspreet came up to me and tucked a bright yellow mustard flower behind my ear, grinning. Most men would never have the gumption to carry off such an act, for a woman could slap him, belittling him amongst the other villagers. But Jaspreet knew exactly what he was doing.
We met every evening thereafter. My parents thought I was busy completing the evening tasks when Jaspreet snuck into the storage room, where we kept the overstock of lentils and grains. Back then, he thought he actually needed to make promises of marriage to keep a woman interested. He peeled off my cotton kurta suit, throwing it on the earthen floor. He kissed my collarbone, the inside of my wrists, and finally my inner thighs, tired from squatting in the day to milk the cows. He smelled like sweetly soured milk and hay. We were young and eager to get to know each other as fast as we could. He moved quickly, afraid I would change my mind. He did not know yet I never would. Meanwhile, I gave in to the merry-go-round causing my head to swirl. I allowed him to hoist me on top of the burlap bags filled with crimson dots of masoor dhal, which leaked out, making a shhh sound as they hit the floor. In the evenings that followed, I would grow to admire the scarlet marks the woven bags etched onto my bare bottom.
My parents were surprised I wanted to marry Jaspreet. There were rumours Baba Dhillon lived in an apartment in the city that had running water and a flush toilet with a chain. They asked me to consider my choice carefully. But no young woman in her right mind would ever choose Baba Dhillon over Jaspreet Maan Singh. They accepted Jaspreet’s proposal without much argument. He was the same caste as me, and had a good plot of family land in the village. My parents checked for the most auspicious day for a wedding with the local panditji and just like that, the date was set.
Delicacies and sweets were prepared. Gulab jamun, fat golden sugary balls, were served in silver bowls that my grandfather had engraved with his own hands. Gajar ka halwa, carrot pudding the colour of blood oranges, was stirred in steel pots. Marigolds dripped on strings from doorways. I was adorned in an Indian sari the colour of a ripe pomegranate. Golden loops were embroidered on the sari, interlocking like snakes dancing in heat. The chunni hooded my eyes, and the only visible item on my face was the giant gold loop clipped to my nose. I was hidden away on a cot upstairs, kept away from the guests until the exact moment I was supposed to descend the stairs. Down below, I could hear the guests clapping to folk wedding songs.
That was when my mataji, her face soaked in tears, burst in the room. Jaspreet had taken an ox cart and ridden off to the neighbouring village to marry another. My wedding was called off. But the drummers still had to be paid, and the guests still expected to eat, having walked miles from another village to attend. For a Punjabi girl, a man calling off a wedding, especially so last minute, means she will never marry again. She is considered a bad omen, a cast-off, a no-good woman. I examined my hands, which were covered with mehndi. In the corner of my palm, a heart was hiding amongst the handiwork. On it was written the name Jaspreet. It would have been Jaspreet’s job later to find where his name was inscribed on my body.
I had always thought Baba Dhillon was an opulent man that loved to show off his riches. It was that night I learned Baba Dhillon could not let anything of value go to waste. Finding it impossible to throw away even the smallest bite of a prontha, he wrapped it in cloth to eat later. Baba Dhillon would hound the vegetable sellers if he thought they cheated him even a cent. But again, I am getting ahead of myself. Baba Dhillon was not going to let a good wedding go to waste. He proposed to my father, and before I knew it I was ushered down the steps to marry a different suitor.
The guests with their ceremonial swords oohed and ahhed with surprise. The Indian trumpet players began playing a wedding song. The drummers grinned, adjusting the multi coloured pompoms dangling from their drums. They pounded so hard on their dholis it sounded like gunshots were being fired. The guests cared not who the bride married. They only wanted a reason to celebrate. With the mood cleared, alcohol flowed freely.
Perhaps the biggest mistake Baba Dhillon made that night was not his desire to save on wedding expenses, but that he married me with Jaspreet’s name still tattooed in henna on my palm.
Shortly after the wedding, he took me to Lucknow to live in an apartment complex with running water, and yes, a flush toilet with a chain. The building had architectural qualities reminding me of a jigsaw puzzle put together in the wrong order. Pieces were jammed together where they simply should not have been. Our small terrace stuck out right above our neighbour’s kitchen. The smell from her palak pa
neer curry clung to the clothes hanging on our clothesline.
Gone was the clean view of khaki wheat fields and jade green meadows from my farmhouse terrace. Now I saw hungry-eyed children hanging from balconies, soiled and half-clothed. On the streets below, there were men stupid enough to carry other men on their backs, using a two-wheeled contraption they pulled under their arms and ran through the streets with. Old people, forgotten about, toothless and sick, cowered behind alleyways to relieve themselves. Back in our village, the elderly belonged in the courtyards of their children’s houses, telling stories to their grandchildren while they sat on day-cots, lounging about, eating paan. I missed the village water well, where we shared stories while pulling up buckets overflowing with the earth’s tears. The water from this city tap ran murky brown and smelled of contaminated cow dung. I even missed fresh cow’s milk, taken from a cow I had raised since she was a calf. In the city, a man wearing raggedy clothing came every morning to deliver the milk. It swung from steel containers hanging from his bicycle, tasting of tin.
It was in the city I learned that what appeared to be Baba Dhillon’s immense respect for my sexual privacy was in fact an inability to perform. His illness had rendered him impotent. Instead of offspring, Baba Dhillon gave me passion for literature. He sent me to a women’s school where I practiced writing the alphabet and conversing in English. Baba Dhillon taught me to read children’s stories about kites and kittens, then novellas and finally, novels. I fell in love with Brontë, Hemingway, and Shelley. When I stumbled over Kipling’s Kim, Baba Dhillon spent hours dissecting meanings with me. He never praised my cooking or looks, but he was full of rich compliments when it came to my reading.
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