by Anubha Mehta
I stepped out on to a side road lined with Japanese red maple trees. It was a windy day, but the sun was making it bearable. I pulled out the piece of scrap paper from my purse and read my directions again. The road led to a row of towering arched metallic canopies, collapsing down into a flight of dark stairs and into the underground subway station. A few people were scattered on lonely benches lining the track. Within minutes, the dark tunnel vibrated and a steel grey monster with large, lighted windows stopped to slit open its belly and throw a bulky crowd out onto the platform. It was the train to Ossington. I hopped on and made my way to a seat, where I could read the signs for the next station well before it arrived.
It was time to look at the scrap of paper for my next landmark. But my coat pockets were empty. Where had it gone? Don’t panic, Maya, I chanted with deep breaths.
At the next station, without thinking, I got off. It was a deserted platform with only one flight of stairs to the outside, which smelled of stale urine. I was standing on a cobbled street overlooking the entrance of a park.
The ground was a bed of acorns and baby pinecones. The park was full of life. Lots of it. Joggers, dog walkers, mothers with strollers, pigeons scavenging for bread crumbs, toddlers rolling in the grass, and hungry teenagers hovering around a food truck on the curb.
The wind picked up. I fumbled in my bag to get out something to write on. Diya’s music papers flew out. I caught them in time. Another gust of wind blew. This time, the loose sheets escaped from between my fingers and flew over the path ahead. With an extended hand, I sprinted after them. From behind me there came another pair of hands. They overtook mine to reach the flying sheets first. A tweed jacket straightened itself up. I was greeted by a mass of cropped blond hair and two deep blue eyes that brightened with recognition. “Well, well, if it isn’t the tiniest pistol!”
“William!”
“Hey, Maya!”
“What a surprise!” was all that I could come up with. I never expected to run into him here.
“Always to the rescue, Madam.” He tipped his imaginary hat and handed the papers back. We both laughed. He was always debonair and dashing.
“How are you?” we both asked simultaneously and then laughed again.
“What are you doing here?” he asked first.
“Finding my way,” and I bit my tongue as soon as I said it.
He chuckled, “Nothing much has changed then.” And then, as if to cover up for his amusement, he said, “Have coffee with me?”
I hesitated. It was getting late. But then I remembered how I wanted to know about the apprenticeship. As if reading my thoughts he said, “Maya, it’s perfect timing. I am having a meeting with one of the sponsors for the Eastern Line that I spoke to you about … so let’s go meet him together and get a head start.’
Now, I was interested. I needed something to keep me occupied before I went mad.
“Okay, but promise to give me directions home after that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
I followed him to a tiny table at the back of a red brick café that was inside the park. We sat at a table positioned under a barrel light fixture with vintage bulbs. The last of the sun’s rays were blinding us with their reflection from the metal beams off the ledge. The aromas that drifted from the kitchen were heavenly. The menu read: Pumpkin Spice Latte, Salted Caramel Mocha, Iced Cinnamon Dolce...
Our sponsor had not yet arrived. So we walked to the self-serve area, picked out the most repugnantly coloured ceramic mugs and started drawing intricate designs in the creamy foam of our lattes. William dipped his little finger and smeared the froth on the tip of my nose.
“That’s better,” he said, tilting his head.
“Hey, stop!” I raised my fingers to wipe it off, but he caught my hand.
“Leave it, you look nice with a little froth,” he teased.
“You are not the boss of me,” I retorted. I was pulling my hand free, but he wouldn’t let it go. Just then a Sikh gentleman with a beard and a white turban entered.
William instantly stood up and shook hands with him. “So nice of you to come, Mr. Makhani.” Then he turned and introduced me.
Mr. Makhani smiled and extended his hand. “Hella, hella, Mrs. Mayas, so nice to make your acquaintance, my good self is Mr. Makhani.’
William’s face was a picnic of amusement and I could barely suppress my laughter. We both had to stop looking at each other before we lost our sponsor. There was nothing wrong in what he had said. But the way he said it was hilarious.
William and Mr. Makhani engrossed themselves over a spreadsheet for most of the hour. When they had finished, William asked me hesitantly, “Maya, I know that we have not had time to formally talk about this, but would you be able to start next week? For now, it would be simply to take some pictures of samples in Mr. Makhani’s storehouse. Then after that we can start your formal training.”
I looked at William, somewhat dumbfounded. I hadn’t expected to start immediately, and without being trained first. I did not like being surprised this way. But I was bored and desperate for something to do. I placed my cup on the counter and nodded, but William looked at me in a strange way and I knew he sensed that I was a bit miffed. He tilted his head and with slanting eyes, he said, “Stay a little longer, Maya.…”
“It is late and I have to go, William. Another time…”
“Aha, very good, very good, dear Mrs. Mayas, not you worry, I shall personally come to picks you up … says Tuesday at very sharp ten in morning?”
“Yes, see you on Tuesday, Mr. Makhani,” I said and scribbled my address behind one of Diya’s music sheets.
William looked at his watch. “Shoot, I am late. I have to meet someone at the subway.”
I didn’t want William to follow me, but he did. When we were out of Mr. Makhani’s hearing range, I confronted him. “I don’t know how to do this work. You promised to train me, and now you are just throwing me into the fire!”
“Maya, you are working with me, remember. And that means you can do anything … even a cat walk!” he laughed.
Despite how I felt, I let it go and teased, “Don’t tell me you wanted to get away so badly that you left your sponsor back there.”
To my surprise, William became serious. “Maya, I am meeting someone special.”
I instantly thought it was probably another woman. “So, how beautiful is she this time, William?”
“Actually it is a man, a senior man. I met him on the subway a few months ago. I had just begun conceptualizing the Eastern Line and he came out of nowhere and sat next to me. He was tall, very handsome, with a milk and honey complexion and grey hair. He had a long coat and shoes like I had never seen before. They were made of gold thread and pointed at the toes.”
William was quiet, and my mind was screaming with questions. It couldn’t be! That would be simply crazy. Then he spoke again: “Maya, there was something very different about him; he had charisma. The moment I saw him I knew that he was my showstopper for the Eastern Line—right there. We started talking, and he told me that he spoke two other languages. Punjabi, like Mr. Makhani, and one more, but I can’t remember which….”
“Pushto,” I said without looking up.
“Yes. Oh my God, how did you know?” I had to stop walking. My breath was coming in spurts. William held my hand again. “Are you okay?”
I did not answer. I was far away. No, this could not be. It was a mistake.
We had reached the dark subway stairs. We went down slowly, step by step. I realized that William was still holding my hand, and I pulled it back quickly.
He continued to talk once we had sat down on the steel bench to wait for our train.
“Maya, so I thought about it. Our sponsors are now really interested in Canadian multiculturalism and ethnic diversity. They would like us to hi
re and involve everyday local and diverse people, and thus make the presentation of our clothing lines richer and more authentic. Mr. Makhani agreed to sponsor us when we told him about our interest in the creation of an Eastern Line. So, I also took a chance and asked the gentleman I am meeting if he would walk for me on the runway. After a bit of chatting up, he finally agreed. I am to meet him today to confirm the details.”
“What do you mean?” My breath had started escaping me again.
“Well, it means that he has agreed to work with us for the show! In fact, it turns out that he used to be a music teacher in his day.”
Now I was certain who he was. I wanted to say that I knew him. But I didn’t, of course. I had started to feel faint. A gust of cold air rushed past us, and suddenly the steel monster was standing in front of us with its belly open. William opened my palm and wrote down the name of my station.
“I have to stay here, but you go down a few stations and exit at the one I’ve written here. After your meeting on Tuesday with Mr. Makhani, I will set up another meeting with just you and me to start your training.” Just before I stepped into the train, he gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Bye, Maya, take good care of yourself.”
The subway was more crowded in rush hour. As William walked toward the exit, I waded my way through the cabin to get a better look at the upcoming platforms. There was one vacant seat near the doors and I took it. The train gently glided forward, and an old lady with a basket full of groceries came to stand next to me. I immediately stood up and offered her my seat.
The platform outside was bustling with activity. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere. There was a child holding tight to his mother’s finger, a few office people with briefcases and vacant looks, young carefree fashionistas, a women’s walking group in track suits, and in the corner, under a lamp, stood a tall, dark, lone figure. Then I saw William approach this figure. I looked again.
Barrel-chested, lean, and towering. The same poise, the same physique, the same idiosyncratic, striking presence. A spirit from the past, from another land. Yes, it was who I had suspected. What I had feared was happening. Our past was catching up with us, seven seas away from India, in Canada.
Had Gayatri’s story found a way to continue in our lives in another continent through Sachin? He was greyer, older, but still the same person that I had met a few years ago on that fated night in Delhi when I had handed him Gayatri’s peacock bracelets. Then he had disappeared into the darkness.
Was my mind playing tricks? And then he looked up. At me. Directly. He stepped out from under the lamp and into the light. I saw his face.
The train had started moving. I stepped forward toward the big window and put my palm on its glass. My gaze met his. I saw a flicker of recognition as his facial muscles perked up. The train picked up speed as he raised his hand. A wave, an acknowledgement, a blessing. I saw William standing next to him perplexed at who he was waving to.
The train screeched forward. I had just seen Sachin. Veer’s grandmother’s lover.
33.
ON TUESDAY MORNING, I was dressed, ready, and waiting for Mr. Makhani. Ten o’clock came and went. Then eleven. There was no sign of him.
I sat down on the front porch and decided to wait for thirty more minutes. The thought of his grammatically incorrect English and peculiar Punjabi accent tickled me. In spite of myself, I felt an affinity with him. At twelve noon, when Mr. Makhani had still not come, I took my shoes off and went inside. Just as I was about to hang up my coat, the doorbell rang. There he was, a beaming Mr. Makhani standing on my doorstep, a good two hours late—and unashamedly so. I noticed that he had taken extra care in getting dressed today. He wore pointed waxed moustache tips, a bright orange turban matching his fluorescent shirt, and red patent leather laced-up shoes. He reeked of sweet rose-scented oil, probably from tucking his gelled beard neatly under an invisible beard-net.
“Hello, Mrs. Mayas. How you do?”
“Mr. Makhani! Are we on time?” My sarcasm was completely lost on him. There was not a shred of realization or remorse for his tardiness.
“Oho yes, yes. You see, I myself got into a very good meetings again in morning. Another one coming up. I think you are my guest, no?’
“No, Mr. Makhani, there is really no need for me to attend your meeting. We can meet another day if you are busy.”
“Nonsense, Madam. You see I has applied for some moneys for this new project.” He chuckled and continued, “I wear many hats.” He pointed to his turban, and, despite my irritation, I laughed.
“I hopefuls to get a very big works with little adjustment. I share all detail in car.”
“Mr. Makhani, where is this meeting? What adjustment? We have to finish our work today.”
He cut me short: “Not you worry. I explain all.”
He tumbled into his electric blue Toyota Camry and proudly showed off its navigation system, stereo, and custom-made leather interior. Then he turned on the Gurbani on his stereo and backed out with a ferocity that only warriors had before going to battle. I buckled up and clutched onto the sides of my seat.
After a few nauseating moments, my body got used to his speed, and my head zoned in on what he was saying.
“You see, Mrs. Mayas, I don’t smoke, drink—what is need? I naturally high, ha ha ha. He has been kind and given me everything.” His hands left the steering wheel to point to the roof of the car. I realized that he was pointing to heaven and that at any moment our car would steer off the road.
Unrelentingly, he carried on. “So I give back to community. On top my business I also director of charity organization. You see, Mrs. Mayas, this great Canada not same when I come to BC, many, many, many years ago from my dear Punjab with nooo moneys. I drive truck and ate langar in gurudwara. When I told to drive to Toronto, I like north town of Brampton. Very, very nice open space. It remind me of my dear Punjab.”
He paused to concentrate for a second on the road. We were at a pedestrian crossing and he had just missed a cyclist by an inch, who was gesturing and shouting profanities at our car.
“Soooo, as I was saying, when Mummyji lettered me to fetch bride from Jalandhar, it no surprise that I got house in Brampton. And then I went for wedding.” He became quiet. At first, I was thankful for the break. But then I saw his face. It was all knotted up.
So I nudged him. “So, Mr. Makhani, what happened at your wedding?”
“I sinned.” His hands left the wheel again and touched his ears this time.
“What?”
“Yes, yes … I go under witch spell.”
“What?” This was getting more interesting.
“You see, younger sister of bride, Daljit, much pretty in that way. She touch my hand and say bad thing that she like me. So I marry her instead. I break my bride heart. I shamed Mummyji. We come to Brampton.”
He was quiet again. We were exiting the Queen Elizabeth Way and heading towards another highway, whose name I could not catch. This time I did not nudge him. I knew he could not resist telling me the rest.
He took a sip from his plastic water bottle and carried on. “Too much new this Brampton, we not know anybody. I volunteer with Punjabi agency but Daljit angry. She say I lie to her, Canada so bad. We fight all time. God feel bad, send divine intervention. Moneys from application for community play program for Sikh children come from government. I teach all our Punjab sports: kabaddi, carom-board, cricket, gulli-danda. I happy, but Daljit want more moneys. She go shopping all day—make-up, tight clothes. My program grow, I hire two staff.”
We were passing a landscape dotted with warehouses, churches, and residential complexes. He pulled into a parking lot and turned off the ignition. “Mrs. Mayas, we have reached. Stories will go later.”
Before I could ask him where we were and what I was doing there, he had bounced off his seat and was charging inside a pair of sliding glass doors. It was
a tall building at the end of a broad intersection with offices on both sides of the adjoining street. We walked into a wide corridor that ended in a set of elevators. The smell of sterile chemical cleaners oozed out of the seams where the polished stone floors met the grey enamel walls. I ran to catch up with him and asked what would happen next.
“Ya, ya. Very, very simples, Mrs. Mayas,” he replied. “This community meeting. You see, I asks for government moneys for more service, but only one problems. Need small adjustment to get moneys. They want program for all ethnics in Canada, not just Punjabis. Good news, by gods, I like to work for all peoples but have to show, what they say? Aha, they call ‘mainstream’ team. When I heard you speak that day to Mr. Williams, please don’t mind it, Mrs. Mayas, your thoughts in very good English. So I decides to recruit you for my cause.” He stopped and smiled. “But you see, Mrs. Mayas, you will have to work very longish hours if you want my job.”
I couldn’t contain myself anymore. So I laughed out loud, much to Mr. Makhani’s surprise.
We passed a set of glass doors on the right, completely ajar. Something made us stop. A young Asian couple with a toddler seemed to be in great distress. The woman was crying hysterically and clinging to her child, and the man behind her was talking to his interpreter, who was interpreting to two blonde women officers standing in front of them.
“This welfare office—poor get government moneys,” Mr. Makhani explained.
We continued to watch. The interpreter was pleading with the officials. “Mrs. Chang is apologizing for her earlier actions, and she will obey your rules as long as you don’t take away her child.” I could not believe what I was hearing.
“Oh, come, we no interfere. I see such case with Children’s Aid Society.”
But I wanted to know more about the rules that took away a child from his mother.
“Can we not help them, Mr. Makhani?”
He paused then nodded. He walked briskly towards the women officials with a sense of importance emanating from every step he took. With an exaggerated gesture, he dug his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his business card. I could not hear them, but I saw Mr. Makhani lifting his head to talk and the hesitant women looking at him quizzically. The interpreter had joined them and started explaining something too. Then Mr. Makhani shook their hands multiple times and laughed loudly. He was by my side in an instant with all the news.