Peacock in the Snow

by Anubha Mehta

  “Well?” I asked eagerly.

  “You new, so no understand. Our governments very good. When little child not treat well, they take away.”

  “What do you mean take away?” He did not like being interrupted during his teachings to me.

  “Yes, yes, I knows it wrong, so you see, I tolds them that what they think is abuse may be not correct. Different nationality mothers have separate cultures for own children.”

  “So what happened?” I cut to the chase.

  “This Chinese family finish moneys, no job, apply for government helping. Today son fever. Long line waiting. Child crying. Mother scold and then hit. All officer see. Child having fat, fat bruise on little arm. They make report, call officer to take child away from bad mother.” He took a deep breath, his chest puffed up and propelled out. “You see, Mrs. Mayas, here my skill very useful. I say them my information on cultural parenting, and I win. They agree child returns to mother. But hard rules and says officer, mandatory Canadian parenting classes.” He radiated with childlike bluster.

  “Now let’s hurry, Mrs. Mayas. I don’t likes to become lates,” he muttered under his breath.

  I repeated the two new terms that I had learnt: cultural parenting and mandatory Canadian parenting. Were there coaching classes on how to be a good mother?

  Our meeting room was on the twelfth floor. Our elevator opened into a lobby filled with the aroma of Tim Horton’s coffee and a lavish spread of sugary cinnamon buns, fresh croissants, truffles, and bonbons. With our coffee cups filled to the brim, Mr. Makhani and I stepped into a large rectangular meeting room, suspended into a bright skyline. All eyes looked up as we entered.

  “Hello, Mr. Makhani.” An upright brunette with a big bust, square jaw line, and dancing eyes stood up and extended her hand to him. But she was not looking at him, she was looking at me instead, curiously.

  “Hallo, very huppy to meet and sorry we late.” Mr. Makhani caressed her palm instead of shaking it. Then, remembering me, he continued. “Pleasure to introduce to you … Mrs. Mayas, very new Canadian, I just picked her up. She speak very wells.”

  I saw the disappointment in the woman’s eyes. Now that it was out that I was freshly arrived, my potential value had immediately diminished. I wanted to correct Mr. Makhani’s statement that I had not arrived recently. But I decided to go along with the reaction that I was receiving had I really been a newcomer. The roadside Immigrant magazine had featured many articles that I had read on how newcomers were perceived as more needy than useful, except as “gathered participants” or heads to be counted for program funding and other political purposes.

  “Hello, I am Sabrina, the President and the Chief Executuve Officer of the largest foundation in Ontario, The Aid World.” She shook my hand limply. I wondered why she had two titles, was there a dearth of qualified staff for each job? Then she turned to the rest of the group with a face that was ready to lead the group into combat. “So, ladies and gentlemen, getting back to where we were … let’s start with the agenda for today.”

  The meeting agenda read like the 24/7 news channels headlines:

  1. Sponsored immigrant children under the family class category: Immediate requirement of a citizenship test—an unfair rule

  2. Tolerance of ethnic enclaves now balanced with identifying high-risk areas for resource prioritizing—a positive move?

  3. Legalizing medicinal marijuana—what it means for all Canadians

  A scrawny South Asian woman in a loose shirt hidden under a large apologizing scarf introduced the first agenda item. Her wiry salt-and-pepper hair was falling all over her tired face. I could instantly sense her pain, as if something was buried deep inside her. There was a guard, a shield of bitterness, which possibly masked feeble remnants of earlier achievements. Her fists were clenched as she started speaking in a low, coiled voice, ready to fight. She introduced herself as Kanchan. “This is an absolute outrage, this kind of racist treatment for minorities. We will just not take it lying down….” For a moment, I felt I was back in India. The same accents and faces, the same issues. She was slowly uncoiling now. “This is against our Human Rights law in Canada. Many immigrant children don’t have English or French as their first language, and if they fail the test then…”

  Someone else interrupted. It was a black woman wearing a hijab. She had a pleasing demeanour and spoke calmly, with a fixed smile on her lips. She was choosing her words carefully after mentally weighing the triggers and syntax of each one of them. This kind of impromptu, synchronized perfection was a level of mastery I had not seen before. “Hello, I am Denise, and I just wanted to say that our school boards have limited resources. Decisions on funding priorities will always lead to resentments for recipients who don’t need this set of services.”

  Then someone from the corner of the room spoke up. He had a fancy derby felt hat, a chesterfield overcoat, and an ebony walking stick in one hand. “Service saturation levels need to be balanced with a range of innovative and collaborative partnerships of local grassroot organizations.” He was speaking a language of progress, of unity. But no one was listening to him. Some were doodling, others whispering, and some just stared blankly ahead at the skyline. He finished, sat down, and then for some strange reason caught my eye and smiled.

  Suddenly Sabrina pointed at me and said, “I agree. Now take, for example, this lady here, she has just arrived, and I can only imagine how marginalized she feels….”

  In an instant, all eyes turned to me. The air was full of pressure, as if elbowing me to speak. If I had to be honest, which I did have to, then I was afraid that not only would I defy some of their patronizing ideas of how immigrants are treated but also possibly strip myself of their sympathies. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath to dig into a few seconds of foolish courage, and tried to be as diplomatic as I could.

  “No, I have not just arrived. It has been a while. And yes, it is tough. But I think integration is a complicated, two-way process. Newcomers are resilient and look for opportunities in everything possible, economic and social. We should not always compare our present life with all the good that we left behind. Instead, we should try to find some of it here. I have found strength in trying hard every day to adapt and to stay hopeful.”

  Kanchan reacted immediately. “Such big talk. But you cannot hide your reality as a newcomer. What all you must have faced. Tell us, did you face any unfair treatment?”

  Before answering, I thought of the episode at Diya’s school and then the one downstairs with the Chinese couple. But what also flashed through my mind was the unfairness that I faced in my married household. “Yes, I have faced prejudice. Here and in India. But people are the same all over the world, only the context changes….”

  Kanchan was not at all happy with what I was saying. I was not accepting her suggestion that I was a victim. She was not giving up. This time she went straight for the jugular. If I was not on her side then I was to be dismissed as someone who did not count. “Oh, people like Maya here belong to a new profile of newcomers coming into Canada, entitled and privileged. They cannot be bothered with commonplace issues of the integration of less advantaged folk like us.”

  I resented that. I opened my mouth to react but before I could, the man in the fancy derby felt hat spoke from the corner. “No, I disagree. Too long we have lamented that one size does not fit all but do we even know how many sizes we are? Maya is one such piece of the larger puzzle. Yes, she represents this new cohort of newcomers. We are so trapped within our filters, in our efforts to place everyone in preconceived boxes that we fail to see the real people that we deal with. It’s the immigrant experience that connects Canada to the world. It’s sad that your length of stay in Canada defines your closeness to this Canadian identity. The longer you live here, the more passively Canadian you get….”

  I could hear the resounding heavy silence in the room.

  His ideas were
not sexy enough for their liking. I chuckled. I had been called a piece of the puzzle.

  Just then Sabrina spoke up. “Well … well, on that note, let’s break for coffee and just after, we’ll take your questions.”

  This was my chance to escape. I pulled Mr. Makhani aside. “I have to go now. Where is the nearest subway, please?”

  His fingers crunched around my wrist with urgency. “No, no, Mrs. Mayas, you cannot go. See what riots you creates. Mine very good ideas to bring you here. We talks about my job offer later.”

  “Yes, Mr. Makhani, later. But I have to go now.”

  “But our works for Mr. Williams, no, no, we are to leave together.” He walked out with me. But Mr. Makhani was restless.

  Once we were back on the road, I asked him, “What’s up, Mr. Makhani?” I thought he would rant about his job offer again or say something about the meeting.

  But, to my surprise, he said, “You naughty, naughty girl, I leave my hot tea on table. So I turn in coffee shop. Take a quick cuppa chai with me?” I could not deny him his chai after I had pulled him out of the meeting.

  Once we were seated in the cafeteria, I expected him to plunge into his “work talk” right away. Instead, he sat quietly pondering over his tea, almost pensive.

  “All well, Mr. Makhani?”

  “As well as one can be in this country.” Again, this was not his usual buoyant answer.

  “Why? Is something the matter, Mr. Makhani?”

  “Oh no, no. I do not bother you.” I decided not to ask again, but he could not contain himself, and within a few minutes he plunged into the problem. “You see, Mrs. Mayas, Daljit has left me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I held his wrist in support. “Oh, I am sorry. You must be devastated!”

  “Solely I to blame. My sin catch me. I break heart of pure her elder sister by rejecting her and marrying her younger sister Daljit instead . Now God punish me for temptation to siren.”

  I was getting angry with the way Mr. Makhani was describing the women in his life. But I held myself back to hear his full story.

  He wiped an invisible tear. “Newly to Canada, Daljit so obedient but I too much in work, she be alone. Then one good day from goodness of heart, I encourage to do course in personal support worker. She got good job in old people home. Good mood. Then night shift starts. ‘No service in day’ she tell me. I allowed because she happy. Then last month it happen. I come to empty house. Note on table. Thank you for bringing me to Canada. I live my life now. A kind old man promise to take me Florida. Don’t bother tell my family back home, I calling them.” He sighed deeply.

  “Well, good riddance then.” I tried to make light of it.

  “I thought and thought and reached conclusion. I addicted, not to smoke, not to alcohol, but to woman like that. If I more home, then maybe Daljit still with me. So now I start another charity work for my community.”

  “Really, what is that?”

  “Marriage counselling.” I choked over my tea. We had started walking towards the exit doors now.

  “This is not your fault, Mr. Makhani. The people who send their daughters to an unknown land through arranged marriages don’t do it for love. Always know that. If they find love they are lucky. If anyone finds love they are lucky.”

  Mr. Makhani was not listening; he was waving excitedly to someone. I turned to see a red Chrysler zoom into the parking lot. In the driver’s seat was a woman, a very attractive young woman. “Mrs. Mayas, this is our new marriage counsellor working for our agency now. Meet Miss Saloni.”

  I could not resist smiling. So he was doing it again, our dear Mr. Makhani, a victim of his own heart. I knew then that Mr. Makhani would be okay.

  34.

  I ENJOYED WORK. William had kept his promise to train me properly and I was happy with my contribution to the team. But William had not been able to secure the funding he needed to make the Eastern Line of fashion clothes that we were working on with Mr. Makhani a reality. And I was happy that Sachin became a distant memory because of this. I had not wanted to run into him.

  Working with William was the most enjoyable part of my day, and I think his too. It was effortless to talk to him and to joke with him. Many times, I caught him gazing at me lazily and many times he made me laugh for no apparent reason.

  But we both knew that we lived in different worlds. His was a world where it was easy to live, and to love. He lived for himself, in the present, and nothing else mattered. William was carefree, talented, and self-centred. My craving for William’s free, uncomplicated way of life disturbed me.

  With Diya keeping longer hours at school, I also started working longer hours with William at his office. It was one of those evenings. With the rest of the staff gone, I too was winding down, when from the corner of my eye I noticed William sitting quietly in the dark at the edge of our settee with a glass of whiskey in his hand. I switched on the light to see his flushed face looking back at me.

  “Maya, please shut the light, it hurts. And sit down here, I have to tell you something.” He gestured to a spot next to him. “Our next year’s line up had no takers. I wasn’t able to raise enough funds even for the launch….”

  My heart sank for him.

  “Don’t worry, we can try again next season…”

  He didn’t let me complete my sentence. “Maayaa … Maayaa, always the optimist. What would I have done without you?” he said and placed his hand on my knee.

  “Done very well…” I joked, but the closeness was making me uncomfortable. I got up to leave.

  He tilted his head and looked at me with slanting eyes, like he always did. “Maya, don’t go.”

  His hand reached for my arm and tugged hard at my sleeve. In an instant I fell into his hard lap. He bent over my face with an intensity that I was not prepared for. His lips pressed hard on mine and his tongue tasted of malt inside my mouth. Underneath his cologne, I smelled something else. Pine. Like the forests of Algonquin. He squeezed my shoulders and started stroking the length of my body. His fingers edged towards my blouse.

  “William! No!” I screamed, gasping for air.

  He lifted his head and let go, surprised and a bit shaken.

  The walls of that large room had started caving in. I jumped off his lap, stumbled over my bag, and fell in the dark. His lean figure stood over me and he extended a helping hand. But I pulled myself up and heading quickly to the door.

  “Maya! Wait, please.” I felt another tug, this time it was like that of a child.

  I could feel his eyes on my back

  In that moment, through my hot tears, for the first time, I realized something that banished all my internal conflicts and gave me strength to do what I had to do next without any regret. I realized that my infatuation for William’s life, his lifestyle, and his choices was not a longing for the person who was William. While I found his outlook on life refreshing and while he was easy to be around, this could never have been anything more than friendship. No matter how irrational my complicated bond with Veer was, no one could ever mean to me what Veer meant to me.

  I turned to confront William. Even in the dark, his blue eyes sparkled the same way that they had the first day I had met him. I didn’t need to say anything. He knew. In that half-lit room, we both knew that this would be the last time we saw each other. He had broken my trust by crossing that sacred line of friendship.

  Surprisingly, the imprint of his touch lasted longer than I expected. The next day I sent in my resignation.

  PART III

  FOREVER, LIFE

  35.

  I COULD NOT BELIEVE how the years had slipped by. The wind from the lake still blew violently into our garden, banging to be let in through the bedroom window. It screeched, howled, and then lay in wait. Some nights when the moon was bright, and I was not afraid, I sat barefoot on the stone bench under the angel’s wings. Th
ose nights the wind dropped to my feet as if thanking me for breaking its solitude.

  A few years ago, I had received that phone call that everyone of us who has left their parents behind dreads to receive. “She passed peacefully in her sleep,” was Papa’s way of breaking the news to me. His voice was too calm for my liking.

  Without thinking about what he was saying, I blurted out immediately, “I’m coming, Papa.”

  “Maya, no, don’t come just now. I will call you soon. I am going to be travelling with her ashes to Haridwar to scatter them over the holy Ganga River and then I will be going to our cottage in Kausali. That is where I find the most peace, find her.” His composure cracked a little.

  “Okay, Papa, but promise to call me as soon as you reach Kausali? I would like to be there with you.”

  “Yes, I promise my little girl, I will.”

  I waited for a few days and when his call didn’t come I decided to buy my plane ticket.

  “I want to go to India,Veer. I have to be there with Papa.”

  “Yes, that is a good decision, Maya. I will arrange for your ticket,” Veer said and left for his office.

  That morning I had burnt my toast and its smell was flooding the entire house. For some reason, this smell took me back decades ago to the day we had left India, to a similar hot spring morning when the sun was pouring into a kitchen filled with smell of burnt toast. Why was my mind playing tricks to take me back to India? And the next moment I had my answer. The phone rang.

  “Maya, I have some bad news. It is about your father.”