Peacock in the Snow

by Anubha Mehta

  “See, there is always a logical explanation,” the commander said and exhaled with relief.

  “So, where is he?” I was on edge.

  The commander looked at Dylan and Dylan simply shook his head. “The snowmobiles are all back. And I didn’t see him with that group.”

  There was something very wrong. I just knew.

  Dylan started rambling, ‘The only way that someone was left behind was if they ventured off in the wilderness … but…”

  “Yes, Dylan?” the commander encouraged him to continue.

  “Well, I was just going to say that no one can survive these frigid arctic winds in any case.”

  The commander flinched again.” I am so sorry, M’am.”

  Diya was by my side now. She was holding me up with her hands on my shoulders. The wind had started blowing layers of snow. Diya took over. “Commander, we have to get another team out to look for my father, and to rescue him.”

  “Of course,” the commander said. Within minutes, he had assembled a team. Diya climbed in and the helicopter quickly disappeared into the blue sky.

  Aippaq came up to me and asked what had happened.

  “Veer has not come back.”

  “Have faith, sister. You are good people. Have faith, and remember, he is the brave one.”

  I was grateful for his support. I could no longer feel the tips of my toes, and frost was biting my face. But I waited in the cold in spite of Aippaq’s advice. When my shadow became longer, I heard the sound of the helicopter again.

  The first thing out of the commander’s mouth was the last thing that he had said before leaving. “I am so sorry…” he repeated.

  “Why are you sorry?” I asked again, just as Diya was coming out. Her face was flushed, and tears were streaming down her face. “Mama, we looked everywhere. He is nowhere.”

  “What do you mean, nowhere? He was everywhere helping everyone, and he was right here with us, with me.”

  “I am very sorry, Mrs. Rajsinghania. No one could have survived the terrain that we just combed looking for your husband. It seems that there was another avalanche a few hours ago, and there is not a single shelter in sight for miles. The survival rate is almost nil under such circumstances. But I assure you that we will keep looking and inform you personally if anything changes. There is another blizzard expected soon and before it arrives I would urge you to leave with the survivors. Our helicopter will drop you at the nearest base camp.”

  I looked at Diya and then the commander. My anger was rising. “Veer is a survivor too. You cannot say such things. He is out there somewhere.”

  “Mama, sit down please. Ma….” I think it was Diya’s voice. It was coming from far away. I felt hands on my shoulder pushing me down to sit.

  “Nurse, nurse, can you please check her? She is going into shock. Why is she not blinking? Can you give her something?” This time it was a man’s voice.

  I could hear my breath. It hurt to breathe. I just wanted to lie down. Next to Veer. He would come soon, and we would all leave this wretched place forever. I hated to drive, Veer would have to drive back. Since he had not eaten the whole day, I had kept his dinner on a back burner, warm for when he returned from the snow outside. I had made his favourite, Thai cashew chicken and banana cream pie.

  I felt a pinch on my arm. And then the smell of iodine tincture.

  “Now, now, she will feel drowsy,” I heard another voice say. I felt large cold hands on me. “Yes, she is ready for the stretcher now. Please be gentle.”

  I think I was flying. I was next to Veer. I was okay now. This is where I wanted to be. As numbness took over, the pain subsided to a dark corner deep inside my body.

  ***

  I opened my eyes to a dark room. It was our bedroom. Diya was sleeping on Veer’s rocking chair. I looked past our bedroom drapes into the backyard. It was grey outside. But Veer had the Christmas lights on a timer. They were lit but blurry somehow, as if drenched with tears.

  Diya woke up and put her arms around me. Then she started sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Why are you crying, Diya?” She stopped crying and looked at me with funny eyes.

  I had a faint recollection of what had happened. I felt like I was covered with thick black ash from a funeral pyre. I wanted to scrub it off. It was all over my face, my arms. I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. The ash was not there. Could I have imagined it?

  I walked to the window. It was twilight. A few winter birds were flitting in our garden, waiting to be fed. Waiting for Veer. I opened the door, and the wind stabbed my face with a cold knife. The sprinkled seeds flew from my palms and fell like black rain. The birds dug in. But there was someone missing. I waited.

  Just before my last toe turned blue, the flutter came. Edges of white wings peered from behind the angel’s robe. White doves! The colour of pure white peace looking straight at me. I moved towards them. They did not fly, they just pecked. What message did they have for me?

  I returned to my dark room. I felt a blanket around me. A faint tingling in the tips of my frozen toes returned. Diya was talking to me in a gentle voice, a voice I had often used on her as a child when I wanted her to understand something important.

  “Ma, Papa is not coming back. He is gone. You need to understand that. Ma, whatever it takes. I am here with you…. Ma, Ma….” And then she broke down again. Instinctively, I hugged her.

  Her voice was fading again. I wanted her to leave me alone. I needed to be alone. My mind was drifting again. I opened the top drawer of Veer’s mahogany desk and found the turtle-skin rattle.

  The pain was back, stabbing at my heart, unbearable pain. Veer’s words were in my ears, his dancing eyes before mine. “Someday you will play music, Maya…. Make sure you do.”

  With trembling hands, I reached out for the pile of unopened letters on Veer’s desk. He would have gone through his mail on Sunday morning. I had to do this to help him now. There were bills, more bills, and then a few cards wishing Merry Christmas from the various charities we donated to. I was about to give up but there were only three letters left.

  “One last try to finish this,” Veer would say, “or else they will keep piling up.”

  Another bill.

  I was closing the drawer when something caught my eye. The last letter in the pile. It had a strange stamp from Alliston, Ontario. A large stamp with a smiling Santa Claus, in an unfamiliar handwriting. I opened it mechanically and then pulled out the single sheet of lined paper written in blue ink.

  I read it. And then again. And again. Finally, after the fourth try, it registered in my head.

  Dear Maya,

  You probably don’t remember me, or maybe you do. I am Sachin, your husband’s grandmother’s childhood friend from Peshawar. I have been living in Alliston for many years now. We met briefly many decades ago in your home in Delhi. You gave me her gold bracelets. Then I saw you a few years ago on the subway. You must have wondered, and I apologize, as I should have come forward to talk to you. I recognized you instantly. The same eyes, the same fresh innocence. You remind me a lot of her.

  Your conspicuous family name was not difficult to find in the yellow pages. Time has a way of bringing us back to unfinished business, and finally I have something to request of you. It is unfortunate that I am writing to you at a time when I don’t have much time left.

  Maya, will you come? You will make a dying man very happy.

  Here is my address:

  1226 Parsons Road, Alliston, Ontario.

  Sincerely, Sachin Malik

  What did he want? Nothing mattered to me anymore. No, I would not go. It was late; he was correct about that. Too late for me. I did not care about about the past anymore. I would not go.

  I took the car keys off the hook in the pantry and drove to Home Depot. I bought two cans of terracotta orange, one can of
sunshine yellow, and one can of turquoise wall paint. The beige and grey walls of our home had to go. Veer had always wanted colour on our walls, and I wanted Veer to come home. I opened the paint cans to start immediately. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to buy brushes. I picked up the first thing that came into my hands, my morning teacup. I scooped the cup in paint and shot it high on the wall. It collided, splashed and trickled down. I tried it again, and again. The wall started to come alive. But it did not help, the pain had not been killed. It was still there, in abundance and simmering, the emptiness astounding.

  I had to go out again. Anywhere, it did not matter. Immediately. I picked up the car keys again. And grabbed the envelope from the top drawer. I plugged the Alliston address into my GPS and started out.

  39.

  THE SNOW HAD STARTED falling in sheets as I hit the highway. The radio was broadcasting storm warnings in between Beethoven and Mozart on the Boomers channel, with temperatures dropping below twenty-five degrees with the wind chill. I noticed abandoned vehicles that had skidded into ditches on the side roads, no doubt due to the wrath of the storm.

  I exited the main highway into a rural artery facing fields of endless snow. There was not a single thing in sight, dead or alive, moving or stationary. Even the trees were hibernating.

  Where was I going? And why? Did I really want to rake up old memories? Memories that did not matter now. What did Sachin have to say after all these years? And why had he come to Canada in the first place?

  I entered a small township and drove past a Ford and then a Honda dealership. Then, a wastewater treatment plant, a small hospice, a fire station, a Walmart, a vacant schoolyard, and a cluster of closely-knit houses with sloping snow-covered roofs and oversized backyards fenced with oak and pine trees.

  The second last house had the number 1226 painted on its rusted out mailbox. It looked more like a cottage made of stone and wood. I turned into its long winding drive, parked, and stepped out of the car. I hesitated before ringing the doorbell.

  After a minute, I heard some noise, and the door was flung open by a young man. He had green eyes and dirty blond hair, a honey olive complexion, a square forehead with high cheekbones, a long face, and cleft chin with a prominent nose. I had seen him before. He looked at me and smiled. A magnetic smile. I couldn’t place where I had seen him before, but I knew that I had.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “I am here to meet Sachin,” I said and started fumbling with the zip of my handbag to pull out his letter.

  “I know who you are,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, my father was expecting you. My name is Albert. I am Sachin’s son. Do come in. It is freezing out there.”

  I walked into a tidy, cosy cottage with stained wood cabinets and an exposed stone wall, a backdrop to the rustic interior. There was a bright patchwork quilt draped over the weary upholstery where I took a seat. The windows with wooden frames had thick drapes with lacy fringes. They were pulled back just enough to reveal tiny cobwebs against the dim light. Ornate candles were clustered around vases of fresh flowers on tables in two corners of the room.

  “How is Sachin? Where is he?”

  “I am afraid you are a little too late. My father passed away three days ago.”

  I tried to calculate if that had happened at the same time that I had been standing on frozen earth, waiting for Veer to come back and take us home. I was getting jumbled with the days.

  “As his last wish, he wanted you to do something for him,” the young man added.

  I still sat very still. Albert went into the adjoining room. I wanted to leave. Was I to write a note? No, I would just leave. I did not even know these people.

  He came out with a shining brass urn and a small wooden box with a peacock feather painted on its lid.

  “These are his ashes, Mrs. Rajsinghania. And there is something in this box that he wants you to open when you have left here. His last wishes are in this note.”

  I opened the note, read it, folded it back along the creases, and took the urn in my hands mechanically. I did not open the box. I was not thinking. I did not know what I was doing or why. I thought the young man looked relieved.

  I had turned to leave with the urn when he asked, “Would you like some tea?”

  I hesitated and looked at him. I immediately recognized the emptiness in his crystal green eyes.

  “Yes, tea would be nice.”

  He led me into a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and apples. I felt calmer. A tiny mahogany coffee table overlooked a desolate vegetable garden. I automatically gravitated towards the warm fire crackling next to the alcove. The wooden floors shone like honey and struck a perfect balance between refined and casual, traditional and modern. I could feel that peace and love that had resided here once.

  I opened Sachin’s note. With my mind a little at rest, I could follow it somewhat.

  Dear Maya,

  Something tells me that you will come. I have faith. And if you do come when I am no longer here, then Albert will hand you my ashes.

  This was a life that should have been with Gayatri. Had I not been so careless on that last night in Peshawar when she had come to find me, we would have been united forever.

  Once, many years ago, you reunited us through her peacock bracelets. I am returning those to you in the box. They gave me the courage to build what was left of my life. I found a beautiful loving woman, Mary, and Albert is living proof of how God has gifts for us at a time when we least expect them.

  I have sheltered Albert from the secrets of my unfortunate past, and I would like that to remain so.

  I know this is too much to ask of you, after all you don’t even know me.

  A part of my ashes will be buried with my life in Canada, where I lived, loved my wife Mary, and had Albert. The other part of me you will find in this urn. This part belongs to my previous land and my love, Gayatri.

  Maya, there is no one else of whom I can ask this, who knows or who understands. You connected me to her once before; I am requesting you to do so again. It is my last wish that my ashes be scattered next to hers.

  I closed the note. It was imposing and intrusive. How dare he, a total stranger, ask such a tall favour of me? I certainly did not owe him anything. But, in spite of myself, I was pulled towards this message.

  Albert was pouring piping hot tea in pink bone china cups. He was striking, as his father had been, with classic features and had inherited some of the warmth and charisma of his father.

  My mind started drifting away again. My eyes rested on the rustic grain patterns and primitive joinery of the table. Then my gaze moved up to the wall. I saw her. Captured in a silver leaf photo frame, her sunny blonde hair pulled loosely across her rosy plump cheeks, the same emerald green eyes as Albert, and a smile that beat a warm fire on a cold day like this. She glowed with an allure that was rare. Yes, I could see why a steadfast Sachin could not resist her. Albert saw me looking at the picture.

  “That is my mother, Mary. She was a student of my father’s in her last year at university, where he was teaching Persian poetry and ghazals. They spent many hours rehearsing, and, just after she graduated, they were married. I was born a year later. Two years ago, she died of leukaemia.” My heart felt heavy at this news.

  “I was never close to my father till then, and honestly I was even ashamed of being his son. I did not understand why he had to be different, why he was not from Canada or why my mother had to choose him out of all the men here. I always asked my mother to come alone for parent-teacher meetings. When he accompanied her, it made me uncomfortable. But I promised my dying mother that I would look after him. So when I did come to know him, I was surprised at what I found. I am now ashamed of my earlier limitedness and spite. We started spending many hours together rehearsing the sitar or practising the pitch of
a particular note. Then on cold evenings by the fire, he told me stories of a land I have only read about in fairy tales. He taught me about music, love, and life. These past two years have been the most revealing; he helped me find myself. I have discovered an unfathomable urge to pursue art. I have not decided what to do next….” He fell silent.

  I was touched by his youthful vulnerability. I became conscious of how alone he was now. The pain inside me was rising fast and I did not realize that I had been weeping as he spoke.

  40.

  SPEEDING ON THE NARROW treacherous roads felt good. It distracted me. I did not care about skidding while searching for the highway signs to take me home. I could see potato farms buried on the banks of the frozen Nottawasaga River, but the plastic smell of the car seats was nauseating.

  So, at the sign for Simcoe North Western Railway, I crossed the yellow line to stop at the edge of the white countryside. The gaping snowfields called out to me. They had something to tell me. I stepped out and the wind cut into my face, and whipped my legs into an icy numbness. I turned back to see lone footprints in the snow. Just mine. A clump of pine trees seemed to huddle together to brave the onslaught, their branches covered with thick blankets of snow. I moved closer and then in between them. There was a sudden flutter. I looked up at the grey sky, which had started to clear, revealing the occasional patch of a washed-out blue. Snowflakes dropped gently onto my upturned face from the movement of white wings between the branches.

  Why had the doves followed me here? Were they hungry? Had Veer not fed them today? Surely, they did not come to complain. Was Veer with them?

  I called out, but they flew away toward the strips of blue between the grey. The cold flakes on my nose slithered down to my collarbones and felt surprisingly good. As I wiped them off my face, I saw the last of the white wings vanish from my sight, I felt a sense of release. As if a heavy weight had been lifted.

  I sat down on the ground and buried myself in the snow, up to my chest.

  I was freezing, but I did not mind. Something inside me was changing. Was it Veer’s way of telling me to let go of this unbearable weight, my grief? And then I knew. Veer was here. Veer was with me. I dusted myself off and waded back to the car.