by Tikiri
The one day we explored Canada was the day Ms. Stacy read a book by William Parry to the class. It was the first chapter from the Journal of a Voyage for the Discovery of a North-West Passage, written by a man who’d traveled to the Arctic a hundred years ago. It was a story about the most remote and barren place on earth, where exposed skin froze in seconds. I shivered just thinking of it.
“Hey, Ms. Stacy, do you live in an igloo?” Tanya had asked, interrupting Ms. Stacy’s reading.
“No, Miss Harding, I do not.”
“So where do you sleep?”
“We have regular homes, cities, and electricity like anywhere else.”
“Have you ever seen a polar bear?” It had been Shanti this time.
“No, Miss Brahmin, I have not.” Ms. Stacy had looked like she’d heard these questions before. She’d tried to get back to her reading, but the girls were not finished.
“Father told me Canadians eat seals for dinner,” Bethany had chimed in. “Baby seals too. Is that true?”
“Little baby seals?” Sophie had said, horrified. “That’s disgusting.” Seeing her face, I’d wondered for a moment if she felt the same about the little children forced to work in her parents’ mines in Africa.
“Well,” Ms. Stacy had hesitated, “It’s certainly a traditional delicacy in certain regions, but you won’t see that at—”
“Is everyone in Canada fat?” Shanti had interrupted. “Like those Eskimos on TV.”
“The correct word is Inuit, Ms. Brahmin, not Eskimo,” Ms. Stacy had said in a firm voice. “And we come in all sizes, like everywhere else.” She’d let out a loud sigh.
“They’re fat because they eat seal blubber,” Anne had said, giggling. The others had joined in the laughter. These girls attacked in a pack.
“You eat seal blubber?” a boy at the back of the class had asked.
“Have you ever eaten seal heart, Ms. Stacy?” another boy had asked.
“How about a walrus?”
“Gross!”
“Fatsos!”
“Jelly belly!”
“Blubber eaters!”
The whole class had erupted. “Blubber eaters! Blubber eaters!”
“Settle down, everyone,” Ms. Stacy had said. Her plump cheeks had turned a light pink. She’d picked up her book and begun to read the next chapter out loud, trying to drown the heckling, her voice wavering.
I folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. I was on my way to the land of icy cold winds, polar bears, and possible blubber eaters. I was not at all ready.
Chapter Twenty-four
Franky was dead wrong. Mrs. Rao was anything but feeble or frail.
I was standing near the airport pickup area with the worn suitcase Mr. Mudenda had picked out of the lost-and-found bin at the Dar es Salaam hospital. It was the same one I’d brought with me to India, a lifetime ago.
This new country I’d just flown into was cold, a cold that seeped through my clothes, my skin, right into my bones, leaving me covered in quivery goose bumps. It felt like I’d walked into an enormous outdoor fridge. Everyone around me was in T-shirts or simple blouses, chatting, checking phones, and hanging around like it was just another day. I shivered visibly.
“First time here?” asked the man behind me in line.
I looked up at the stranger and nodded, my lips too frozen to speak.
“Visiting?”
“No…um…I’m staying for a while,” I said, remembering Franky’s warning in his letter. Don’t talk to strangers.
“It’s pretty cold, eh?”
I nodded again.
“You gotta get used to this then, cuz this is not cold. No siree. Real cold is when the river freezes and there’s white stuff on the ground,” he said with a wink and a kind smile. “Have you seen snow yet?”
I shook my head and hugged myself closer. Freezing rivers? White snow?
Just then, a sleek black Cadillac drove up with a swoosh and stopped right in front of me, sending more of the chilly air my way. It was the biggest, blackest car I’d seen in my life. The driver’s door opened and a stout woman looked out. She glared at me. I stared back in surprise. She was Indian, obviously. She seemed as wide as she was tall, and dressed in a chic skirt suit. Is this—?
“Asha?” the woman barked in a voice deeper than a man’s.
I straightened up. “Yes,” I said in a meek voice.
“Put your bag in the back.” With that, she slammed the door shut. It took a few seconds to collect my thoughts and pick up my bag.
Though her appearance had been brief, Mrs. Rao instantly reminded me of a warthog I’d seen during a safari trip at the Serengeti. I’d noticed her dark brown hair cut bob style. On top of her head had been a pair of oversized sunglasses attached to a chain that went around her chubby neck. Her thin lips were painted blood red. Stout, with heavy-set jowls, Mrs. Rao looked as formidable as a warthog. It would take me some time to discover those tusks of hers.
I put my suitcase in the trunk and opened the passenger door. And just as quickly, I pulled my head back.
“Are you getting in or not?” Mrs. Rao said sharply. “I don’t have all day.”
The inside of the car was suffocating with expensive perfume. I took a deep breath of the fresh outside air and got in. I promptly sank into the soft leather seat. I couldn’t believe my eyes—the plush interior, the wood paneling, the heated seats. Wasn’t this how Bollywood movie stars got around? Hanging from the rearview mirror was a crucifix necklace made of ivory. On the dashboard was a framed photo of an Indian man in a smart white jacket. I turned to look at the backseat, which seemed a mile away. A well-groomed ball of black-and-white fur with its tail tucked in lifted its head momentarily to give me a condescending growl, and went back to sleep. Mr. Raj Kapur didn’t think much of me from the start.
We drove in silence for a while.
“Thank you for picking me up, Mrs. Rao.”
Not a word from my companion.
“One of my teachers was Canadian.” I wanted to be friendly, to make a good first impression. “Do you know a Ms. Stacy from Toronto?”
Mrs. Rao grunted. Just like a warthog would.
“She used to teach at the International School of Dar es Salaam.”
“I don’t know your teachers,” Mrs. Rao said brusquely. I guessed she wasn’t much of a talker.
I looked out the window. Everything was crispy clean here. Unlike the streets of Goa, which were like a teen’s messy, dirty room, upheaved by a tornado, this place looked like the waiting room of a posh beauty clinic. I saw no cows on the road, no litter on the streets and no beggars on the pavement. No rickety rickshaws, no honking cars, no yelling street vendors, no festooned buses with dozens of people hanging on doorways. The asphalt was smooth, as if the roads had been built yesterday. Cars stayed in their lanes, and to my surprise, all the traffic lights worked—each and every one of them.
We drove for miles along a quiet, landscaped boulevard. The road looked deserted, the city seemed uninhabited. The few people I saw were waiting in lines at bus stops or at zebra crossings.
“Where is everyone?” I asked loudly in spite of myself.
Not a word from Mrs. Rao.
If it isn’t a holiday today, there must be a football match or a new film showing somewhere. Or a national emergency Mrs. Rao isn’t aware of yet. I gave a sideways glance at my sponsor. She was looking dead straight ahead, her red lips set in a thin line.
Just then, a police car dashed by, with its sirens wailing. The siren didn’t sound like the ones in Goa, but it was unmistakable. Franky’s letter was still fresh in my mind, and I instantly ducked in my seat, praying Kristadasa hadn’t found me already. The police car with lights flashing whizzed by us and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and I slowly unscrunched myself in my seat, my heart still beating fast.
I glanced over at Mrs. Rao. She hadn’t even blinked. She kept driving as if nothing was unusual, but this time, there was a fai
nt smile on those thin lips of hers.
Chapter Twenty-five
As soon as she parked the car in the driveway, Mrs. Rao scooped up her dog from the backseat and marched inside, without a word. I sat in the car wondering what to do. Do I follow her? Do I wait for her to invite me in?
Mrs. Rao didn’t live in a normal house. I looked at it in awe. It took me a few days to realize she was the sole occupant of this magnificent mansion. In Goa, a place such as this would have housed thirty families. At least.
When I finally realized no one was going to invite me in, I walked inside, trailing my bag behind me. Inside, I found Mrs. Rao hand-feeding pink pills to her dog in the kitchen, cooing, “Eat it, my sweet. Papa would be very unhappy if you don’t. These are good for your heart, my pup.”
I walked in quietly, set my bag down, and stood next to the fancy kitchen counter, gaping in wonder. The sparkling stone counters. The gleaming stainless steel. The beautiful crown moldings. The futuristic lighting. I didn’t know what half the gadgets on the kitchen counter did. This kitchen was twice the size of Grandma’s apartment. I was sure I’d died and gone to kitchen nirvana.
“Passport, please,” Mrs. Rao said, turning to me. I stared at her blankly for a moment. She clicked her fingers. “Now.” I quickly opened my bag and handed it to her.
“Franky said you can cook. Is that true?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rao.” If there was one job I could do and do well, this was it.
“Can you make a list?”
“Sorry?”
“I’m going to the washroom to freshen up. When I get back, I want a list of everything you can make.”
“Everything?”
“Do as I say, please.”
Without another word, Mrs. Rao spun around and stomped out of the kitchen with Mr. Raj Kapur tucked under one arm, taking my passport with her.
I looked at the blank pad she’d pushed in front of me. I pulled out one of the plush kitchen chairs and sat for a few minutes lost in thought. Does she want me to cook for her? Didn’t Franky say I was supposed to do office work here? Work that would get me ahead in school? Maybe I start off with cooking and then graduate to other work? Taking a deep breath, I began to scribble the names of the cakes I’d made with my mother and the meals I’d cooked under Grandma’s supervision.
Once finished, I sat back and glanced at the beautiful chandelier twinkling above me. I wasn’t sure if the crystal pieces were really diamonds, but I’d not have been surprised if they had been. The weariness of my journey faded, enough to let in a pang of excitement. The idea of working in this wondrous kitchen seemed like heaven, even if it meant I’d not be doing work Franky had said I’d be doing. In this kitchen, I can make miracles happen. I picked up the pen again and wrote down the names of all the curries, stir-fries, breads and sweet desserts I’d heard or read about in my entire life. I didn’t know all the recipes, but I was sure I could figure them out.
“Done?”
I looked up. Mrs. Rao was back.
“Yes, Mrs. Rao.”
“Good. Here’s what we’re going to do.” She stood with her hands on her hips, looking every bit like a stout warthog. “Every Sunday night, I’m going to make a menu for the week. Your job is to give me a list of ingredients you need to make the meals. Then, I want you to cook for me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rao.”
“I need you to make me dinner, starting tonight. Use whatever’s in the fridge. Show me what you are capable of, understood?”
“No problem, Mrs. Rao. I can bake, too.”
“Bake?” She paused. “Like pies?”
“My best recipes are fairy cakes. My mama’s own recipes.”
“What in the world is a fairy cake?”
“They’re small and round.” I cupped one hand to show her.
She raised an eyebrow.
“They’re sweet and tasty,” I said.
“You mean muffins?”
I shook my head. “They have frosting on top and are fluffy like cakes. Everyone likes them, especially for birthday parties.”
“You mean cupcakes?”
“My mama called them fairy cakes.”
“Make a list. And remember, we call them cupcakes here.”
And that was the beginning of my new life.
The list of my cupcakes and other dishes went up on the door of Mrs. Rao’s stainless-steel fridge, held by a magnet that said Welcome to Toronto. Every Sunday, she made a menu for the following week, taking ideas from my list, others from elsewhere. If I didn’t know the dish, she’d point at her library near the living room and say, “Go find a recipe book, girl. Don’t bother me with details.”
She didn’t say much and made a habit of ignoring my questions. It took a while for my new situation to sink in. Cooking was only one part of my job. I had to clean the house and yard as well. One night, exhausted after a full day of cooking and cleaning, I flopped onto the tiny bed in my basement room and looked up at the naked light bulb above. Oddly, it felt satisfying. It was a good-tired feeling. Every sore muscle and aching bone was worth it—well worth it to help Aunty Shilpa get better, make sure Preeti got to finish school, and get myself out of a horrible arranged marriage.
The cleaning was a chore, of course, and I wished I could do office work to learn new things, but my work in Mrs. Rao’s opulent kitchen was my reward. I hummed as I cooked lavish meals, knowing when I was done at the end of the year, Franky would send me a one-way ticket back to Goa, back to a healthier Aunty Shilpa, back to a happier Preeti, and back to school.
That was the year I learned to cook every type of meal on the planet, from hot curries, stews and pies of all types, to pad Thais and noodles and biryani rice dishes. I made desserts as well, from dark chocolate rolls and, marble pound cakes to sweet sponge cakes filled with blueberries and peaches. Fruits that had been out of my price range in the duty-free shops in East African cities or fancy stores in Goa—fruits I’d never tasted in my life but I’d seen in my mother’s cookbooks—were accessible to me now, courtesy of Mrs. Rao’s wallet and her expanding appetite. Best of all, I had all the spices I wanted in the world. From cardamom to cinnamon, cloves to nutmeg, and saffron to turmeric, Mrs. Rao’s spice shelves stocked everything I’d dreamed of. The world had become my culinary oyster.
Except for Saturday nights, Mrs. Rao dined alone. When she did, she sat at one end of her beautiful mahogany dining table. Across from her, all the way at the head of the table, sat a gold-framed photograph with an ivory crucifix necklace draped over it. The photo in it was of a serious Mr. Rao, in a black suit and tie.
When I first came to this house, I was sure Mr. Rao was hiding or lost in one of the many rooms of this mansion. Then, I learned he’d died years ago, but his spirit seemed to live on in this house.
Mrs. Rao was a pack rat. She kept everything, including her dead husband’s clothes in the closet and his shaving kit and toothbrush in the bathroom. The gold-framed picture of her husband never moved from its spot at the head of the table. One of my jobs was to dust it and make a fresh garland of flowers from the garden to put on it every day. After I started to make fairy cakes every week, I noticed she propped the biggest one in front of the picture, like an offering to the gods I’d seen Grandma give back in Goa. That cake would sit for days drying up, getting moldy, until I made a new batch, and a new cake would take its place in front of the frame. I wasn’t sure whether to be freaked out or feel sorry for her.
I made whatever Mrs. Rao asked me. But there was one dish I wasn’t able to make—the gulab jamun balls described by Shanti at my international school a long time ago. I could make the sugary balls well enough. I made them big. I made them small. I made them dry. I made them syrupy. But when I added “gold sprinkles” to my shopping list of ingredients, Mrs. Rao crossed it out with a fine-tipped red pen. It was then I realized Mrs. Rao might be rich and live in a mini castle in Toronto, but she was not the Brahmin daughter of an Indian High Commissioner.
&
nbsp; There was also one other dish I couldn’t get myself to make. The spicy Goa lentil curry reminded me too much of life with Preeti and Aunty Shilpa. I missed them dearly. Though my last year in Goa had been like living under a darkened monsoon sky waiting for the rain to thunder down on me, I ached for the smell of the tropical ocean, I ached to feel the warm Indian sun on my skin, and to see everyone again. I especially wanted to give a big hug to Aunty Shilpa and tell her not to worry, that everything was fine, that I’d be back soon.
I wondered how she was doing.
Chapter Twenty-six
But I didn’t have time for wistfulness or loneliness.
Mrs. Rao operated on the principle that the less she did, the better, so she delegated everything to me. Her house was a four-thousand-square-foot mansion with five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a swimming pool that was never used, but still needed cleaning, and a four-car garage at the end of a driveway paved with interlocking stones. All this was enclosed by a twelve-foot steel fence, and my job was to take care of everything within this enclosure.
This included Mr. Raj Kapur and his worldly possessions. The room next to Mrs. Rao’s master bedroom was dedicated to her dog, and had to be kept spick and span every day. This room contained a huge doggy bed, a playpen, a poop-and-scoop sandbox, and luxury pet toys I hadn’t realized existed. He must have been the only dog in the world to have his very own miniature bathtub. This tiny but terrifying Shih Tzu was treated better than any child in India, I was sure.
Myself, I slept in a room the size of a closet, in the basement of the house, but a buzzer above my bed snapped me to attention whenever Mrs. Rao needed me. When it lit up at night, it was the signal to throw on my bathrobe, run upstairs to the kitchen, and run up another set of stairs with a full glass of water in hand. The master bathroom, with its marble sinks and copper taps, was only a few feet from Mrs. Rao’s bed, but when she needed a drink in the middle of the night, it had to come from the filtered water jug in the fridge with two ice cubes and a fresh-cut slice of lemon, whatever the time.