Читать книгу Six Metres of Pavement - Farzana Doctor - Страница 16

— 11 —

Big Bhai

It was another Thursday afternoon, and Ismail was receiving Nabil’s weekly phone call. He sat at his desk, coat on, the phone’s receiver warming his ear. Looking for a suitable topic of conversation, he’d mentioned that he might take a winter trip to the Caribbean. Nabil liked to go on luxury all-inclusive vacations with his family.

“Yes, it would be good for you to have some new surroundings, get away from that bar you spend so much time in. And that bad-influence woman,” Nabil said, finally taking a breath in the lecture he’d been delivering over the previous three minutes. He’d started by discussing the merits of travel agents and then somehow gotten diverted to Ismail’s drinking. Ismail felt himself crumple into the small boy whose older brother protected him from the playground bullies but later scolded him for not standing up for himself.

“Oh, well, I don’t drink much these days,” Ismail said in self-defense, “and I rarely see Daphne much, either.” He was almost about to explain that the reason for their lack of contact was Daphne’s nascent homosexuality, but he stopped himself. He looked at his palm, seeing her faint, almost washed-off handwriting. He also chose not to tell Nabil about the writing class, which he’d signed up for the previous night before heading to bed. Half-drunk and sleepy, he’d managed to match the course numbers Daphne had scrawled on his hand to the ones on the University of Toronto’s Continuing Education website.

“Glad to hear it. Moderation is the main thing.”

“Yes, Bhai,” Ismail sighed.

“Really, I’m not saying you should quit, but you should make sure you are moderate. That’s the best thing. Even I enjoy a good wine with dinner from time to time. But be careful. Just take heed of what the doctor told you.” Ismail often regretted telling Nabil about his health scare a few years back.

“Yes, Bhai, I haven’t forgotten. I’m looking after my health,” Ismail repeated. “So … how are Altaf and Asghar?” he asked, wanting to change the subject. And he knew this topic would be a good one. When Nabil thought about his sons, something unlocked within his brain, allowing him to exhale and slow his pace. Ismail pictured him easing up on the accelerator, guiding his car from the passing lane to the middle.

“Well,” Nabil said, his tone brightening, “Altaf is about to begin his residency. And did I tell you he decided to meet that girl Maasi was talking about? You know, Kakaji’s cousin’s daughter, Muriam? They’ve been on two dates already. She seems like a nice girl.”

“Who? Which cousin?”

“Hatim Kakaji’s cousin, Yusufali. His daughter.”

“I didn’t know Yusufali had a daughter named Muriam,” Ismail admitted, as he mentally sifted through his aunts and uncles and cousins, reconstructing the complex family tree in his mind.

“He has three daughters. One of them is Altaf’s age,” Nabil explained impatiently.

“Oh, right, Yusufali. I was confusing him with Hassanali. So Altaf likes her? I didn’t think he’d go for an arrangement.”

“Yes, they have a lot in common. And it was more of an introduction, not an arrangement. I’m not that old-fashioned, you know.” This was more or less true. Nabil kept up appearances by attending the mosque once or twice a year and avoided alcohol and pork when people from the community might see him. In the privacy of his own home, he did whatever he pleased.

“Glad he’s met someone. And they’re a good match?”

“Yes, I think they are compatible. She’s studying medicine, too, and is also an accomplished tennis player.”

“Good, good. And how is Asghar?” In every family, there is a child who doesn’t behave as everyone expects, and for this reason, Asghar had always been Ismail’s favourite.

“Yeah, he is fine.” There was a cough, a honking horn, the end of Nabil’s calm.

“You okay? Is traffic bad?”

“No, no, just changed lanes and the jackass behind me wasn’t watching the road. What were we talking about?”

“I was asking about Asghar.”

“Oh yeah, Asghar. He’s had a little trouble at the university. Was involved in some stupid thing involving political protests or some such foolishness. Luckily at York they are a little lenient about these things, so he received a warning, but no suspension, thank God. And now he is talking about getting out of business and going into something else. And in his third year! And after taking a year off already,” Nabil grumbled. He still was angry about Asghar’s decision to travel and work for a year before entering university, believing it put his son “a year behind” everyone else.

“Yes, he told me he was involved in some anti-war protests when I was over last time. And that he was thinking about not staying in business.”

“He told you that? You knew about that and didn’t tell me?”

“I figured you knew already,” Ismail lied.

“Well I didn’t and he just went ahead and changed majors without discussing it with me first. I should cut off his tuition!”

“Come on, Nabil, he’s a young man now. He has to follow his own direction in life. Think about how it was when we were young,” Ismail said, hoping to appease his brother. When Ismail and Nabil were in college, their father expected them to come work as managers in his packaging plant. The business had been passed down for three generations and made plastic and cardboard boxes (explaining the origin of their surname), bubble wrap, and tiffins. Nabil endured the greatest pressure, when, after business school, he chose to immigrate to Canada.

“So, what does Asghar plan to study?” Ismail knew the answer already because he and Asghar had had a lengthy talk on the subject the last time they spoke.

“Oh, he wants to go into the Faculty of Art or Social Sciences, some such thing, Political Science or something.”

“Political Science is not so bad, is it? If that is what he most wants to do, Bhai, you have to let him, don’t you? Don’t you think it’s your duty to support his education?”

“What a sham, Political Science. Not even a real science! Let him follow his interests as a hobby. Can he feed himself on his interests?”

“Well, but that isn’t the point —” Ismail stammered, trying to think of something to help Asghar’s case, “Perhaps he’ll go into politics one day.”

“What’s the point of that? Canada will never elect a South Asian Prime Minister … look, I have to go. I’ve just pulled into a client’s driveway. Let’s plan a date for dinner, okay? You’ll be coming over for the holidays, right?”

“Yes, sure. I’ll call Nabila to arrange it.”

“Great, got to go.”