Читать книгу A Darker Light - Heidi Priesnitz - Страница 13

Walking back from a lunch-hour trip to the grocery store, Sitara was swinging her bags—not a fast, happy swinging, but rather a slow, solemn swinging brought on by deep thought.

"Bapa, why are you here?"

"To see you, Sitara... in case it is the last time."

The words kept swimming through her head. And each time she replayed them, they sounded more alarmingly final.

For many years, she had intended to repair relations with her parents—eventually. She thought the six thousand kilometres separating the two coasts would make picking up the phone easier, since she was safe from the obligation of dropping by. But the distance only made it easier to forget.

On her walk back to the clinic, she passed a used bookstore. There was a paperback in the window that caught her eye: Misplaced Indians, it was called. Only after reading the subtitle did she realize that it was written about Native Americans and not her parents.

"Are your parents still in India?" a classmate asks.

"No, they live in Canada."

"Are you going home for the break?"

"Probably not. I'd like to catch up on my reading—I feel a little out of breath."

"Won't you be lonely, since everyone else goes away?"

"Not everyone," I say. "Hannah and Devora are staying, and Paul can't afford to fly home this year. I'll manage."

I don't want to go home, but I no longer bother to say it. For others, I've discovered, Christmas is a week out of time, affected by neither the past nor the present. It's an island of forgiveness and pretending in the name of religion and tradition and gift-giving. Although smiles and feasting seem to come easily to my classmates, I don't have the heart or the stomach for either.

Walking up the stairs to her clinic, Sitara wondered what had happened to Hannah and Devora. In the six years since they'd graduated from college she'd lost track of them.

Leaving her groceries in a pile beside the desk, she checked her phone messages and then prepared her office for an afternoon of patients.

Slowly, her father's words were subsiding, but not without leaving a sticky trace.

After her last patient left the clinic, Sitara met her father again in the park near his hotel. He was sitting on a bench with an open magazine, watching some kids as they performed tricks on their scooters.

"Wow, this bench is cold," Sitara said, sitting down next to him.

"That is why I wear a kurta." He smiled.

"Well, perhaps I should too."

"No, women should wear saris."

"I know, Bapa. I know."

The children with the scooters—two boys and a girl—were jumping off a tall stone ledge and trying to land on both wheels. One of them had almost mastered it and the other two were trying desperately to follow.

"I have been watching them for over an hour," Raj said. "The little one is very agile, and most comfortable, I think, when he is in the air. Perhaps for some, the ground is too hard. Do you think about these kinds of things, Sitara, or is it a sure sign that I am getting old?"

"I can't picture you getting old, Bapa. Age is in the mind."

"And sometimes in the body," he added.

"Sometimes, but you seem strong. Maybe I should buy you a scooter!"

"It makes me think of something I had when I was young. Of course, the roads were dirt where we lived, so we needed bigger tires. It is not easy being the second youngest of nine. There is a lot of catching up to do, and I tried many things, including some questionable self-propelled automobiles!" He laughed.

Sitara could feel the energy between them healing. She was happy to hear her father's voice again, and to be surrounded by the generosity of his laughter. There are some holes, she thought, that we're not even aware of until they've been filled again.

"I have tea," she offered. "And some rather crumbly cookies."

"Yes, I would like some."

After pulling a Thermos out of her worn Guatemalan bag, she handed her father a porcelain mug.

"This is nice," he said.

"It's made by a woman who lives here in town."

"Town?" Raj asked. "I thought Halifax was a city."

"It is, of course, you're right. I suppose ‘town' is just an expression." She filled his cup. "Chai," she said, "with soy milk."

Looking doubtful, Raj took a sip and then considered it carefully. "It does not taste like chai. But," he said, after taking another sip, "I do not dislike it."

"I'm glad." She handed him a paper bag full of cookies.

Taking one, he said, "I think your hand slipped when you added the cinnamon. Chai should be heavy on the black pepper, cardamom and cloves, and more moderate with the cinnamon. Of course, many people will tell you differently, but that is because they do not come from my village. People from my village, they know about tea."

Sitara nodded in agreement. Her father's village was famous for many things—as he was very fond of explaining. Parvati, of course, believed none of it. Sitara, too, was skeptical, but she respected his need for roots and ancestry. It's hard to know who you are, she reasoned, without knowing who your people are.

The sun that had poured over the park, bathing everything in a forgiving light, was starting to set. Raj shivered first, but Sitara soon followed.

"Shall we get some dinner?" he asked.

"What do you feel like?"

"The one here is okay—I looked over their menu—and I am feeling rather Indian today."

Climbing the steps to the second-floor restaurant, Sitara noticed how much her father depended on the railing to pull him up. Walking slowly behind him, she resisted the temptation to help. Inside, they chose a table by the window so they could look out over the park.

"I like to watch the sun go down," he said. Sitara did too, but she gave her father the better seat. Poring over the menu, he asked, "What do you recommend?"

"I don't know. I've only been here once."

"Because you do not like it?"

"No, I just don't eat out very often."

"Then here is what we will have: one order of dahl, one order of aloo gobi, one steamed basmati rice, four chapati, two puri, two lassi—unsweetened, of course—and a basket of samosas to start. The pappadam is overpriced. A good restaurant brings it for free."

"But Bapa, what if—"

The waitress came and took his order before Sitara had a chance to say anything. She liked dahl, but was in the mood for chickpeas instead.

When the puri and samosas came to the table, he asked, "Do you like these, Sitara? Try some. These are potato with carrot and peas, and these ones—"

"I know what they are, Bapa. I've had them before. Actually, I thought you would have ordered pakoras."

"Why? I have no taste for them. Too hard and greasy. Especially the way Canadians make them."

"This restaurant has Indian cooks!"

"Yes, but something changes when they cross the sea. Or perhaps it is the climate here—it is too cold for good deep-frying. Why does it matter to you?"

"Samosas and puri are deep-fried too."

"Yes?"

"Then it can't be the oil, can it?" Sitara smeared a samosa in chutney and took a bite. "Blaming the oil is not logical."

"Sitara, what are you talking about? You sound like Parvati."

Poking at a pea with her finger, Sitara tried to formulate her thoughts. Her father's domination and insensitivity angered her. The man she remembered was more open-minded and fair. The man she remembered liked pakoras.

"Bapa, I can't believe you ordered for me. I'm thirty years old. I can read menus."

"Yes, of course. But do you know about Indian food?"

"I've cooked my share of biryani."

"Yes, but you practise Chinese medicine. We have a medical tradition too, Sitara."

"I know. I've studied the Ayurvedic approach. It is very powerful. But there are other valuable traditions too." She licked chutney off her thumb."I went to college for this. I am certified."

"Yes, of course you are, Sitara. You are a good doctor, I am sure."

"A healer."

"It is the same thing, whatever you call it."

She resented being linked with medical doctors when she had, very intentionally, taken a different approach. "That's not true," she said.

"Health is life, Sitara. It is not something to take lightly. I wish you people could see that."

As Sitara held back the things she wanted to say, the waitress came with their main dishes. She laid them out in front of Raj as if he had ordered them all for himself. Sitara watched as she did this, but said nothing. Although the food smelled good, arguing had left her with very little appetite.

Without ceremony, Raj ripped apart a chapati and, using his right hand, shovelled a scoop of dahl into his mouth.

Looking down at the dark green tablecloth, Sitara thought, At least he can't talk while he's chewing. She needed a gap in the fighting to prepare her line of fire.

When my parents get home I am in the cupboard playing singing games with Sarasvati. I can hear them yelling even as they come down the hall. There is a high-pitched shout followed by a low-pitched rumble, then another high-pitched shout. As they come through the door, their voices get clearer.

"I want Sitara to go to an Indian school."

"There are no Indian schools in Vancouver. We've talked about this before."

"I am not talking about Vancouver. I am talking about India."

"I'm not going back, if that's what you're thinking! Not on your life, Raj. I am successful here. I have a career."

"I am not saying you should go to India—just Sitara. I have already spoken to my sister, Usha. She is willing to take her. She has a daughter the same age. They can be friends. Sitara needs friends."

"Perhaps, but why Indian friends?"

"Stubborn woman! I thought you would be happy to get rid of her!"

"Raj, you say too much and understand too little!"

"Tell me of one day when you have not complained about her? ‘The child is too demanding. Tell her no, she cannot have whatever it is she is asking for.' Or ‘Your daughter has taken my pens again. What is wrong with her? I have already given her four pencils this week.' Parvati, you say these things every day! If I send her to live with Usha, she will not bother you anymore."

"No."

"Why not?"

"In India she will learn Indian ways. And then what hope will she have? No. She was born Canadian, and in Canada she will stay. This is final, Raj. There is no room for negotiation."

Hearing Parvati stomp off, I breathe out a little sigh. I don't want to leave here, and I am worried that at my aunt's house there will be no spice cupboard.

"I can't believe you wanted to send me away," Sitara said.

"Away where?"

"To live with Usha."

"How do you know about that?" Raj talked with his mouth full, allowing Sitara to see the dark brown dahl being crushed and mixed with the pale white chapati.

"I know about more than you think."

Raj wiped out one of the curry bowls with his last piece of chapati. He had eaten the whole meal while Sitara sipped from a glass of water. "You should eat. Do you not tell your patients that?"

"It depends what their imbalance is. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't." She was staring out the window, watching the street lights come on. Now, for every person who passed on the sidewalk below, there was also a shadow. "I'm leaving," she said. She couldn't imagine the four of them walking back to his hotel.

"Sitara... We have not had dessert!"

"I'm not hungry, and I think you've already had enough!"

Before Raj could stand up she was outside, hiding from the light on the darker side of the street.