Chapter 29
Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave everything they’ve known for a great unknown beyond the horizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities that makes you feel like a beggar? Why enter this jungle of foreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult?
The answer is the same the world over: people move in the hope of a better life.
The mid-1970s were troubled times in India. I gathered that from the deep furrows that appeared on Father’s forehead when he read the papers. Or from snippets of conversation that I caught between him and Mother and Mamaji and others. It’s not that I didn’t understand the drift of what they said-it’s that I wasn’t interested. The orang-utans were as eager for chapattis as ever; the monkeys never asked after the news from Delhi; the rhinos and goats continued to live in peace; the birds twittered; the clouds carried rain; the sun was hot; the earth breathed; God was-there was no Emergency in my world.
Mrs. Gandhi finally got the best of Father. In February 1976, the Tamil Nadu government was brought down by Delhi. It had been one of Mrs. Gandhi’s most vocal critics. The takeover was smoothly enforced-Chief Minister Karunanidhi’s ministry vanished quietly into “resignation” or house arrest-and what does the fall of one local government matter when the whole country’s Constitution has been suspended these last eight months? But it was to Father the crowning touch in Mrs. Gandhi’s dictatorial takeover of the nation. The camel at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father’s back.
He shouted, “Soon she’ll come down to our zoo and tell us that her jails are full, she needs more space. Could we put Desai with the lions?”
Morarji Desai was an opposition politician. No friend of Mrs. Gandhi’s. It makes me sad, my father’s ceaseless worrying. Mrs. Gandhi could have personally bombed the zoo, it would have been fine with me if Father had been gay about it. I wish he hadn’t fretted so much. It’s hard on a son to see his father sick with worry.
But worry he did. Any business is risky business, and none more so than small b business, the one that risks the shirt on its back. A zoo is a cultural institution. Like a public library, like a museum, it is at the service of popular education and science. And by this token, not much of a money-making venture, for the Greater Good and the Greater Profit are not compatible aims, much to Father’s chagrin. The truth was, we were not a rich family, certainly not by Canadian standards. We were a poor family that happened to own a lot of animals, though not the roof above their heads (or above ours, for that matter). The life of a zoo, like the life of its inhabitants in the wild, is precarious. It is neither big enough a business to be above the law nor small enough to survive on its margins. To prosper, a zoo needs parliamentary government, democratic elections, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association, rule of law and everything else enshrined in India’s Constitution. Impossible to enjoy the animals otherwise. Long-term, bad politics is bad for business.
People move because of the wear and tear of anxiety. Because of the gnawing feeling that no matter how hard they work their efforts will yield nothing, that what they build up in one year will be torn down in one day by others. Because of the impression that the future is blocked up, that they might do all right but not their children. Because of the feeling that nothing will change, that happiness and prosperity are possible only somewhere else.
The New India split to pieces and collapsed in Father’s mind. Mother assented. We would bolt.
It was announced to us one evening during dinner. Ravi and I were thunderstruck. Canada! If Andhra Pradesh, just north of us, was alien, if Sri Lanka, a monkey’s hop across a strait, was the dark side of the moon, imagine what Canada was. Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was like Timbuktu, by definition a place permanently far away.
Chapter 30
He’s married. I am bent down, taking my shoes off, when I hear him say, “I would like you to meet my wife.” I look up and there beside him is… Mrs. Patel. “Hello,” she says, extending her hand and smiling. “Piscine has been telling me lots about you.” I cant say the same of her. I had no idea. She’s on her way out, so we talk only a few minutes. She’s also Indian but has a more typically Canadian accent. She must be second generation. She’s a little younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hair woven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and lovely white teeth. She has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in a protective plastic film. She’s a pharmacist. When I say “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel,” she replies, “Please, make it Meena.” After a quick kiss between husband and wife, she’s off on a working Saturday.
This house is more than a box full of icons. I start noticing small signs of conjugal existence. They were there all along, but I hadn’t seen them because I wasn’t looking for them.
He’s a shy man. Life has taught him not to show off what is most precious to him.
Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract?
“I’ve made a special chutney for you,” he says. He’s smiling.
No, he is.
Chapter 31
They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and the teacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the wish to see the zoo. “All these years and I’ve never seen it. It’s so close by, too. Will you show it to me?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “It would be an honour.”
We agreed to meet at the main gate the next day after school.
I worried all that day. I scolded myself, “You fool! Why did you say the main gate? At any time there will be a crowd of people there. Have you forgotten how plain he looks? You’ll never recognize him!” If I walked by him without seeing him he would be hurt. He would think I had changed my mind and didn’t want to be seen with a poor Muslim baker. He would leave without saying a word. He wouldn’t be angry-he would accept my claims that it was the sun in my eyes-but he wouldn’t want to come to the zoo any more. I could see it happening that way. I had to recognize him. I would hide and wait until I was certain it was him, that’s what I would do. But I had noticed before that it was when I tried my hardest to recognize him that I was least able to pick him out. The very effort seemed to blind me.
At the appointed hour I stood squarely before the main gate of the zoo and started rubbing my eyes with both hands.
“What are you doing?”
It was Raj, a friend.
“I’m busy.”
“You’re busy rubbing your eyes?”
“Go away.”
“Let’s go to Beach Road.”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Well, you’ll miss him if you keep rubbing your eyes like that.”
“Thank you for the information. Have fun on Beach Road.”
“How about Government Park?”
“I can’t, I tell you.”
“Come on.”
“Please, Raj, move on!”
He left. I went back to rubbing my eyes.
“Will you help me with my math homework, Pi?”
It was Ajith, another friend.
“Later. Go away.”
“Hello, Piscine.”
It was Mrs. Radhakrishna, a friend of Mother’s. In a few more words I eased her on her way.
“Excuse me. Where’s Laporte Street?”
A stranger.
“That way.”
“How much is admission to the zoo?”
Another stranger.
“Five rupees. The ticket booth is right there.”
“Has the chlorine got to your eyes?”
It was Mamaji.
“Hello, Mamaji. No, it hasn’t.”
“Is your father around?”
“I think so.”
“See you tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Mamaji.”
“I am here, Piscine.”
My hands froze over my eyes. That voice. Strange in a familiar way, familiar in a strange way. I felt a smile welling up in me.