Weather Permitting & Other Stories

By Pratap Reddy

The stories in this collection centre around new immigrants -- spirited people prepared to leave their home and hearth to travel to distant lands in pursuit of dreams of a better life. But often times there's a reality check, and they are left to grapple with unexpected challenges: cultural shock, lack of Canadian work experience and jobs, absence of affordable daycare, and non-recognition of their educational credentials. Despite this, the stories show the determination of these immigrants to survive on alien soil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guernica
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781771830577

Book preview

Weather Permitting

& Other Stories

Pratap Reddy

Essential Prose Series 122

TORONTO • BUFFALO • LANCASTER (U.K.)

2016

For my wife Shashi and my son Raj

Contents

Her White Christmas

The Toy Flamingo

Birthday Blues

Ramki and the Christmas Trees

Demon Glass

Going West

Weather Permitting

The Tamarind Relish

Mango Fool

In the Dark

That Which is Written

For A Place in the Sun

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

Her White Christmas

Wearing a thin, hand-knitted cardigan over her crumpled sari, Prema Sudhakar looks all of her sixty-odd years. It’s late in the evening as she anxiously scans the collage of unfamiliar faces besieging her in the foyer of Pearson airport.

A young south Asian male enters the terminal but, noting his beard, her glance slides past him. The stranger walks right up to her.

Hi, Mom, he says.

Shyam! I didn’t recognise you!

Relief floods over Prema, moistening her eyes.

Have you been waiting long, Mom?

No, only a few minutes. Yet, why are you late?

There was a traffic jam, Shyam says glibly.

I was hoping you’d have changed after moving to Canada. Where’s Shilpa?

She’s at work.

In her condition, she shouldn’t be going to work, Shyam.

Mom, things are different in Canada.

Shyam takes charge of the luggage and they proceed to the parking lot. Out in the open, Prema shivers.

You’ll need warmer clothes, Mom. Snow is expected next week.

Do you think I’ll get to see a white Christmas?

I’m sure you’ll have your wish. The two winters I’ve seen were pretty bad.

Will I be able to see the Aurora Borealis, too?

Aurora who?

Idiot! To think that your mother was a Geography teacher!

Prema, like many educated Indians, had grown up reading books written almost exclusively by British and American authors. Travelling overseas is a dream-come-true opportunity to see firsthand what she had enjoyed in an armchair.

By the way, how’s my sister Apu? Shyam asks.

Apu lives with her husband in an Austrian town with an unpronounceable name but a picturesque river front. They were both artists and had a habit of washing up in the unlikeliest of places.

Shyam, it’s you who ought to be telling me how Apu is. She lives abroad like you.

Maybe, Mom, but Europe is pretty far from Canada. At the moment, we can’t afford to visit her.

Haze hangs like a giant’s breath over the city. Prema feels they have been driving forever, tailing a never-ending procession of red lights. The car slows as they turn on the street where Shyam lives. In the thickening dusk all the houses look alike in their drabness, pinpricks of light oozing out from within.

Shyam stops the car and steps out to open the car-door for his mother.

Welcome to Canada, Mom!

Prema trembles as a gust of polar wind washes over. She follows her son, her shoes crunching over fallen leaves. They enter a narrow row-house, one of many pressed together like slices in a loaf. Inside, an enormous staircase fills the hallway.

Prema sits down on a stool, and unbuckles her shoes.

Mom, you relax in the living room while I fetch your suitcases.

Prema chooses to potter around the house: a few spartan and mismatched pieces of furniture — procured exclusively from garage-sales — are deployed here and there. On the kitchen countertop there are a pile of flyers and two unopened envelopes addressed to a Jojo Mbele.

The glass front-door closes with a slam. Shyam comes in, lugging two enormous suitcases.

Mom, would you like dinner?

I’m full, she says, pulling a face. I had something called Asian vegetarian meal on the plane.

Shyam unearths a packet of frozen rotis and a dish of leftover curry from the fridge. While he’s heating them, Prema, who has already nosed around the kitchen, sets the table.

When he finishes his dinner, Shyam roots out a card from a kitchen drawer.

Let’s call Dad, he says.

Shyam fetches a cordless from the living room. Peering at the telephone card, he dials, disconnects, and dials again. He does this repeatedly while Prema regards him like an implacable deity.

We use a card to call India. It’s much cheaper.

I’m not surprised, Prema says.

It’s ringing! Hi, Dad! I’m good. How are you? ... Mom, talk to Dad.

Hello! I’m fine . . . I guess she must be OK, she has gone to work . . . yeah, you’ve heard it right. Is the maid coming to work every day ... I know it’s only a day since I left India ... Goodnight ... Yes, it’s night here ... Goodbye!

Shyam takes the receiver from his mother, and both of them move out of the kitchen. They pause in the hallway, as though waiting for the next move in the gambit. Shyam is tired and wants to rest, while jetlag has made his mother disoriented and restless.

Mom, you must be exhausted. May I show you to your room? It’s on the second floor.

I’ll wait for Shilpa.

It will be midnight when she returns.

I don’t mind. How does she come back?

I pick her up from the factory.

No wonder you look so thin and tired. By the way, the beard doesn’t suit you.

I knew you’d say that, Mom. I’d like to go to my room now. I’ve had a long day.

Suit yourself. I’ll watch TV until Shilpa . . .

Prema stops short and her eyes widen. A young black male has just emerged from the staircase that leads to the basement. Dressed in a T shirt and shorts, he smiles at them.

Did I startle you? the man says.

Mom, this is Joe, our tenant.

Prema somehow manages to find her tongue.

Pleased to meet you, she says.

Same, here. Sorry to intrude, but I won’t take more than a minute.

Take your time, Shyam says. No hurry.

When Joe goes into the kitchen, Shyam and Prema step into the living room. Prema collapses into the nearest sofa, looking shell-shocked.

Joe was renting the basement room when we bought the place. He came with the territory, so to speak.

I don’t know what to say.

Mom, we need every penny we can lay our hands on. You’ve no idea of the mortgage payments . . .

Shyam, I’m unable to understand how you could give a perfect stranger such . . . free run of your home!

Joe’s a very nice guy. He only comes up once or twice a day to do his cooking or use the toilet.

Prema shoots up like a rocket from the sofa.

Please stop! I think I’ll go to my room.

***

The next morning when Prema wakes, a pallid sun pretends to shine outside. The silence in the house is almost sepulchral: no birdsongs, no traffic sounds, nothing. Still groggy with jetlag, Prema forces herself to get up and go downstairs. She finds nobody about: it’s as if the house is standing stock-still, holding its breath.

Prema makes herself a cup of coffee. Unable to find a newspaper, she goes through a stack of flyers. Later she tries to switch on the TV, but the universal remote proves too much of a challenge. She returns to the kitchen and cooks a south Indian breakfast, enjoying the explorer-like thrill of looking for, and finding, various vessels and ingredients.

At around noon, Shilpa comes out of her bedroom. She’s wearing a kind of long loose T-shirt and seemingly little else.

Shilpa! How nice to see you!

Prema walks up to Shilpa and puts her arms around her.

How are you feeling, my child?

Good, thank you.

She sounds formal, even standoffish.

Are you taking good care of yourself? Prema asks.

Yes. Amma, I’m sorry, I didn’t get to see you yesterday. You’d gone to bed when I came back.

"Never mind, dear. Would you like to have some upma?"

Did you make it? How quickly you’ve learned to find your way around the house!

The latter statement almost sounds like a rebuke. Ignoring it, Prema talks about the day Shyam was born. Shilpa remains mostly silent as she mechanically devours the breakfast.

It was in the middle of the night and we went in a rickshaw to the hospital. Can you believe that?

Amma, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go and get ready now.

It’s OK, my dear. How do you go to work?

My supervisor picks me up.

Oh, Prema says.

Shilpa returns, wearing an ill-fitting top and a crumpled pair of trousers.

Everyone at the factory dresses like this, she says.

She gets into a scuffed pair of work-boots, and yanks out a genderless coat from the closet.

Don’t wait for me, Amma. Have your dinner with Shyam.

Prema peeps through the front window. She sees a dusty red pick-up drawn up on the road. Before climbing into the vehicle, Shilpa turns and looks at the window.

Prema steps back, as if stung.

***

Soon Prema takes complete charge of the house. Quickly learning the intricacies of the clothes-dryer, dishwasher and vacuum-cleaner, she sets about cleaning the house with the earnestness of an exorcist trying to dislodge demons.

One afternoon, after a frenetic bout of cleaning, she digs out a couple of incense sticks from her suitcase and lights them in the drawing room. Lazy curlicues of smoke rise, spreading the fragrance of sandalwood. Then all hell breaks loose.

A smoke-detector in the hallway begins to tweet, and then another joins in, creating an infernal cacophony. Prema stands paralyzed, her mind numb. Then she hears heavy footsteps racing up from the basement.

What’s happening? Joe says.

He throws the offending joss-sticks into the kitchen sink and turns on the exhaust. The smoke-detectors fall silent, and Prema feels a rush of affection for Joe.

Thank you so much. I just didn’t know what to do.

Lady, if you really want to play with fireworks, do it in the park down the road, OK?

Taking the flight of steep steps that leads out of the hallway, Joe disappears into his netherworld.

Prema is unable to get back into the swing of things. She puts her cleaning frenzy on hold, turns on the TV, and settles down in front of it with seeming contentment, though the shows are of little interest to her. When Shyam returns from work, Prema recounts her escapade.

Where did you find a matchbox to light those damn things?

I’ve been on the lookout ever since I came. Yesterday, when I was dusting the furniture I found a cigarette-lighter wedged in the side of the loveseat. Shyam, I hope you haven’t . . .

Mom, please don’t jump to conclusions. No, I have not started smoking again. Shilpa doesn’t smoke either. Funny, how the lighter got in there.

Well, if you buy used furniture, what else can you expect? By the way, Shyam, I’ve been looking for an electric iron, too. I’d like to wear pressed clothes even if you and Shilpa don’t care to.

Point taken. We’ll buy one today. Anyways, it’s time I got you some winter clothes.

Later, they drive down to a nearby mall. The trees along the way are bare; yellow and orange pools have collected on the ground as if the trees have sprung a leak.

Is everything OK between you and Shilpa?

Why do you ask? Of course everything is OK!

Things don’t seem the same. Shilpa has become so . . . so remote.

Mom, it’s your imagination. Life can be very stressful for immigrants. Besides, even when we were living in India, you never quite liked Shilpa just because she comes from a different province.

You know that’s nonsense, Prema says.

Once you make up your mind, Mom, it’s hard to convince you otherwise.

Shyam, you’ve begun to talk like your father.

At the store, they pick up a coat, gloves and snow-boots, all from a section marked ‘Clearance’. Unable to find an iron there, Shyam wheels the cart to the aisle which carries small appliances. To his mother’s wonderment, he homes in unerringly on the cheapest one.

***

A few days later, it snows for the first time. It starts off gently like a shower of jasmine petals but soon turns into an uproarious maelstrom. Prema, who’s all alone in the house, shuffles timorously to the window to take a peek: the entire neighbourhood is being submerged in drifts

of fleece.

In the afternoon, the sky clears as if by magic and sunlight spills like molten gold on to the landscape. Prema puts on her winter gear and ventures out into the yard. Her legs sink almost knee-deep in the snow. She pulls out her gloves and scoops up handfuls of snow to make a snowball. Feeling shy all of a sudden she tosses the ball away and returns indoors — happy as a child.

In the days that follow there are a few flurries and some rain — but hardly any snow. Prema has a sneaking feeling that she’ll never get to see a white Christmas.

One afternoon, when Prema is single-mindedly pressing clothes, the door bell rings. Setting the iron down on its rump, she goes to open the door. There’s a young white male standing at the doorstep. Prema sees a red pick-up idling in the driveway.

I’ve come for Shilpa, he says.

He’s unshaven and reeks of nicotine. His eyes are cobalt blue.

She should’ve been ready by now. Let me go up and see.

Upstairs, Shilpa’s fast asleep. Prema doesn’t have the heart to wake her. She creeps back downstairs.

Shilpa’s resting. She will not be able to come to work.

I wish she had called and saved me the trouble of driving down.

I’m sorry about that. She’s fast asleep; she couldn’t have possibly called you.

The young man shrugs and leaves, looking peeved. The truck backs out with a roar and races away.

Prema returns to her ironing, but she’s disturbed and doesn’t know why she feels so. However much she presses, she’s unable to flatten out some of the wrinkles.

When Shilpa emerges from her room in the afternoon, she’s cross.

I wish you had wakened me, she says.

Shilpa, this is your first pregnancy. You must be careful, child.

I know. But I don’t like losing a day’s pay.

Why? Don’t you have sick leave, or something?

No work, no pay. It’s as simple as that.

When Shyam returns from work, he’s drawn into the debate even before he can kick off his boots.

Shilpa, it’s time you stopped going to work, he says.

It’s you who insisted I take up a job.

Yeah, we’ve a big mortgage to pay off. You wouldn’t listen when I said this place was too big for us.

Yes, everything is my fault. It wasn’t my idea to come to Canada in the first place.

The conversation graduates

Reviews for Weather Permitting & Other Stories

[welsh_eileen2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A great collection of stories about Indian immigrants in Canada and the challenges they encounter in an effort to integrate.I was given a digital copy of this book by the publisher Guernica Editions via Netgalley in return for an honest unbiased review.