It was humid throughout the day. Soon I have to move on from
here and go back home, but still a month to go. Considering the three long
years I was posted here for the training as marine engineer, one month now
seems like a day. With nothing much to do now; this sudden respite feels like a
push--over from the buzz of insanity into a suffocating silence.
Vancouver is generally peaceful. It is a town nestling amongst hills and the
sea and is covered by persistent drizzle. That accounts for the feeling of
gloom that settles upon outsiders like me who cannot find the pulse of the life
in here. That was a particularly cranky day when the sky and the weather
were stubbornly gloomy and grey. After breakfast I had to find something to
occupy myself till lunch and that was a pretty long interval. There were two
antique bookshops on the street behind my lodging. I always felt at home in the
one which had at its counter a rather perennially tired shop--assistant who
watched over the entire shop from her dark gothic--looking corner, with an
equally gothic-looking cat to give her company.
Whenever I tried to open a
conversation with the lady the cat would snarl viciously from behind the
counter to block any further potential or real overtures from the unwelcome
alien that was me. Needless to say that it was a wise policy for me to ignore
both and go past them straight to the bookshelves.
That day a notice stuck on the window pane caught my eye and I stopped to
read it. It was an announcement of a book-exhibition that was housed in a small
public-hall around the next corner. I threw a glance at the inside of the
book-shop. The unappealing sight of the gothic cat and its dumb owner
hastened to help me make up my mind in favour of the book--exhibition
around the corner which was not too far away from there.
By the time I started walking in the new direction, the drizzle was
piercingly sharp, with the wind sweeping past my coat and umbrella with an impatient
bustle. As I entered the hall, to my surprise, I found that the exhibition was
to start on the next day; I had overlooked this bit of information in my
eagerness to find out a new haunt.
In the meantime, the place was occupied by a group of young choir children
practicing singing for the Sunday at Church. By the time, it was raining
heavily outside; no point in venturing out again in the rains. So I hung my
coat and the umbrella on the stand in the corner and myself in one of the
chairs in the front row.
On the rostrum, seated in three
compact rows of auditorium chairs were about twenty children, mostly girls,
ranging in age from about seven to thirteen. At the first signal given to them
by their instructor who looked all-pervasive because of her imposing manners
and strident voice, the children looked at one another in bewilderment. Some of
them opened their mouth, but were still afraid to articulate the sound, not
sure if the others were ready to share the effort. Some of them tried to be
clever and just put on an ingratiating smile. With exhortation from the coach
to start and be audible they mouthed the words without the necessary feeling.
The coach now thought it best not waste time on further exhortation, blew a
note on her pipe and the children raised their hymn—books above their heads and
started singing in unison. They sang with the unsentimental innocence natural
to their age. I had never heard the hymn, but it had a soothing quality and a
healing effect; I wished it not to end soon.
Listening, I drifted in thoughts and
scanned those young faces absent-mindedly. The child nearest me was in the
front row of the group. Well, not exactly a child; she looked about somewhere
between fourteen and sixteen, with straight black hair cut to shoulder length,
which stuck around her forehead because wet, making her face look unglamorous
and common. But as I continued to listen, I noticed that her voice was
distinctly superior to others. It was sweet--sounding, and because it was the
surest, it naturally led the others.
However, the young lady seemed to be
indifferent to the activity she was engaged in at the time because I saw her
controlling an overpowering yawn once. It was a closed- mouth, lady-like yawn,
but her nostrils gave it away. Her eyes had no expression at all except perhaps
that of being unimpressed because of over-familiarity. Once or twice she seemed
to scan the people in the audience with a casual interest that did not amount
to curiosity, except as if she was counting the heads. For a fraction of a
moment she took notice of me and I felt out of the place occupying the seat in
the front row. Perhaps she understood my embarrassment and graciously looked away.
The moment the singing stopped the choir children became impatient to get away
from the scrutiny and criticism of the coach and the audience, though to my
tired nerves their performance was more than what I could rate. Their coach was
in no mind to let them slip out so soon. She began to give her lengthy opinion
on how some children can’t remain still and composed while rehearsing. That was
the time I realized that my presence in the front row was going to invite the
hostility of the children and the censure of their teacher. The hymn was
definitely over and I did not want the coach’s dissonant voice to break the
spell the children’s singing had cast upon me. I got up hastily and left the
hall.
Outside on the street the things
were far more difficult than when I had stepped inside the hall. It was raining
harder. I put on my raincoat and crossed the street and found refuge in a
coffee-shop. It was my first visit to that shop and while I was looking for the
coat-stand around, the matronly looking owner of the shop gave me a look as if
she would have preferred a customer with a drier appearance. Not to give her
offence, I took as much care as I could to see that my dripping raincoat made
as little mess as possible.
As I sat down at my table with my
tray of coffee and cinnamon toast I saw the young lady at the choir entering in
and taking off her coat. I noticed that she was not alone. She was accompanied
by an elderly looking lady and a little impish-looking guy who was probably her
younger brother. They occupied a table not far away from me and fortunately I
was able to get an unobstructed view of the entire party. The boy was about
five and was in no mood to obey anyone. He started looking around with
curiosity to discover some vulnerable target at which he could direct his
mischief. Before giving him an opportunity to decide that I could be his
potential target, I hastily put on my patent “keep away at safe distance or I
know how to tackle brats like you” kind of look. Luckily, they had not noticed
yet me watching them.
As they settled down at their table,
the boy set about annoying his companions very methodically, giving me an
instant insight into the kind of tricks he had mastered rather well. He started
rocking in his chair in the most irritating manner, acting as if he was going
to pull down the table with the table-cloth and all. The elderly lady advised
him once or twice to sit straight but it was only when his sister admonished
him in a stern voice that he stuck the small of his back to the chair, but in
the meanwhile he dropped the napkin on the floor, picked it up neatly and spread
it over his head and sat balancing it dexterously. She did not go to the
counter to get their tea. It was brought to them by the waitress.
While they were in the process of
pouring tea into their cups, she noticed me suddenly and gave me the same
indifferent look with which she had regarded me at the choir-practice.
For the next few moments I remained
engrossed in my thoughts which did not have any specific object to feed upon. I
was thinking of the letter my wife had written to me sometime back and which
had reached me on the previous day. It was a long list of grievances about my
mother. She wanted me to write to my mother on her behalf. I brushed aside all
those concerns for a while, and started enjoying the pitter-patter of the
raindrops on the window-sill. I had to finish my coffee and get ready to go. I
could not prolong my stay indefinitely long. Before making up my mind to get up,
I looked at her and found her looking at me with a certain curiosity. I
returned her glance with a seemingly non-chalant look, balancing the act
between trying not to offend and trying not to look rudely indifferent either.
In that brief moment of awareness, she gave me a faintly visible, qualified
little smile. It was oddly radiant as certain unexpected, half-revealed smiles
are. I smiled back, less radiantly, taking care that my smile did not carry any
unwelcome signs that may cause a misunderstanding. But I was overwhelmed, to be
sure.
The next thing I knew was that she
was out of her seat and having covered the distance in a few steps she was now
standing by my table.
I got up from my seat and requested
her to be seated and be comfortable. She bowed slightly and sat down facing me.
“Are you from Asia?” She asked after she had made sure with a slight
observation that I was a good guy. “I am from India.” I replied.
“Oh, then you are a teetotaler I
suppose,” she said. I watched her for a moment to detect any trace of sarcasm.
There was nothing but the freshness of adolescence in her bearing. So I ruled
out sarcasm.
She saw through my doubt and while I
was fumbling for an answer, she said, “There is nothing wrong in being a
teetotaler. Your culture forbids you to drink perhaps.” I was not sure whether
to tell her that I was not exactly averse to drinking, but I thought it best to
let her continue with the impression she had formed; I am more at ease with
myself and others when an acquaintance begins with an impression and not with
an opinion.
I asked her if she would care to
join me. “For a very little while,” she said. I got up and drew a chair for
her, the one opposite me. I hurried back to my chair. I wanted to hold the thread
of conversation but was not sure how to. I finally decided to let her take the
lead and sat there facing her quietly, as if for a judgment.
“You were there at the
choir-practice; I saw you,” she said plainly, without any coquetry. I was
impressed by the poise which to my mind was rather remarkable for her age. I
admitted I was there and that I was quite impressed by her singing. She nodded
and said, “I know.” She was not excited over the compliment. There seemed to be
a slight shadow of wistfulness in her eyes. She kept looking out at the rain
outside and then in a slight whisper, as if talking to herself said,
“Choir-singing is not my end really; it’s just a stop-over. I want to be a
professional singer.” Though she showed no eagerness for a response from me, I ventured
to say just in order to prolong the opportunity of being with her, though I
regretted the moment I said it, “Oh, I would have thought that you were made
out to be a nun.”
She flashed a glance at me which I
felt to be a look of disapproval, if not exactly of anger. “Oh, really? And
what made you think so?” she asked with a determination to retaliate what she
perceived to be an insinuation at her plain looks. Though that certainly was
not what I had in mind, it gave me a secret pleasure to see her annoyed. But it
was too fragile a moment to be wasted in silly overtures. I hastened to
clarify, “I mean, you sang with such devoutness; it was heavenly.” Again a
half-smile lit up her face and as if with a glint of comprehension in her eyes
she said, “Really? Don’t expect me to believe that. I wasn’t quite born
yesterday, you know?”
I silenced the voice in me that
urged me to say, “That was really the truth!”
I had remained a foreigner all these
days while I was here in Canada, clinging to my roots back there in India. I
knew nothing about Western music and if the talk were to veer around to dwell
on Western music I had precious little to say. However, she was warming up to
the subject and I thought it convenient to let her unwind.
She said, “I am practicing in the
choir because that is all I can afford in my circumstances right now. Besides,
vocal music does not make demands on your purse. My real passion is piano and
guitar, but can’t afford.”
I looked at her carefully. She had
placed her hands in front of her on the table and she was sitting in an upright
position as if with her fingers on the keyboard of piano. She had long tapering
fingers but the nails were bitten to the quick. Though there was no fidgetiness
in her till then she became instantly self-conscious when she found me looking
at her fingers. She immediately withdrew her hands and hid them in the pockets
of her long skirt.
I offered her a piece of the
cinnamon toast which she refused without an excuse. She seemed eager to talk
but I could see her companions getting restless and impatient. The lady who
accompanied her was making frantic signals for her to end the interaction with
a stranger, but she was determined to talk. She moved her chair so as to block
her companion out of view and asked me, “Are you interested in Western music?”
I said, “I don’t understand the trends in music, neither in the west nor in
India. I listen if it soothes my nerves”
“How did you find our singing? Was
it soothing?” She asked. I was at once
struck by the fact that she said ‘our singing’, not ‘my singing’. I realized that she was steeped in the spirit
of the choir and had learnt to subdue her personality in the unified voice of
the chorus. Perhaps that was the reason why she wanted to carve a niche for
herself in piano or guitar. She answered the question in my mind rather
surprisingly for me. She said, “Basically I am not cut out for team-work. I am
at my best when I work alone.” There was very little time at her disposal and
she did not know how best to use it. For a girl of her age she seemed rather
grownup and sedate. But there was still some glint of silliness in her which
showed when she asked impulsively, “Are you married?” I was tempted to say ‘no’
and watch her reaction. But by now I had begun to like her and refrained from
playing games. I liked the spontaneous camaraderie she had begun to feel with
me without any reason. I did not want to wreck it by giving a false answer to a
question asked trustfully, whatever be its motive. “Yes,” I said, “I am married.” The next thing
I expected her to ask was: “How long?” But she again asked a question that was
sillier still. She said,”Are you in love with your wife?”
I gave her a searching look. Perhaps
she was brought up to believe that in India being in love with your spouse is
not the demand of married life and that marriages survive without love.
However, I thought it best to maintain silence. She did not seem to take my
silence very seriously because the question she had asked did not carry weight;
it was asked out of a casual interest, to set the ball rolling. But she
immediately hastened to say, “Oh, sorry, I am afraid, I am being too personal.”
I told her that I would bring it to her notice if she was so. She said,
“Actually I am not very gregarious, you know?” She stopped and looked at me
with a look which I thought rather presumptuous. I was amused to see that she
was waiting to see if the word ‘gregarious’ was there in my vocabulary.
“One of my teachers is into ‘Zen,’
you know. I am learning the lesson of compassion from ‘Zen’. She says that one
must feel the vibrations and respond positively. I think those who don’t speak
that lingo call it being pro-active.” I started wondering what compassion and
being positive or pro-active had to do with my being married or not. But I did
not have to ask. She was quickly forthcoming with the explanation. She said,
“You have a very sensitive face. I noticed that you looked lonely.” This, if it were to come from any other woman
who was a stranger, could have been construed as an innuendo. But I was
gradually getting drawn into her world which had a strange fragrance about it.
Without betraying any kind of a reaction to her perception
of my state of mind, I told her that I wasn’t lonely. However, I said I was
glad for her compassion. Just then her brother was heard crying out her name
loudly. “Emma, Emma, we are leaving if you don’t come soon.” I turned to look
in his direction and found everyone else looking at us.
She had to get up. She gave me a broad, effusive smile
without any sign of embarrassment or apology and said, “Good, Charles
introduced me to you. I am Emma and he is Charles, my younger brother.
At that very moment, Charles left his place at the other end
of the room and leaving the elderly lady in a state of abandonment, came and
joined his sister at our end. I braced myself up for an unexpected calamity as
I saw him ready to pull the table-cloth over his head. “Do sit up straight in
your chair, Charles.” She commanded as she sat down again. “Say hello to
uncle…” and she looked at me with a question in her eyes. “ Pratap,” I said.
“Pratap Sharma”. Charles of course was not expected to be impressed. He stuck
out his tongue and looked up at the ceiling. Emma was a bit apologetic now and
said, “Sorry, that’s his way of expressing boredom. Don’t take it seriously”.
However, the little guy had started taking an interest in
me. He was in no hurry to make a move now. He put on an angelic face and gave
me a nice little hand-shake. It was a welcome sign of warmth but there was no
time for us to get to know each other better. Emma signaled in the direction of
her aunt to indicate that she was coming and pulled Charles towards her in a
hurry.
Charles wanted to make the best use of this fleeting moment
of intimacy between him and me and before going away; he turned and asked me,
“What did one wall say to another?” I looked at him in a surprise when he said
to aid me in answering his question…”It’s a riddle.” I rolled up my eyes and
said with a stumped expression, “I give up!” He pulled his sister in the direction
of the table where his aunt was waiting for them and started running. Turning
back towards me, he yelled out the answer, “Meet you at the corner!’
