India, Through Neighbourly Hearsay
There's Mohindar up the street, at the communal mailbox. We meet almost in front of his house as he's returning from gathering up his mail and we're en route to the ravine whose trailhead lies just beyond the mailboxes. He's an especial neighbour, warmly affectionate in his way, always glad to see others, eager to stop and talk, talk, talk. It's winter, the streets clogged with hard-packed snow and ice, and hardly anyone ventures out but we two. We'd seen Imram, clearing snow in their driveway, spoken with him, but he hadn't mentioned his father's absence.
His expressive face wreathed in wrinkles, bordered by his grey hair, grey moustache and beard, he teased that we hadn't even been aware of his absence. He and Luvaleen had gone together, she for two weeks and he for a full month's stay in his sister's house. He had accompanied Luvaleen to a nearby town where her fiance's relatives live, to meet and greet, make acquaintance with these people who would be swelling familial ties. Wealth! We couldn't imagine, he says, the floors of the house entirely made of marble. Nice people, he said, with no further commitment.
Mohindar is ordinarily extremely emotive, he makes no secret of how he feels about anything, and his accompanying facial contortions magnify his feelings. It's been a dozen years since his last return to India. To the Punjab, where his people are from. Most are now Canadians; his elderly father who died last year at age 96 had lived for many years with his older brother nearby in the outer reaches of Ottawa. Mohindar's brother wears a Sikh turban, his sister-in-law always traditionally garbed, but Mohindar's family has bought into Canadian society in a more visible way.
Imram, for example, a truly beautiful boy of 15 (yes, he's beautiful in the fullest sense of that physical descriptive, just as his older sister too is exquisitely beautiful); slender and fragile-looking proves how deceptive appearances can be. Imram is madly devoted to hockey and to soccer. He's a star performer on local teams - whose physical prowess in these games is admired and envied by the other boys on the street. He gives himself over completely to these sports and has suffered physically as a result, with agonizingly long recuperative haituses as his limbs heal from sports-related accidents.
Mohindar and his family exemplify new Canadian stock, evolving and integrating, yet celebrating vestiges of their original culture. There they were, he and Luvaleen back in the Punjab, revisiting roots and traditions and Luvaleen was cool with it all - she's only 24 and this is her India. But for Mohindar his India is gone, evaporated, leaving him puzzled and restless-feeling about what's been lost and what has been gained. There's conspicuous wealth everywhere, he tells us. No more bicycles and motorbikes crowding the roads, only Korean- and Japanese-built compacts and sub-compacts. The occasional Mercedes-Benz thrown into the mix.
The houses! Relatively well off as he is himself here in Canada, he could never aspire to own a house the likes of which he now sees in India, he tells us. Everyone has money. There's a high-tech boom. Oh, he casually interjects, some things haven't changed, the people on the street who haven't anything to eat; they're still there. Otherwise (!) wealth and all the symptoms of a good life. But, he says, there's a dearth of time. No one has time for anything. And with this declaration his face bends into anguished realization - no time for him! Here he'd travelled all that long distance to see his family and they couldn't bother to rouse themselves from their preoccupation with making money to make the effort to come along to see him...
Never mind, I say to him, don't feel badly about it. Once you'd left they likely realized they'd missed an opportunity and felt bad about it. But he wouldn't be consoled. His older brother to whom he'd always related as in a father-son relationship died last year. It was he who'd kept the family together. Now, he said bitterly, no one cares. His nephew, his older brother's son, a wealthy lawyer couldn't make the time to meet with him. Mohindar had himself gone to his nephew's home, a beautiful well-appointed house, where he met with his nephew's wife and two young sons. His nephew called a few times on his cell phone to say he'd be right there, but he never did arrive.
At a family social gathering, a wedding, the nephew, along with most other members of the family was present and said at that time: "Uncle, want to come along to my house now?". And, Mohindar said, he angrily demurred, dismissed the notion, he'd made the effort previously. And he'd noticed, he said with disdain, that five minutes wouldn't go by throughout the festivities when his nephew wasn't responding to his cell phone. His own brother, living nearby and retired, wouldn't make the effort to come out to see him for more than an hour! And when his brother explained afterward over the telephone, that he thought Mohindar meant to come and visit in his home and stay overnight, Mohindar dismissed the notion.
But, I prodded him, you did see your relatives, you enjoyed some social occasions with them, appreciate that. Yes, he said, he did. And he and Luvaleen went also to the Golden Temple at Amritsar a few times. Ah, the Golden Temple; it must be very beautiful, I'd seen photographs of it once, I said to him. Back when there was much unrest in India, when Indira Gandhi had instructed troops to overrun the temple to tamp down militants and for her troubles two Sikh members of her Imperial guard assassinated her. Mohindar regarded me closely, his eyes narrowed slightly, his lips elongated in the merest grimace of an acknowledgement. Clearly, I wasn't helping his mood.
But Luvaleen's marriage is approaching; mid-August, and plans must continue. One of the reasons she accompanied her father to India was to shop, to purchase fabrics, to buy items for her marriage. And this pleases him greatly, as does the prospects of the fulfillment of happiness for his daughter and prosperity for his son-in-law, completing his medical specialties studies. Of course, relatives from India would be arriving in Canada for this auspicious occasion. What also pleases him? The fact that Imram had sounded so lost in their daily cross-continent conversations with the separation from his beloved father.
And, Mohindar sighed, it's just good to be home again.
His expressive face wreathed in wrinkles, bordered by his grey hair, grey moustache and beard, he teased that we hadn't even been aware of his absence. He and Luvaleen had gone together, she for two weeks and he for a full month's stay in his sister's house. He had accompanied Luvaleen to a nearby town where her fiance's relatives live, to meet and greet, make acquaintance with these people who would be swelling familial ties. Wealth! We couldn't imagine, he says, the floors of the house entirely made of marble. Nice people, he said, with no further commitment.
Mohindar is ordinarily extremely emotive, he makes no secret of how he feels about anything, and his accompanying facial contortions magnify his feelings. It's been a dozen years since his last return to India. To the Punjab, where his people are from. Most are now Canadians; his elderly father who died last year at age 96 had lived for many years with his older brother nearby in the outer reaches of Ottawa. Mohindar's brother wears a Sikh turban, his sister-in-law always traditionally garbed, but Mohindar's family has bought into Canadian society in a more visible way.
Imram, for example, a truly beautiful boy of 15 (yes, he's beautiful in the fullest sense of that physical descriptive, just as his older sister too is exquisitely beautiful); slender and fragile-looking proves how deceptive appearances can be. Imram is madly devoted to hockey and to soccer. He's a star performer on local teams - whose physical prowess in these games is admired and envied by the other boys on the street. He gives himself over completely to these sports and has suffered physically as a result, with agonizingly long recuperative haituses as his limbs heal from sports-related accidents.
Mohindar and his family exemplify new Canadian stock, evolving and integrating, yet celebrating vestiges of their original culture. There they were, he and Luvaleen back in the Punjab, revisiting roots and traditions and Luvaleen was cool with it all - she's only 24 and this is her India. But for Mohindar his India is gone, evaporated, leaving him puzzled and restless-feeling about what's been lost and what has been gained. There's conspicuous wealth everywhere, he tells us. No more bicycles and motorbikes crowding the roads, only Korean- and Japanese-built compacts and sub-compacts. The occasional Mercedes-Benz thrown into the mix.
The houses! Relatively well off as he is himself here in Canada, he could never aspire to own a house the likes of which he now sees in India, he tells us. Everyone has money. There's a high-tech boom. Oh, he casually interjects, some things haven't changed, the people on the street who haven't anything to eat; they're still there. Otherwise (!) wealth and all the symptoms of a good life. But, he says, there's a dearth of time. No one has time for anything. And with this declaration his face bends into anguished realization - no time for him! Here he'd travelled all that long distance to see his family and they couldn't bother to rouse themselves from their preoccupation with making money to make the effort to come along to see him...
Never mind, I say to him, don't feel badly about it. Once you'd left they likely realized they'd missed an opportunity and felt bad about it. But he wouldn't be consoled. His older brother to whom he'd always related as in a father-son relationship died last year. It was he who'd kept the family together. Now, he said bitterly, no one cares. His nephew, his older brother's son, a wealthy lawyer couldn't make the time to meet with him. Mohindar had himself gone to his nephew's home, a beautiful well-appointed house, where he met with his nephew's wife and two young sons. His nephew called a few times on his cell phone to say he'd be right there, but he never did arrive.
At a family social gathering, a wedding, the nephew, along with most other members of the family was present and said at that time: "Uncle, want to come along to my house now?". And, Mohindar said, he angrily demurred, dismissed the notion, he'd made the effort previously. And he'd noticed, he said with disdain, that five minutes wouldn't go by throughout the festivities when his nephew wasn't responding to his cell phone. His own brother, living nearby and retired, wouldn't make the effort to come out to see him for more than an hour! And when his brother explained afterward over the telephone, that he thought Mohindar meant to come and visit in his home and stay overnight, Mohindar dismissed the notion.
But, I prodded him, you did see your relatives, you enjoyed some social occasions with them, appreciate that. Yes, he said, he did. And he and Luvaleen went also to the Golden Temple at Amritsar a few times. Ah, the Golden Temple; it must be very beautiful, I'd seen photographs of it once, I said to him. Back when there was much unrest in India, when Indira Gandhi had instructed troops to overrun the temple to tamp down militants and for her troubles two Sikh members of her Imperial guard assassinated her. Mohindar regarded me closely, his eyes narrowed slightly, his lips elongated in the merest grimace of an acknowledgement. Clearly, I wasn't helping his mood.
But Luvaleen's marriage is approaching; mid-August, and plans must continue. One of the reasons she accompanied her father to India was to shop, to purchase fabrics, to buy items for her marriage. And this pleases him greatly, as does the prospects of the fulfillment of happiness for his daughter and prosperity for his son-in-law, completing his medical specialties studies. Of course, relatives from India would be arriving in Canada for this auspicious occasion. What also pleases him? The fact that Imram had sounded so lost in their daily cross-continent conversations with the separation from his beloved father.
And, Mohindar sighed, it's just good to be home again.
Labels: Peregrinations
posted by Pieface @ 11:06 AM
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