Ramya's Treasure Read online

  Ramya was not sure if it was a good decision — Prakash had only recently come out of his alcohol addiction problem. But going to Canada certainly had it attractions. It was not just a matter of individual ambition to do something for themselves. There was a strong societal movement in India which encouraged the young to emigrate to the West, or failing which, to at least move to the Middle East where pots of black gold could be had for the asking. There was not a home where at least one child had not emigrated. In fact, there were many homes where the entire younger generation had left the Indian shores, leaving the older family members to fend for themselves in a world which was turning increasingly inconvenient, expensive and unsafe. Could she convince Daddy to immigrate with them? She thought not.

  Prakash and his friends filled out their applications in duplicate — or was it in triplicate? — and sent the mountainous piles to the consultant. While Ramya went about her life in normal fashion, Prakash waited in a state of expectation similar to what a teenage boy would experience on his first date, excited and anxious at the same time. But as months passed, there being no news from the consultant, Prakash went almost crazy. He was that kind of a person, impetuous and impatient. He lacked the ballast of stability which mature men appeared to have.

  Prakash kept following up with the consultant’s office in New Delhi every couple of months, and eventually stopped, when the only reply he got was the refrain: “Your application is under process, sir. The High Commission will let you know of their decision in due course.”

  Almost two years went by, and all the applicants had come to believe that their hope to immigrate was a lost cause when, all of a sudden, there was a letter from the High Commission of Canada asking Prakash and Ramya to undergo medical exams. But for reasons unknown Prakash’s friends did not receive such a letter — thanks to the vagaries of the points system. One never quite knew which applicant would win and which applicant would lose. Having to immigrate all by themselves added another layer of anxiety for Prakash and Ramya.

  From the recommended panel of doctors, they chose one who had a reputation for being a little lenient. They were just being cautious. With Prakash coming out of his severe drinking habit only recently, they did not want to meet any speed bumps. Prakash had not kicked the habit completely either, though he had reduced his consumption drastically. Earlier, he would drink almost every day either at parties to which they were being constantly invited, or all by himself if he was at home, listening to rock music or watching Baywatch. Even after his so-called cure (a word Prakash would use proudly), he’d have a small one once in a while, calling himself a social drinker, leaving Ramya to imagine what unsocial drinkers would be like — going berserk in the streets, smashing shop windows or knifing each another?

  They need not have feared at all. The medical exams were a breeze — the doctor only pointed out that they both should watch their weight and monitor their blood pressure which was a bit on the higher side. When they came out of the clinic both sighed with relief — Ramya because she always expected the worst, and Prakash because he once again escaped the consequences by the skin of his teeth. Ramya was not too enthusiastic about immigrating, but having parted with a small fortune, she did not want their application rejected. To celebrate, Prakash bought a bottle of Bacardi on the way home.

  Now that their medical exams were behind them, Ramya knew it was only a matter of time. Three months later they received the visa, and the landing paper printed on a mucous-green parchment-like paper. When Ramya unfolded the document, uncovering the prominent seal, reality struck her. Until then the entire idea of applying for migration to Canada had a will-o’-the-wisp quality, something in the realm of fantasy, like Parsifal seeking the Holy Grail, or Christopher Columbus looking for another sea-route to India.

  Within the next few weeks, they would be lifting anchor and setting sail to a new land on the opposite side of the globe. They knew not what lay ahead, and would be starting their life from scratch. They would be leaving behind a world of relatives and friends — especially her father, who was nearing seventy. Over the years, they had built relationships of varying degrees of intimacy. Soon these myriad bonds which moored them to India would be severed in one fell swoop. Of course, they could always keep in touch by mail and email, but Ramya knew it would be an entirely different ball game. Once they went away for good, a great many of these bonds, seemingly strong now, would wither and die spontaneously, ceasing to have any relevance in the distant future.

  They booked their passage on a date just one week before their visa was due to expire. There were innumerable farewell parties, some of which were hosted by those who wanted to find out about immigration. India was a me-too country, where people rushed to do what their neighbours or colleagues did. Many of their friends discovered, between mouthfuls of nan and butter chicken, that Canada’s extreme cold was not for them, and decided to try their luck with Australia.

  Ramya and Prakash vacated their flat in Bengaluru, selling most of their expensive handpicked furniture at rock-bottom prices. How Prakash hated parting with his car, unmoved by the fact they were going to North America, the happiest of happy hunting grounds for automobiles!

  “I’m sure you’ll be able get a better car in Canada. They must be having countless models to choose from.” In India, everything seemed to be limited, except population and corruption.

  “That’s true,” Prakash said. “But that’s not the point.”

  His feelings were akin to the heart-wrenching a mother would have if she were separated from her child. He took pains to ensure that his car would be in good hands, and, rather than hawking it to the highest bidder, he sold it to someone he thought would treasure it.

  Having disposed of all their worldly belongings, they moved to Hyderabad and stayed with Ramya’s father until it was time to leave.

  “Daddy, once we reach Canada we’ll see that you can join us as soon as possible,” Ramya said.

  “Ramya darling, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, I prefer to remain in India. I certainly wish you the very best, and hope Prakash finds life in Canada even more congenial than it was for him in India. As for myself, I wouldn’t want to move out of my own house if I can help it.”

  “You’ll say that now, Daddy. But in a few years, you will find it very lonely here.”

  “Ramya dear, let’s cross the bridge when we come to it.”

  The last important thing they did just before leaving for Canada was to visit a small temple at a village called Chilukuru in the outskirts of Hyderabad. Prakash had a vow to fulfill. They started at the crack of dawn, when the sky was salmon pink in the east, and the air was deliciously cool. Prakash did not put on the air conditioning, and kept the windows rolled down. The road, one of the old highways, was lovely with ancient trees standing guard on both sides. The landscape was peppered with incredible rock formations. They were the trademark of Hyderabad, even more so than the redoubtable Golconda fort, which one could discern in the distant hills, making a bulwark against the lightening sky. Golconda was once a fabled city, and so known for its riches that it had become a byword in the English language for fabulous wealth — as was mentioned in the Chambers dictionary which Ramya always kept on her study table.

  The shrine had a bucolic setting, snuggling amidst farms and orchards, a spitting distance from the shore of a lake. A trickle of a road led to the centuries-old temple. Once lost in obscurity, the place began to acquire an awesome reputation for granting the wishes of its devotees, and since many of them, at least the younger ones, were aspiring to get a visa to the United States of America, the deity got the nickname of Visa Venkateshwara. Prakash had sought a Canadian visa from God, and it was comforting to know that He had not discriminated against America’s northerly neighbour.

  There was a fair sprinkling of people in the courtyard of the temple, making rounds of the temple. It was a tradition at the temple that those who had their wishes fulfilled would walk around the temple one hundred and ei
ght times. To keep count Ramya had taken hundred and eight kidney beans in a plastic box. But Prakash fished out with a flourish a handy little electronic gadget with which he intended to keep count. Even then, Ramya emptied all the beans into the palm of her hand and placed the empty box in a corner of the temple courtyard. At the end of every round, called a pradakshina, Ramya dropped a bean into the plastic box. Ten minutes into their penance, Prakash said: “Hell!” — and returned the counter to his trouser pocket. Ramya didn’t have to ask if he had forgotten to press the button at the end of some rounds.

  Every now and then Prakash would ask: “How many rounds to go?”

  “How would I know?” Ramya would say, opening her palm to reveal the collection of remaining beans. “Care to count?”

  It was almost an hour and a half since they had started their circumambulations, when Ramya, feeling slightly dizzy and her calf muscles aching, tossed the last bean into the plastic box. They then entered the sanctum sanctorum, joining the tail end of a queue. Many of the devotees in the line had completed the requisite rounds, and not all of them looked as if they were the type to seek visas to the U.S.A. or any other country for that matter. They must have come because they were cured of a deadly disease, or found a job, or passed exams, or found a marriage alliance for their daughter. The queue moved sluggishly as the priests there allowed the devotees to have darshan of the Lord to their hearts’ content, a rarity since in most temples security guards were employed to prod the dawdling devotees to move on, hardly giving them time to stand before His idol and commune with Him.

  After coming out of the temple they spent some time loitering in the cool shade cast by the tall trees surrounding the temple. They rambled along the edge of the lake, drinking in the beauty of the place. They could hear the sweet warbling of birds nestling among the foliage, and the guttural grumblings of frogs splashing about in the water. The April sun was up and beating down on the silky stillness of the lake, and when a light breeze ruffled over the treetops, Ramya’s heart filled with an indescribable exhilaration. How lovely the day was! It seemed as if the world itself was a temple, with divinity imbued in everything — every wildflower, every blade of grass, every pebble, and every boulder.

  The next day, they would be taking the flight to faraway Toronto, via Mumbai and London. Ramya’s eyes filled with tears.

  There are no two ways about it. The EI forms must be completed. Ramya should have done it within two weeks of the date she was laid off, but she keeps deferring it. Now she must come up with a credible excuse for her tardiness. What pretext could she use? PLSD — post layoff stress disorder? Would the employment insurance guys buy that? Or maybe good old chronic depression would be easier to sell.

  Neither of the excuses is far off the mark, and she has to do something about the bouts of depression she gets into every now and then. Though laid-off, her workplace insurance for health and dental benefits will continue for some time. Like a hangover after the party.

  So, she calls the Employment Assistance Program provider of the insurance company, taking the telephone number from the magnetic sticker on her fridge, and arranges for an appointment with a psychologist. The sticker has been affixed there for many years, and until now she had no reason to take recourse to it. Not even when Prakash and she parted ways.

  3

  Arrival

  ONE OF THE few things that Ramya put into her box after coming to Canada is her citizenship card. It’s oblong and laminated, slightly bigger than a credit card. A prize, almost. Like a good conduct medal, which an immigrant receives for his or her three-year penance.

  The penance of living in the country for one thousand and one hundred days. Or nights, if you prefer, as in the Arabian tales. After all, there’s a fairy tale quality to the idea of successful immigration. Poverty to prosperity in one short hop, as some people would like to believe. Besides, immigrants smuggle in so many of their stories and histories. Like contraband, which no one cares to frisk for at the border. Guards can only pat down bodies.

  How many tales must have entered the country in this manner! Yet they remain largely untold, unheard, unrecognized, unchronicled, lost in the remote vastness of a large, cold, sparsely tenanted country, which often turns a deaf ear to newcomers.

  The citizenship card has nestled there in the sweetsmelling box from India undisturbed all these years. It was rarely needed; her driver’s licence sufficed in most situations. During elections, while waiting for her turn to cast her ballot, she saw prospective voters who brought only their citizenship cards as proof of identity being turned away by the officers. Those who drove suffered no such fate. Proof positive that life in North America centres on the automobile.

  What catches Ramya’s eye is not so much the card itself, but the photograph affixed to it. It might as well belong to a stranger — a stranger with a youthful, even vivacious, face, a face in no need of a facelift …

  It was a cold, wet evening when the Air Canada plane touched down in Toronto. The journey had been long and tiring — with two boring and tiresome layovers; one in Sahaar, Mumbai, and the other in Heathrow, London. No merry hop, skip and jump was immigration. It was an expedition of over twenty thousand miles to a destination halfway across the globe. It was undertaken not on a magic carpet from the East, but on the wings of the combined effort of three airlines — Indian Airlines, British Airways and Air Canada. All these capers only to start an uncertain life.

  The plane had landed with an unsettling thud, and rapidly decelerated, screeching all the while. A cheery co-pilot gave them a welcome speech including details of weather conditions in Toronto which seemed laughably mild (such was the dread immigrants usually had of Canada’s climate). No sooner had the plane ground to a stop than most of the passengers popped out of their seats, as if they were required to give a standing ovation to a successful flight. While Ramya remained seated, waiting for the line-up to start moving, Prakash slid into the seat closest to the aisle, as if he couldn’t contain his eagerness to step on to Canadian soil. One of the passengers, trying to pull out his cabin luggage, dislodged a few pieces from the overhead locker. One of the bags fell smack on Prakash’s head.

  “Welcome to Canada,” Ramya said. Prakash gave her one of his looks, a kind of glare he fetched up when he felt silly and angry at the same time.

  Dragging their hand-luggage after them, Ramya and Prakash followed the retreating backs of passengers. They shuffled through the aerobridge, and trudged along what seemed like an endless corridor to the immigration office, eschewing a long travellator, because Ramya had never ridden on one before and her legs felt wobbly after the long journey. This was an early reminder that immigration meant getting used to things in so many surprising ways.

  They waited in a cheerless hall, full of artificial light and without a single window, if her memory served her right. All the prospective immigrants were herded like felons into a holding cell. Ramya looked around. Most of immigrants seemed to be from India, especially Sikhs from Punjab. Not surprising since their flight had connected to other flights originating in different parts of India. There were a few people of other nationalities too, like Filipinos and possibly Eastern Europeans. At a table a black couple whose landing papers were not in order were loudly remonstrating with a border security officer. This made Ramya all the more nervous.

  Ramya had grown up in a country where law was an instrument to strike terror in the hearts of the innocent. The unscrupulous always had the ways and means to keep the enforcement authorities at bay, often colluding with them. Ramya half-expected the immigration officers to find some pretext to bar their entry into the country. As one after another passenger was called to meet with an officer, Ramya felt the butterflies in her stomach grow larger and flap their wings faster.

  “Do you want to use the toilet?” Prakash asked.

  “No!” Ramya said, almost screaming. “Don’t keep asking me that silly question.”

  Prakash had been plying her with that query f
rom the moment they boarded the flight. Once ensconced, Ramya did not feel like getting up from her seat. Every hour or so, Prakash would struggle to his feet, and lope away on mysterious errands. Her father, who was a retired doctor, had warned Ramya about DVT — Deep Vein Thrombosis, a condition which was increasingly found to cause death of passengers on long-haul flights. So Ramya had staggered up and down the aircraft’s semi-dark aisles a couple of times, hoping to ginger up her blood circulation.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Prakash said for the umpteenth time and wandered away. Hardly five minutes had passed, but Ramya grew frantic. Anytime now their number could be called. Where was Prakash? It was just like him to leave her in the lurch! But he returned a few minutes later with a smile on his face which was almost a smirk. Though he said nothing, the smirk translated itself as: “Why do you always get so panicky?”

  Soon afterwards, it was their turn. They entered the immigration officer’s cubicle and took their seats. The official collected their passports and landing papers, and solemnly checked each item. He consulted a computer, turned his head and peered at their faces, and then compared them with the mugshots in their passports. He double-checked to make sure that they had brought sufficient funds into the country. Satisfied with the booty, he smiled, returned the passports, and extended his hand, uttering the words: “Welcome to Canada!”

  Prakash’s hand involuntarily went to the bump on his forehead. Ramya had to lean across the table and take the border officer’s proffered hand.