No New Land (19 page)

Nanji was present when Missionary made his first visit to the Lalanis’, accompanied by the newly acquired retinue of young men, in front, behind, and beside, and awaited by his congregation sitting on the floor in the living room. His wife and daughter made up the tail end of the procession. The sofa against the wall was the seat of honour, in front of which all sat waiting. As he entered the room the females of the congregation, dressed in white, attempted an elaborate welcoming ceremony, with touching of feet and cracking of knuckles and garlanding, but in his summary fashion the Master told them to be seated. Not that they minded. Any word from him to them was gold.

It was remarkable, Nanji thought, how much he seemed to have shrunk in physique. The same smile, the oval bald head, the portliness, and the famous light blue suit. But somehow, it was as if the bones had settled into a more compact form. Or was it that the old world now looked small and fragile?

As he sat down on the sofa he called out playfully, “Eh, Nurdin. I see you’ve installed a goddess in your building, downstairs. Where is the god?”

Nurdin, standing near the window, played along, gesturing at the Master in mock seriousness. “Come, Missionary, I will show you.”

The Master, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, got up and walked through the congregation and stood beside Nurdin. “There,” said Nurdin, pointing out the window into the distance. “There is our god. But he is a deep one. Mysterious.”

The Master chuckled. “Ah, the CN Tower. I have been to the top of it, many years ago. Excellent restaurant.”

Sitting down again he called his wife beside him. His daughter was also pushed forward by the crowd. She was tall and fair and her hair was cut short. She wore a loose shirt over her brown corduroy jeans. Her name was Khadija – not one of those fancy Persian flower-names so much in vogue but a respectable traditional one. Unfortunately this was also the name much favoured by the older generation, the grandmothers, who shortened it to Khati. So the girl had to make the best not only of the name but also its short form. Having been brought into the limelight now, all she could do was to put on a pleasant little smile and look at her hands. She didn’t last long however under the blissful gazes of the women and found a pretext to go and stand outside in the main passageway, from where, when she looked in, she could catch the proceedings. It seemed that she found enough to divert herself there, in the
kitchen perhaps, and showed her face only intermittently.

For quite some time they talked in the Lalanis’ living room, of food prices and currency values “there,” of who was “in” (for black-marketing and passport violations) and who “out.” Food prices were rising, there were queues for bread, garbage was not being picked up regularly. It was as if they had to justify living here by proving to themselves how progressively worse it was getting there. Finally someone raised a religious issue. It was the second acolyte.

Nurdin had labelled the three young men: Number One, Number Two, and Number Three. Number One simply gave his services, he was companion and chauffeur and could well have been valet but for the wife. Number Two was archivist and librarian, who fancied himself junior Master. Number Three – no one could quite place him, but sometimes he substituted for Number One. Nice boys all, they gave Missionary hope for the future in Canada.

Number Two had asked a question, having killed the previous topic, and then began answering his own question. To which the Master patiently listened, and then cut in with his own version.

At this point Nanji, who was standing somewhere at the fringe and out of the way, thought it wise to leave. He went through the inner of the two kitchen doorways and emerged at the other end, in the passageway leading out. There, to his dismay, Missionary’s daughter, Khati, was standing like a guard.

She quickly moved aside. “Leaving so soon?” she beamed.

“Well.… ” What excuse to give?

“Have a mind of your own, eh?”

“I prefer to do my own thinking, yes.” If that’s what she wants to hear. She can report that to her father if she likes.

“There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s perfectly all right.”

The cheek! Now she was patronizing him. “Why, thank you. What about you? You must know it all by heart … all this … religion.”

The smile dimmed. She pouted. “Now you are mocking.”

He said nothing.

“All right, go and do your thinking.”

“Actually, I am just going to my place to make myself some coffee. Would you like to join me?”

It turned out she was an accountant, but hadn’t worked for a year, having spent the time with her parents. She had gone to England after high school, and the accent was there. Obviously a girl no longer in her father’s shadow.

“I don’t always agree with my father. But he’s getting old now. I just go along, for things that really don’t matter.”

“Like that shirt, for instance?”

“Is it that obvious?” She giggled self-consciously. “He thinks the hips should be covered with a shirt or kurta. I couldn’t find anything else.”

“But your mother, I thought I saw her in a blouse, tucked in – ”

“Well,” she said, “I guess he thinks – ”

“That” – he caught himself and froze his smile.

“Now don’t say what you are thinking!” The giggle again, such a delightful giggle, and he laughed his silent laugh. He would never forget that giggle, he thought.

In the middle of all the excitement in his home, with the Master’s comings and goings, Nurdin, suspended from work, was still awaiting his court hearing.

“Do you think he did it?” Nanji had asked Jamal one day.

“For a man who has taken to visiting peep shows, it’s not quite unthinkable.”

“What will happen?”

“With his record and background – a light reprimand.”

“But with a record?”

“With a record. And probably some publicity.”

Missionary, who had advice on everything from childrearing to managing a country’s economy – in his time he’d been an educated man – had taken to advising Jamal about the case. Jamal simply pocketed the advice and forgot it. Even he couldn’t risk offending the old man. The man in his heyday had thrilled thousands, young and old; they had flocked
to the mosques to hear him speak. He had been a fiery hot-blooded speaker. “You are all donkeys,” he would tell them. But they loved him. “You were low-class Hindu thieves and criminals before you converted,” he would yell. They still loved him.

Nanji remembered an instance from his childhood, how one night he had awakened his grandmother after they had both gone to bed, to remind her that Missionary was speaking that night, after months of silence. They got up, dressed, walked the dark streets to go and listen to whatever remained of the sermon. And in school, another time, after having invited Missionary to give his class a talk, Nanji had then gathered enough courage during question period to inquire when an embryo inside a mother acquires a soul. The Master had had an answer for that too. And even to the question whether a dog had a soul. Nanji didn’t quite remember what he had said, and he didn’t now care.

What was amazing, observing him now after many years, was that the man was so human. He was no ascetic. He liked food, delighted in conveniences and gadgets, and was definitely not one to spurn a car ride in favour of walking out in the cold. His last major battle perhaps had been with his eldest son, chosen to follow in his footsteps, who had however gone against his advice, his command, to let go his American girlfriend and marry someone of the community. This, when hundreds came to seek his advice, whether to marry this girl or that boy, what name to give their child, what to do about this or
that ailment, if the time was ripe for going into business. Even Nurdin and Zera had married upon his advice. But his own son had turned him down, marrying his American girlfriend. Father and son had not exchanged a word for some years now. No one, sitting at the Master’s feet, could not have been aware of his problems. As if to explain their existence, one day he had given a little “example” to the gathering before him.

A yogi was practising extreme asceticism in the forest. He had no possessions, except the knickers held in place only with a string – Missionary, in his grave manner, could be rather graphic, and you had to hide your smile. But, Missionary continued, the rats in the cave in which the yogi lived would nibble at the string as he slept. To keep away the rats, the poor yogi kept a cat. To feed the cat milk, he kept a cow. And to feed and look after the cow, he had got a wife. To keep her happy, he had to give her children.

The rapt audience broke into a murmur when he finished. Acolyte Number One gave a barely audible laugh, and Number Two began comparing this example with another example. But the Master’s hand was on his wife’s back, and he looked around the room as if he wished he could go somewhere. He had done this most of his life, keeping such gatherings happy, he couldn’t do anything else now. This is what it would always be. You couldn’t help noticing the fondness of the old couple for each other. He tried to infuse these gatherings with a spirit of informality, so that the women in white who had started
out by sitting at his feet were now on chairs. At one point Zera and Mrs. Missionary both went to make tea in the kitchen, and Zera came out bringing a cup for him. He responded to this by saying jovially, “I will have tea only from my wife’s hands. This cup, you give to Nurdin there.” A significant lesson for Zera. She went and sat beside her husband.

At this point Nurdin’s problem came to mind, and Missionary entered into a tirade against the morality of Western society, a society whose virtues he had been singing about not long ago. But who said the Master was consistent? He could talk of future generations, and shortly thereafter give you the exact date, forty years and some months from today, when the world would come to an end in an armageddon. It made him human – he had studied a lot from a variety of sources, traditional and modern, so obviously there were loose ends. At one time he was among the few who were educated, he was in step, at least with his world; once he had had contemporaries to discuss and argue with. Now his companions were young people such as Number Two, ranting out of their place, out of their time.

Nanji was getting restless. From a corner Khati saw him squirming, but he expected no sympathy from there. He allowed himself to suffer some more and then made his escape.

If Missionary was human, his daughter was more so. Nanji had already walked to the Rosecliffe Park Mall with her. And together with Fatima and Hanif, he had taken her to the Eaton Centre. He had waited patiently while she went up and down the Marks & Spencer store. He had argued with her and laughed with her … let her laugh at him. He liked her. He liked her very much. That conclusion sounded like a death sentence. Just when he had recovered, when he was enjoying himself, yes, in a Buddhistic-existentialist trance (that anecdote about the yogi’s knickers was disturbing, though), along had come Life, in the form of this girl. Wasn’t Buddha tempted by Mara?

And this girl, a jewel really, she must have someone waiting for her, surely. And there must be countless of her father’s rich acquaintances, with doctor-sons who would grab at this combination of East and West, spunk and coyness, given half the chance? Perhaps he needn’t worry, she was taken. But those looks and smiles on Zera’s face – had he been set up even before Missionary arrived? So what. He dared not contemplate the possibilities. The romantic path is strewn with hazards and heartache, unfulfillable dreams. He wished he
had
been set up.

She was so different from Yasmin: she did not move like a hurricane, yet there was so much of her. You did not have to rush to concerts, parties, plays, recitals, or picnics; you just had to be. She bubbled forth with life, experience, observations, humour. And then, she understood him, his concerns with life, but she was such an antidote to his high-minded
seriousness, dissolving it like a potion – some kind of Alka Seltzer, he thought wryly. Can one risk joy in life? Again?

When a woman lets you open your heart to her, well and good, but when she opens her heart to you, beware, for she may turn you into a friend, a
brother
. God, what have I let myself in for this time?