Thirst (4 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

SIMPLE IGNORANCE

What is it?” Tarun asked.

“Can I see a piece of identification, please?” the officer asked.

Confused, Tarun reached into his pocket and retrieved his license. “What is this about, officer?”

The officer did not respond as he took the piece of ID and read it. “India—You’re from India?”

“Yes.”

“Are you visiting?”

“I’m a landed immigrant.”

“Can I see your Landing Paper?”

“Um—Yeah, hold on.” Tarun did not generally carry around his Landing Paper, but thankfully, he figured he might need it for his meeting with the college administration. There was no law saying that he needed to carry it around—he was, after all, an official Canadian citizen, thanks to the work of the Walker family years back. He handed the cop his papers.

“What are you doing in Canada?”

“I live here.”

“No kidding,” the officer said with a tone of cruel sarcasm. “Why here—why Snowbrooke?”

“It’s—It’s just where my family moved.”

The officer stared at Tarun, trying to intimidate him.

“I’m sorry officer, but I’m in a bit of a rush. I have an important meeting at the university.”

“That’s going to have to wait,” the officer replied. “I’m going to need to ask you some questions.”

“Am—Am I a suspect? I’m confused.”

“Did I say that?”

“No—I’m just confused as to why you singled me out.”

“Sir, are you accusing me of something right now?”

“No, of course not. I—I’m just confused.”

The officer pulled out a little notebook and a pen, and began to take notes.

“Where were you between the hours of 3 AM and 6 AM?”

“I—I was sleeping until five. Then I helped my father with some housework.”

“What kind of housework?”

Tarun was about to tell him about the renovations, but then stopped when he realized they did not have permits. “Just cleaning up an empty suite. He’s a landlord.”

“Cleaning up? At five in the morning.”

“He’s a morning person.”

“Can your father verify this?”

“Yes.”

“Is the address on this id current?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any criminal record in India, or here in Canada?”

“No—I’ve never broken any law.”

Tarun looked down at the watch on his wrist—the watch he borrowed from his father. His meeting was soon.

“Could you wait right here, please?” the officer asked.

“Sir—I really need to be going.”

“Just wait right here.” The officer walked away and joined another officer near a police cruiser. They spoke for what felt like an eternity, occasionally looking over at Tarun with suspicion.

Tarun’s meeting started in less than five minutes. He was cold and nervous. His hands were starting to shake and his mind was quickly becoming less clear.

Finally, the officer returned. “Tarun, was it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m having a hard time understanding your time-line this morning. You say that your father was doing housework at five in the morning, when you woke up.”

“Yes—That’s right.”

“I just find it strange to be doing housework at five in the morning, when the Strata Property Act Noise By-laws restrict work before seven.”

Tarun was nervous. He thought for a moment. “He was just sweeping up—nothing major.”

“Mr. Mumbar, you know that lying to an officer of the law is a serious offense, right?”

Tarun was nervous—shaking from the cold. “Yes, officer.”

“You also realize that, by visiting the scene of the crime, you can be considered a suspect in a criminal case?”

“What? I—I wasn’t visiting. I was just walking by.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t make these decisions.”

“But you picked me, when there are a dozen other people standing here!”

“What exactly are you accusing me of, sir?” the officer asked.

Since arriving in The West, Tarun had become all too used to being a victim of racial discrimination. A strong character, he tried his best to ignore it, hoping that it would get better as him and his father became more versed in Western culture. No matter how much effort he put into conforming, the intolerance did not end.

It could have been worse though.

In India, there was a lot of animosity towards Pakistanis, as well as prejudice towards the smaller black community. In India, it was common to hear about victims of racism being beaten up in the streets or worse—murdered. Some intolerant people would throw stones at certain minorities, fully intending to injure them. Having seen it happen first hand for so long, Tarun felt blessed to only have to suffer through the occasional racial comment from the occasional ignorant pig.

But no matter how strong you are, it is always emotionally draining to watch people cross the street just so they don’t have to walk near you, or to be picked out of a crowd, to be “randomly” accused of a murder.

“Sir?” the officer prodded.

“Nothing, officer. I’m just—I’m just late.”

“I’m sure that this is more important that whatever you’re late for.”

“Please officer—I’m just trying to get to a meeting. I didn’t kill anyone.”

The officer stared at Tarun. “How did you know someone was killed?”

“I—I don’t. I just assumed.”

“That’s quite the assumption.”

“There’s six cop cars, and police tape everywhere. Not to mention, the coroner is here.”

The police officer looked down at his notepad and began to scribble in some more notes.

Tarun wanted to scream, but he kept himself composed. He was officially late for his meeting, which did not bode well for his hopeful acceptance.

“We’re going to be in touch with you and your family, Mr. Mumbar. I recommend you don’t leave town any time soon.”

Tarun looked into the eyes of the racist pig. “Thank you, officer.”

The cop turned away. Tarun turned around and continued walking towards the university campus. He wanted to run, but he knew that would look suspicious.

Once he was far enough away from the scene, he started to run. His joints were cold and rigid from standing at the police scene for too long, and his blood circulation was practically non-existent. As he ran into the administration office, he was shaking. His fingers were dark-blue and numb, and he could not feel his nose.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked the cold, tired Tarun.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A KIND SOUL

I have an appointment,” Tarun said between breaths.

“Name?” the receptionist asked.

“Tarun Mumbar.”

“Your appointment was twenty minutes ago.”

“I know—I’m sorry. I got caught up, but I left early enough that…”

The receptionist cut Tarun off. “Just have a seat, please.”

“O—Okay,” Tarun said.

He looked around the small waiting area. There were only a couple of seats—one of which was already taken by a cute little blonde girl. He sat down next to the girl and started to rub his hands together, trying to get his blood flow moving again. He blew warm air from his lungs onto his frigid hands.

The cute, little blonde-haired woman looked over. “Give me your hands,” she said softly.

Tarun looked up. The girl was wearing a hood over her short, wavy blonde hair. Her eyelashes were dark—almost jet black, but she was not wearing any makeup. Her lips were plump and smooth, and her skin was a perfectly consistent peach color. She was beautiful—a natural bombshell.

Tarun hesitantly gave the girl his hands. She firmly grabbed onto them and squeezed her fingertips. She was warm—incredibly warm. Her body heat quickly began to thaw Tarun’s frozen joints. She gently rubbed up and down the length of Tarun’s fingers, sending warm pulses of energy through Tarun’s body—a strange foreign kind of warm energy.

Tarun’s body began to relax. He stopped shaking and he suddenly felt warm.

He laughed. “I’m not used to this cold,” he said in his thick Indian English combination accent.

“It takes some getting used to,” the mysterious blonde said.

The girl continued to rub Tarun’s hands, warming him further, and relieving his anxieties.

“You’ve got a lot of tension in you. You’re very nervous,” the beautiful blonde said.

“I just really want this meeting to go well.”

“Don’t be so nervous. Just relax,” the girl said. “Whatever happens in there happens for a reason.”

Tarun smiled. “You’re a believer in fate?”

The girl smiled. Her smile was enough to turn any man into a drooling dog. “How can you not be?” she asked.

Tarun stared into the girl’s eyes—quickly getting lost in her mysterious splendor.

“Tarun Mumbar?” a chubby man, dressed in a black dress shirt said as he stood in the doorway to the meeting room.

The girl released Tarun’s hands. “Just relax, Tarun,” she said.

“How—How did you know my name?”

“He just said it out loud,” the girl said.

Tarun laughed at his own expense. “Right—I’m an idiot.”

“No you aren’t. Good luck.”

Tarun smiled and followed the man into his office.

“My name is Richard Friesen. I’m the head of admissions here at SBU.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Friesen.”

“I understand that you’re looking to study at our little school here.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“SBU might be small, but you’d be surprised to know that we maintain one of the highest GPA’s in the country. We hold a rigid admission standard, and we have one of the highest employment rates upon graduation.”

“Yes—I know, sir. I’ve done quite a bit of research on the school. I’m very excited to be considered.”

Richard Friesen looked down at a copy of Tarun’s transcript. “Your grades are very good.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s difficult to get grades like this in British schools. You should be very proud.”

“Oh—I didn’t go to a British school, sir.”

“Are you not British?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, excuse me. Your accent must have fooled me. Australian?”

“Indian, sir.”

Richard went silent for a moment.

“The province I was raised in was predominantly English. Most of the British people there stayed after India’s independence.”

“Oh—So your first language is English?”

“Yes… Well, no—its Hindi, but I can speak English fluently.” Tarun laughed. “You might even say that I can speak English better than most English speakers.”

Richard subtly rolled his eyes. “Right…” he said.

Tarun was suddenly struck with a sense of nervousness. “I hope that’s not an issue?”

“Well—I don’t know how they do things over in India, but here in Canada, we have certain requirements—English equivalence requirement.”

“Like I said, I’m totally fluent in English. I might even know it better than Hindi. I mean—you yourself thought I was literally English.”

“Also,” Richard continued, ignoring Tarun. “There is a list of countries with respectable education systems—Education systems that we recognize as equivalent or near enough to our own. It’s easier for us to look at a foreign transcript and decide if someone meets our qualifications.”

“Most of India has a very strong education system.”

“Most.”

“Well—The province I’m from has very good schools. A lot of respected scientists and researchers came out of my province.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Mumbar, that’s irrelevant, as India isn’t on the aforementioned list of countries.”

“O—Okay,” Tarun said.

“These grades—on this transcript, mean nothing to me. There could be nothing but a’s on here, and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

“There are nothing but a’s…”

“Like I said—It doesn’t make a difference. They might as well be j’s, Hindi scribbles, or Batman symbols.”

“But certainly they mean something—surely there is someone you can contact who can explain the course differences, or something.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Mr. Mumbar. That’s not to say that you cannot go to SBU though.”

“Okay,” Tarun said, clinging on to the little bit of hope that was being offered.

“We have other programs here—High school upgrading courses.”

“You—You want me to retake high school?”

“You wouldn’t have to retake all of it. Just the courses that are requirements for the major you are hoping to study. What major are you hoping to pursue?”

“Astrophysics.”

“In which case, you would need to retake your twelfth grade Physics, Biology, Chemistry, Math, Calculus and English.”

Tarun’s head was spinning at the concept of redoing six courses that he had already completed. But Tarun was smart—and he knew it. He knew that the work would be a breeze. Nevertheless, the thought of pushing his dreams back another year or two was discouraging.

“How do I sign up?” Tarun asked.

“I can give you all of the forms that you need. The next round of classes won’t start until the spring, so I recommend you try to ‘improve’ your other university qualifications in that time.”

“Improve my other qualifications? What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s difficult to say, in your position.”

“Why?”

“How can I put this? SBU likes well-rounded students. We like students with musical talent, or entrepreneurial skills. We like students who volunteer and contribute to the community.”

“Okay—Sure. I used to play soccer—maybe I can find a soccer club here. And I will look into volunteering opportunities around town.”

Richard laughed. “You won’t find any soccer around here, Mr. Mumbar. I’m afraid you’ll be lucky to find anything that isn’t hockey.”

“Oh. Well I can look into that. Maybe I’ll be good at it,” Tarun eagerly suggested.

“But also—more than anything, we like a good, hard-working Canadian student. Someone with that—Passionate Canadian spirit.”

Tarun stared at the administrator for a moment, processing what he was saying. “Sir—I am Canadian,” Tarun said. “I have my Landing Papers right here.”

“Right—I’m sure that you are.”

“I am,” Tarun said, getting defensive.

“Right.”

Tarun’s frustration was starting to get the better of him. He was on the verge of having a mental breakdown from all of the “less than subtle” ignorance. Tarun studied all of the Canadian immigration tests for months, and he made a point of learning all of the Canadian societal norms. He called Canada his home, and respected the country—its beauty, and all of its opportunities more than most “Good, hard-working Canadians.”

“Take home these course applications and bring them in before the New Year. Or, even better, fill them out today, and if there’s an opening in one of the classes, maybe you can get started early. If you do well in all of these classes, you just might have a shot at SBU.”

The word “might” stung.

Tarun took the papers and stood up, without responding. There was no sense in arguing—it would not get him anywhere. All he could do was ace the classes and hope that they accepted him.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Mumbar.”

“Thanks,” Tarun said as he walked out of the office.