women should wear saris."
"I know, Bapa. I know."
The children with the scooters—two boys and a girl—were jumping off a tall stone ledge and trying to land on both wheels. One of them had almost mastered it and the other two were trying desperately to follow.
"I have been watching them for over an hour," Raj said. "The little one is very agile, and most comfortable, I think, when he is in the air. Perhaps for some, the ground is too hard. Do you think about these kinds of things, Sitara, or is it a sure sign that I am getting old?"
"I can't picture you getting old, Bapa. Age is in the mind."
"And sometimes in the body," he added.
"Sometimes, but you seem strong. Maybe I should buy you a scooter!"
"It makes me think of something I had when I was young. Of course, the roads were dirt where we lived, so we needed bigger tires. It is not easy being the second youngest of nine. There is a lot of catching up to do, and I tried many things, including some questionable self-propelled automobiles!" He laughed.
Sitara could feel the energy between them healing. She was happy to hear her father's voice again, and to be surrounded by the generosity of his laughter. There are some holes, she thought, that we're not even aware of until they've been filled again.
"I have tea," she offered. "And some rather crumbly cookies."
"Yes, I would like some."
After pulling a Thermos out of her worn Guatemalan bag, she handed her father a porcelain mug.
"This is nice," he said.
"It's made by a woman who lives here in town."
"Town?" Raj asked. "I thought Halifax was a city."
"It is, of course, you're right. I suppose ‘town' is just an expression." She filled his cup. "Chai," she said, "with soy milk."
Looking doubtful, Raj took a sip and then considered it carefully. "It does not taste like chai. But," he said, after taking another sip, "I do not dislike it."
"I'm glad." She handed him a paper bag full of cookies.
Taking one, he said, "I think your hand slipped when you added the cinnamon. Chai should be heavy on the black pepper, cardamom and cloves, and more moderate with the cinnamon. Of course, many people will tell you differently, but that is because they do not come from my village. People from my village, they know about tea."
Sitara nodded in agreement. Her father's village was famous for many things—as he was very fond of explaining. Parvati, of course, believed none of it. Sitara, too, was skeptical, but she respected his need for roots and ancestry. It's hard to know who you are, she reasoned, without knowing who your people are.
The sun that had poured over the park, bathing everything in a forgiving light, was starting to set. Raj shivered first, but Sitara soon followed.
"Shall we get some dinner?" he asked.
"What do you feel like?"
"The one here is okay—I looked over their menu—and I am feeling rather Indian today."
Climbing the steps to the second-floor restaurant, Sitara noticed how much her father depended on the railing to pull him up. Walking slowly behind him, she resisted the temptation to help. Inside, they chose a table by the window so they could look out over the park.
"I like to watch the sun go down," he said. Sitara did too, but she gave her father the better seat. Poring over the menu, he asked, "What do you recommend?"
"I don't know. I've only been here once."
"Because you do not like it?"
"No, I just don't eat out very often."
"Then here is what we will have: one order of dahl, one order of aloo gobi, one steamed basmati rice, four chapati, two puri, two lassi—unsweetened, of course—and a basket of samosas to start. The pappadam is overpriced. A good restaurant brings it for free."
"But Bapa, what if—"
The waitress came and took his order before Sitara had a chance to say anything. She liked dahl, but was in the mood for chickpeas instead.
When the puri and samosas came to the table, he asked, "Do you like these, Sitara? Try some. These are potato with carrot and peas, and these ones—"
"I know what they are, Bapa. I've had them before. Actually, I thought you would have ordered pakoras."
"Why? I have no taste for them. Too hard and greasy. Especially the way Canadians make them."
"This restaurant has Indian cooks!"
"Yes, but something changes when they cross the sea. Or perhaps it is the climate here—it is too cold for good deep-frying. Why does it matter to you?"
"Samosas and puri are deep-fried too."
"Yes?"
"Then it can't be the oil, can it?" Sitara smeared a samosa in chutney and took a bite. "Blaming the oil is not logical."
"Sitara, what are you talking about? You sound like Parvati."
Poking at a pea with her finger, Sitara tried to formulate her thoughts. Her father's domination and insensitivity angered her. The man she remembered was more open-minded and fair. The man she remembered liked pakoras.
"Bapa, I can't believe you ordered for me. I'm thirty years old. I can read menus."
"Yes, of course. But do you know about Indian food?"
"I've cooked my share of biryani."
"Yes, but you practise Chinese medicine. We have a medical tradition too, Sitara."
"I know. I've studied the Ayurvedic approach. It is very powerful. But there are other valuable traditions too." She licked chutney off her thumb."I went to college for this. I am certified."
"Yes, of course you are, Sitara. You are a good doctor, I am sure."
"A healer."
"It is the same thing, whatever you call it."
She resented being linked with medical doctors when she had, very intentionally, taken a different approach. "That's not true," she said.
"Health is life, Sitara. It is not something to take lightly. I wish you people could see that."
As Sitara held back the things she wanted to say, the waitress came with their main dishes. She laid them out in front of Raj as if he had ordered them all for himself. Sitara watched as she did this, but said nothing. Although the food smelled good, arguing had left her with very little appetite.
Without ceremony, Raj ripped apart a chapati and, using his right hand, shovelled a scoop of dahl into his mouth.
Looking
