down at the dark green tablecloth, Sitara thought, At least he can't talk while he's chewing. She needed a gap in the fighting to prepare her line of fire.
When my parents get home I am in the cupboard playing singing games with Sarasvati. I can hear them yelling even as they come down the hall. There is a high-pitched shout followed by a low-pitched rumble, then another high-pitched shout. As they come through the door, their voices get clearer.
"I want Sitara to go to an Indian school."
"There are no Indian schools in Vancouver. We've talked about this before."
"I am not talking about Vancouver. I am talking about India."
"I'm not going back, if that's what you're thinking! Not on your life, Raj. I am successful here. I have a career."
"I am not saying you should go to India—just Sitara. I have already spoken to my sister, Usha. She is willing to take her. She has a daughter the same age. They can be friends. Sitara needs friends."
"Perhaps, but why Indian friends?"
"Stubborn woman! I thought you would be happy to get rid of her!"
"Raj, you say too much and understand too little!"
"Tell me of one day when you have not complained about her? ‘The child is too demanding. Tell her no, she cannot have whatever it is she is asking for.' Or ‘Your daughter has taken my pens again. What is wrong with her? I have already given her four pencils this week.' Parvati, you say these things every day! If I send her to live with Usha, she will not bother you anymore."
"No."
"Why not?"
"In India she will learn Indian ways. And then what hope will she have? No. She was born Canadian, and in Canada she will stay. This is final, Raj. There is no room for negotiation."
Hearing Parvati stomp off, I breathe out a little sigh. I don't want to leave here, and I am worried that at my aunt's house there will be no spice cupboard.
"I can't believe you wanted to send me away," Sitara said.
"Away where?"
"To live with Usha."
"How do you know about that?" Raj talked with his mouth full, allowing Sitara to see the dark brown dahl being crushed and mixed with the pale white chapati.
"I know about more than you think."
Raj wiped out one of the curry bowls with his last piece of chapati. He had eaten the whole meal while Sitara sipped from a glass of water. "You should eat. Do you not tell your patients that?"
"It depends what their imbalance is. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't." She was staring out the window, watching the street lights come on. Now, for every person who passed on the sidewalk below, there was also a shadow. "I'm leaving," she said. She couldn't imagine the four of them walking back to his hotel.
"Sitara... We have not had dessert!"
"I'm not hungry, and I think you've already had enough!"
Before Raj could stand up she was outside, hiding from the light on the darker side of the street.
chapter 7
Sara buried her camera in the back of the closet with the high-heeled shoes she bought but never wore. I should have a yard sale, she thought, to get rid of this junk. Then at least I could pay my phone bill.
Trying on a pair of pointe shoes that were stiff from layers of encrusted sweat, she remembered how, at one time, her plan had been to be a dancer first, then a photographer when she retired from the stage at age thirty or thirty-five.
She threw the ballet slippers back into the closet and closed the door. She hadn't expected to feel old at twenty-nine.
As she sat on the floor next to her bed, staring at the blur that was her bulletin board full of photos, her suffering sank into her stomach. She was hungry for the flavours trapped in her camera bag, the ones she'd been forced—by her eyes—to leave behind. From where she sat, she imagined the contents of her kitchen cupboards: a few half-empty jars of herbs, a bag of old fusilli, a can of tomatoes with the label torn so that she could no longer tell if they were whole or crushed. She knew without looking that the fridge was worse than the cupboards —there was little more than a rousing combination of butter, baking soda and mustard.
With her mouth watering for ginger-glazed chicken, spicy bean burritos smothered in melted cheese, or dahl and eggplant curry over fragrant basmati rice, she fumbled with her coat and cursed her buttons for being difficult. Although Halifax had plenty of good restaurants, she didn't have the money or the confidence to face young healthy waiters or the bright-eyed customers they served. Instead, she decided to walk to the grocery store, buy some ingredients and cook for herself. Bracing for an onslaught of people, she pulled on her shades and stepped outside.
The sidewalk, of course, was empty. Crossing the tree-lined street, she had to remind herself that she was only minutes from the university in one direction, and from the harbour and downtown in the other. She was accustomed to streets so crowded that she had to use her elbows to protect her breasts and camera, and squares so full that people breathed in the air she'd just breathed out. Feeling as though her defect was visible to anyone who looked at her, she was grateful for the luxury of living in a small city on the outer edge of a sparsely populated country.
Walking past the Commons, with its wide-open ball fields and concrete skateboard park, her body yearned for spices—the dark, sensual spices of India. She could smell the onions frying, the garlic sizzling in ghee, the almost black cloves mixing with the cardamom and mustard seeds. She was drunk on the thought of it, her head swirling with the aroma.
Inside the Indian grocery store on Robie Street, the warm, humid air wrapped itself around her. She ignored the bags of chips, the silver-coated chocolate bars, and the flashy red and white advertisements on the sides of the refrigerators. Heading to the back of the store where the real food was nearly hidden,she filled her arms with oil-stained bottles, bags of ground spices, and the grains and legumes that would bulk up her meal.
At the cash, she bought a samosa to eat while walking. As she stepped out into the natural air of the city, she pulled her coat closer. Knowing it was warm in Spain and France, she sighed and bit into her snack.
With her head down, and her mind drifting through the barrage of fried finger food she'd eaten over the years while on assignment, she was oblivious to the fast-moving vehicle coming at her.
"Watch out!"
"Aaron?" she said. She hadn't seen him since college.
"Hey!" He stopped, flipped up his skateboard, and smiled at her. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," she said, swallowing the last bits of spiced potato and pea.
"Same here. I'm just out for some air." His jacket was open, his neck crowded with a stream of beaded necklaces intertwined with a cluster of metal pendants. "I didn't mean to scream, man, but I didn't know
