A walk away from home

Hours of crying had tired my eyes into submission and sleep came deeply and without warning. My whole world had changed few months before my 18th birthday. Until last night I had looked forward to my upcoming holidays in India, a land that was just as mysterious for me as it was for most of the white kids in my school.

***

Volleyball practice was canceled and I had reached home earlier than usual. As I walked into the living room, I overheard Papa on the phone with his brother in India, “Engagement should be within a few days of us getting there and marriage as soon as she is 18 in September. Don’t waste time with too much non-sense. Make it quick.”

“Ooooohhh…I love Indian weddings. Who’s getting married?” I asked, making him jump.

“You,” he replied before he could stop himself. “I am just kidding, it’s your cousin,” he added unconvincingly. His lips smiled yet his eyes remained guilty. I felt the blood drain from my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maa twisting and untwisting the corner of her sari. “Can’t we just discuss this?” she asked timidly, her eyes pleading with my father. He looked at her sharply enough to shut her up. Years of abuse had trained her well to drop her eyes to her feet, while her hands stayed nervously busy with the infinite twists.

“You can’t do this Papa. I am 17. I don’t want to get married,” I said.

“I know what is best for you. You will marry in a few months when you are 18,” he replied.

“I’ll call the police,” I stammered.

“As you said, you are 17. They can do nothing,” he replied.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“This is how it is in our culture. You know that. You have always known that. Living in Canada does not make you white,” he said.

“I want to study. Why can’t I marry after I finish my studies? Other Indian girls study,” I was trying to reason with a man who was not used to being challenged about his decisions, not in this household at least.

“Yes, and no Indian men want to marry those girls,” he replied.

“Papa, it’s the 90’s. The world has changed,” I begged to no effect. His mind was made up. I had no choice. My bags were packed and the flight was in less than 24 hours. I had no money, no place to go, and no one to stand up for me.

Maa stood there looking like the puppet that she was. Asking for her support would result in her taking the brunt of Papa’s anger. Pathetic as I felt she was, I knew she was incapable of any help. Very early on in my life, I had learned their roles in my life. Maa cooked for me, cleaned for me, and yes, loved me in the only ways she knew how. She was there to wipe my tears after a beating, but never prevent one. I was her only child and possibly her entire world. She lived in this foreign land, friendless, barely able to communicate in a language that she was never allowed to learn. Completely dependant on Papa, she had probably lost all sense of self years ago. She was what he said she was. Nothing more and if it was even possible, nothing less.

When it came to making any decisions about my life, it was Papa I had to plead to. He dispersed his goodwill like a deity. Years of looking to him to allow me any joy had given him a god complex. He was a truck driver for a company where he often faced racism. He kept his mouth shut against all those injustices, but never stopped reminding us that we would never be good enough for the white people. Over 200 years of slavery had changed the DNA of this brown man- White people were to be feared and revered in equal measure. Papa would never speak up out of fear of losing his job. He bore all the pain stoically and passed it on affluently at home. Because here, he was king. And we knew our place.

“Cry if you want, but tomorrow you will be on that plane and you will get married even if I have to drag you to the altar myself,” he said.

And so, I cried. I howled. I screamed. I heaved and ran out of air. I wished the air would never find its way back, but it did. Then I ran out of tears. And then sleep came. I was dreaming of someone calling my name and then I realized someone was. I groggily opened my eyes to find Maa’s face an inch away from mine. I could make out her puffy eyes in the tender light of the early dawn. She put her trembling finger to her lips to ensure my silence. She sat at the edge of the bed and quietly hugged me as hard as she possibly could. She tore away, held my face in her hands, and kissed my forehead as she had done for as long as I could remember. “Go,” she said.

“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes awake. They were caked with the gunk of unshed tears.

“He’s old. The guy you are supposed to marry. He’s old. You leave. Now,” said Maa.

“Maa?” I said.

“Your dad promised citizenship to him. For money. This is not a marriage. He’s selling you,” she stuttered. It’s then I noticed the familiar duffel bag of our many family vacations.

“I have packed up your clothes, passport and there is $20,000 in the bag. Cash. This money was for your wedding,” she whispered. “And there is food- I packed some food. But leave now," she urged.

I would like to say that I stopped a minute to consider what would happen to her when Papa found me missing. But I didn’t. And she didn’t let me. I left in the same clothes I fell asleep in. After a hug to last me a lifetime, I slipped out of the back door. I instantly became a statistic- another runaway in a sea of hurt children trying to find their way somewhere safe. In the hours it would take Papa to realize I was not in my room, I would have created a distance too big to cover between us. And the police? Who really cares about another 17-year-old colored girl?

Safety was never a part of the deal my soul made before being born. That was for other little girls. Like Sarah down the road. I once saw her throwing a tantrum at the mall, while both her parents stood by patiently waiting for her to finish. Imagine being able to do that and not have to worry about hiding marks on your body the next day for school? I had obsessed about that scene for months- in my fantasy, I was Sarah. I would throw a tantrum so hard and loud it would shock the world but nothing bad would happen to me except being sent to my room for an hour. Miles apart from Sarah’s dad was my Papa- a con man, an abrasive drinker, a womanizer, but someone who was feared by many in the family. At a very young age, I recognized the monster that resided within him. He was not my hero. He was never anyone’s hero.

Hours later, at a faraway bus station, I was brought out of my thoughts by a rumbling stomach. It had been over a day since I had eaten. I remembered Maa had packed food for me. I opened the bag, rummaged for food and my hands landed on something leathery. I pulled it out. Little black book. The book that been a constant companion of my mother, the only personal effect no one dared to violate. The book that we jokingly called her best friend, unaware of how heartbreakingly true this was. I was holding the book. Hunger forgotten, I opened the first page. It was entirely in English. Over the years, I had pleaded with her to share the contents and frustratingly she never did. Having been denied the privilege for the nth time, I lashed out, “Anyway, what can you possibly write about. You don’t even have a life.”

Turns out she did. I was her life. Her every breath. From the first page to the last, the book was about me. She started writing the day I was born. I could not believe that she spoke English fluently. How little did I know the woman who loved me from the side-lines? She captured every little thing that I did. Her joy at my first giggle, the first time I called her Maa, and even my first steps. She wrote about her belief that I would have a better life than she ever could even though she didn’t know how. Her prayers begged her many Hindu gods to send me true love. She lived vicariously through me her entire life. What was missing from the book were all the horrible things I had said to her over the years. Her love was so pure and so strong that hatred didn’t stand a chance.

Acres of hay baled farming land rolled away as the bus made its way through Saskatchewan and into Alberta. Each passing mile transformed my broken soul into one which was loved deeply and unconditionally. I kept reading through the night, with the overhead reading lamp annoying the other sleepy souls not running from anyone. I kept reading nearly 18 years’ worth of love, with tears pouring down my face.

That was 25 years ago. Sometimes the past seems so distant, I wonder if it was ever there. I never called her after I left fearing that I would be tracked down. Years later when I contacted my aunt, she said that Maa was diagnosed with breast cancer a few weeks after that fateful night. She passed away in the blink of an eye. But that her last days were the happiest.

She died peacefully knowing that her last act had been to save me and perhaps redeem herself as a mother. She must have known she was sick the night she woke me up. She didn’t even chance to tell me in case I stayed. With her gone, I saw no reason to go back. I was never tempted to see the man who was my father. A few years later he was arrested for human trafficking for using the back of his truck to transport people. He went to jail, where he belonged.

20,000 dollars was a lot of money back in the ’90s and I made it last. I got part-time jobs to pay the bills and earned a full scholarship to University to study engineering. And that’s where I met the man of my mother’s dream. And boy did he love me. The kind which reminds you how perfectly wonderful you are. The way my mother envisioned for me- the all-encompassing, accepting, and secure love. We worked, traveled, learned how to ride a motorcycle, and even raised a family. I did everything that my father’s daughter would never be allowed to do.

On the birth of our first daughter, my husband brought me a gift- a little black book of my own. I never felt a love so deep as I did at that moment- looking at the love of my life and the little goddess in my arms. My daughter's little black book sits beside the one my Maa gave me. And on the days when I miss her kiss on my forehead, I go to my desk in the study and pull out the little black book.