Welcome to winter

Charlie was flying home for the holidays. Return of the divorcee, she said. Back to Scarborough, so my mother can Aiyo-Ah-Nay my marital status and accuse me of putting on weight while shoving vadai down my throat.

But Priya could see Charlie was excited. Family exerted a strong pull, always. From somewhere close to the navel.

Priya said Hema and the girls could spend Christmas with her. She made the offer spontaneously, and then agonized about asking her father. One Thursday at dinner, she bided her time, waiting in vain for a good opening, then blurted out the request as they tidied up.

They shouldn’t be alone, she said, stacking dirty plates.

Priya had expected resistance or outright rejection, but what she saw on her father’s face was alarm.

The more the merrier, Rat said, rolling up his sleeves at the sink.

Priya saw her father gearing up to say something, his mouth opening and closing in mute preparation, and rushed on: They’re still shell-shocked. They won’t leave the apartment by themselves, and Charlie’s away for a week. They’ll go stir-crazy.

What do you think, Uncle? Rat asked.

Uncle was spooning leftovers into an empty yogurt container. Priya had wanted to keep him out of this, get Appa to agree on his own. Uncle addressed himself to the curry. His voice was quiet, but his words were clear: I think we must give every kindness to these people.

Rat upended the dish detergent and squeezed. It’ll be good to start some new traditions.

Last Christmas, their first without Ma, had been sombre, haunted by an empty rattle despite their best efforts to put a good face on the day.

Yes, Appa agreed. New traditions.

Uncle bagged up the leftovers he had portioned out for Priya and Rat. Mutton curry in yogurt containers. Rice and dahl in margarine tubs. Rat attacked a pot with a clump of steel wool. Appa stared at the dirty glasses in his hands as if he didn’t know what they were and Priya was pierced with an inexplicable guilt. Who came to the house, how they would celebrate – these decisions had always been her mother’s purview.

Appa? she said, putting a hand on his arm. What do you think?

In this moment, she felt ready to capitulate. If he said no, she would drop the subject without a fight. But his shoulders just slumped in surrender.

Yes, of course, he said. Tell them to come and stay the night.

—

Hema and the girls were bundled head to toe and shivering on the sidewalk when Priya pulled up a little after nine in Charlie’s borrowed car. Priya was in jeans and a sweater with the heat blasting and her coat stashed in the trunk.

Kaalai vanakkam, she said, cheery. Merry Christmas.

Such cold! Hema slammed the door shut and pressed her hands right up against the heating vent.

This is nothing, Priya said. She could see on the dashboard monitor that it was zero degrees outside. She said, It is much colder in other places. Quebec…

Hema’s expression was blank and Priya realized that, of course, she couldn’t understand. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she tried to catch the eye of one of the girls, but they busied themselves with the seat belts.

Um. Okay. Well, let’s go, she said, shifting the gearshift into drive.

It was a delicate sort of day. Dimpled clouds moved lazily across the mottled grey sky. Emptied of people and vehicles, Vancouver was a ghost town, full of a still, eerie beauty. Closed signs hung on every door.

Padmini, the younger daughter, piped up from the back seat: No people.

This is a treat, Priya said. To see the city like this…completely deserted.

Hema bobbed her head, but Priya wasn’t convinced she’d understood. The girls pressed their noses to the windows, their breath fogging the glass.

Theirs was the lone car on the wide, generous roads. On the Burrard Bridge, bracketed by English Bay on one side and False Creek on the other, Priya had the urge to drive in the centre, straddle her tires over the yellow line, and speed down the straightaway, watching the silent towers of the city recede fast in the rear-view mirror.

She was beset by a flurry of nerves, remorseful for how they’d all ganged up on Appa. Why had she forced this on him? She could have taken Hema and the girls out last night or even tomorrow, to gawk at the light displays downtown, the enormous tree at the convention centre. Language was an issue, sure, but they would have muddled along.

The snow began as they sailed down Broadway. Fat white flakes splatting on the windows.

Oh! Tara said, her hand on the glass.

Snow, Priya said, turning on the wipers. It’s snow.

On Christmas morning. Magic! Priya had barely pulled up the parking brake at her father’s house before the doors were flung open and the girls tumbled out. Padmini grabbed a naked handful then yelped, dropping the snow and rubbing her hand up and down fast on her coat.

Welcome to winter, Priya said.

Her family was squeezed into the doorway.

Appa, this is Hema, Tara, and Padmini, Priya said.

When Appa greeted them in Tamil, their eyes lit up. But then Rat stepped forward to usher them in and Appa retreated with his head down.

Come, come, Uncle said in Tamil. Shall we have tea? Pittu? Soon, he and Hema were chatting away in the living room while Tara and Padmini marvelled at the Christmas tree.

Priya found her father hiding in the kitchen. Appa, why don’t you join us? She tilted her head in the direction of the living room.

Go, Rat said, tying on an apron. I got this.

No, no, Appa said. Must help Michael with the turkey. He gamely reached his hand into the bird to pull out the giblets, avoiding Priya’s eyes.

—

Around noon, there was a break in the snowfall and Rat said they should take advantage before it resumed. The house had begun to feel claustrophobic with her father so awkwardly cloistered in the kitchen, and Priya was relieved to go outside.

They went to the park, everyone trudging single file, tamping down the snow on the unploughed sidewalk. Hema wore Ma’s old boots and heavy-duty shovelling gloves. Tara and Padmini were kitted out in Priya and Rat’s castoffs – snow pants they had outgrown, ski mitts they’d forgotten.

As they were leaving, Hema had asked Priya’s father a question and he had answered quickly, then made an excuse to duck back into the house.

Now do you see what I mean? Priya whispered, tugging on Rat’s arm as they plodded through the snow. I told you something was off. They walked close together, Priya behind him, bringing up the rear.

Yeah, Rat said, slowing down to let the gap between them and the others widen. But it’s weird. He was agreeable enough last week.

Come on! We basically forced his hand. Priya watched her father, keeping his distance from the others, head down, shoulders shrugged up, the bottom of his woollen cap brushing the collar of his coat.

That’s not what happened, Rat said. After you left, he asked if we thought turkey was okay, if they would like it or if we should also have rice and curry. And he got up early this morning to make pittu.

Priya hadn’t known her father could operate the pittu maker. She pictured him layering rice flour and coconut flakes and setting it to steam over boiling water, Ma’s cookery book at his elbow.

I assumed that was Uncle’s doing, Priya said.

Nope, Rat said. We came down and he said, See what Santa has brought. Presents and pittu!

They arrived to find the park buried under several inches of virginal snow. Pine needles hung down, burdened under the weight.

Perfect snowman weather, Uncle said, using the English word snowman and demonstrating three stacking balls with his hands.

Breaking away from the group, Appa made his way to the swing set and Priya followed. She wanted to ask him what was going on but couldn’t find the words, and instead said: Appa, why Canada?

Why Canada? he repeated. Why not Canada? It was the films.

Priya swung back and forth, her boots anchored to the ground. The tassels of her scarf pooled in her lap.

Your mother and I, we used to go to the cinema, he said. As often as we could afford. We liked the lumberjacks.

Priya snorted. This was so unlike her father, the man who meticulously read online reviews before buying a new toaster.

What did we know? I was a child during the ’58 riots. They took the priest in Panadura, doused him in petrol, and set the bugger on fire. From an early age, I knew I had to go. Your mother and I, at the first opportunity, as soon as we had done our studies and passed out, we went to the embassy.

Priya watched her brother, knees bent and hunched over, pushing a giant ball of snow. She had in her possession only a foggy timeline of the civil war. Her parents had grown up in Colombo with city-wide curfews (If teachers caught us out after dark, they’d box our ears), but there had also been discos on the beach, parties that raged until dawn, intermarriages and close friendships between Tamils and Sinhalese. Her parents had left in ’77, before the worst of it. The riots in the fifties were child’s play compared with what happened in ’83. Black July. We had a near miss, Ma used to say.

Hema and Tara were working on a snowball of their own while Uncle showed Padmini how to pack snow, turning it around in her hands until it formed a neat globe. He threw his (splat!) at a tree trunk and Padmini flung hers at her sister’s face. Tara was shocked, snow in a Rorschach across her nose. Then she burst out laughing.

Now that’s a nice sound, Priya’s father said.

Thank you, Appa. Thank you for letting them spend today with us.

Tara went after Padmini, flinging snow and shrieking in Tamil. Padmini raced away, hands on her head. The snow made them awkward. It was like watching a chase in slow motion. Everyone cracked up.

Priya thought of her other clients, still trapped in prison. Even if they weren’t Christian, they knew what the day meant, that all over the country people were celebrating with their families.

I read the article your people wrote, her father said.

It took Priya a moment to realize he meant the open letter Prasad had penned on behalf of the refugees. It had run on page three of the Globe and Mail, surrounded by holiday fluff pieces. Priya hoped its publication on Christmas Eve would inspire generosity.

Appa gestured to Tara and Padmini tussling in the snow and said, This is a good thing you have done.

He sounded so sincere, it made Priya want to tell him about the others, about Mahindan being separated from his son. Tomorrow, she would fill in for Charlie and take Sellian for his weekly visit. It would be the first time she went for a non-work duty, and she was dreading it – the gloom that infected her at every prison visit, the relief and guilt she felt when their time was up, all of it intensified by Sellian’s cries on the return journey.

Uncle was waving a hand, urging the girls to come back, he’d show them how to make a snow fort. He used the English word for snow and the Tamil word for fort.

There was a man called Subramaniam, Appa said. A friend of my father’s who used to come to the house. He was a civil engineer, U.K. educated, very Westernized. He taught us to eat with forks and spoons. Mr. Subramaniam was the one who showed me how to knot a tie. My father didn’t even own a suit.

Where is he now?

Priya had never heard of this person before and hoped her father would talk and talk, that his words would drown out the melancholy that had descended when she’d started thinking about Mahindan and Sellian.

But Appa stared straight ahead without speaking. The snowman was nearly finished and everyone had gathered around to watch Rat and Hema struggle the head into place. Tara had two sticks that would become the arms. Uncle held up a point-and-shoot camera, his mittens clamped under an armpit.

Mr. Subramaniam used to tell me: This country is no good. After Black July, they chased him away, back to Jaffna. My parents used to give charity to the temple – clothes, money – for the people who had really lost everything. The last time they saw him, he was drinking. The looters, they broke his son’s hands. To hear that he had been brought so low, wearing my father’s old cricket shirts…

Priya felt nothing, an empty void where pity should have been. Her clients had sapped all of it. She had nothing left for a man she did not know.

Hey! Rat called. You two layabouts!

Uncle waved the camera at them. Group photo!

Priya’s father patted her shoulder and stood. Come, he said. It’s Christmas. Enough of this sad-sad talk.