tarmac in a daze.
Instead of going east to Africa where my parents lay buried, I was heading north. It was like being in a surreal film, like one of those Swedish science fiction movies my father loved to watch.
I found my seat at the back of the plane, settled in, and opened the white envelope Fartybag had given me. I was about to tuck my passport and boarding pass inside when I noticed something else. A reedy-thin beige paper stuck to one side of the envelope. I pulled it out and carefully unfolded it on my tray. It was a letter in crooked, almost illegible handwriting like a market scribe in Goa had drafted it.
I squinted to read.
Dear Miss Asha, it began.
With you gone, your grandmother will no longer be bound by the contract to the marriage broker. You are saving your entire family and especially, of course, your own dear Aunty. You are a true loyal daughter, one that your parents would have been proud of. Very much.
I stopped. Something had caught in my throat. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued reading.
I want you to know that it took me a very long time to find the perfect family for you. This was really not an easy task and it was fraught with many problems. In the end, my lead in Tanzania did not turn out. I am utterly apologetic about that.
However, I have very good news. I took all the effort to convince Mrs. Rao in Canada to take you in for a year. She wanted the best girl in India, and I said I could surely help her in that regard. Now that she said yes to taking you, you will need to show her that you are the absolute right person for the job. This means you must prove you are a very diligent worker. There will be House Rules to follow. If you break any of these Rules or if she thinks at any time that you are not the right person for the job, she will send you back.
Alas, if you return before the contract is up by the end of the year, we will no longer be able to hold off the marriage contract between you and Mr. Kristadasa. I trust that you will use the high intelligence that your esteemed parents have bequeathed you and understand the right thing to do. In any case, you must not violate the arrangement. And I know you will be a good girl.
By the end of the year, I will send you a one-way ticket for you to come back and reunite with your family. Now doesn’t that sound good?
I must warn you about one thing. Kristadasa will not be happy about the breakup of his wedding and will try his best to take revenge. Be careful of anyone asking questions. Do not speak with anyone, including the police or anyone who comes knocking on your door. Kristadasa and his men will try all kinds of trickery. Don’t talk to any strangers. You must tell anyone who asks that you are none other than Mrs. Rao’s lovely niece, an orphan, and that you are adopted by her.
Mrs. Rao is very frail, well into her age. She will be your sponsor, your family. A more wonderful woman you will never meet. She will be like a kind old aunty to you. She is, however, quite feeble, and will need all the help she can get around the house. With your abundant skills and talents, she will surely appreciate having you in her home and treat you very well, that I can assure you.
She will pay a weekly wage, which she will send directly here to Goa. I will use 40% of it to pay back the marriage broker, 40% to find that good doctor for your dear Aunty Shilpa, and put the remaining in a bank account for you in Goa so you can do whatever you want to do with it when you get back. I know for a fact that they all will appreciate your sacrifice very much, and that is all that I have to say.
God bless.
I turned the page, but all the other side had were ink blotches that had seeped through. The letter had no heading or signature, but the purple ink was unmistakable. It was the same ink Aunty Shilpa had dipped her thumb in to sign the bank account transfer documents.
I leaned back in my seat and wondered if I’d done the right thing. Fartybag’s presence at the airport troubled me. But I’d had no choice. Or had I?
I was helping Aunty Shilpa get better and was getting myself out of a horrifying future, a nightmare I didn’t even want to begin to imagine. Aunty Shilpa’s sweet face flashed to mind. Tears welled in my eyes. The plane hadn’t taken off yet and I’d already begun to miss her and Preeti, and even Grandma. I turned toward the window and cried silently, thankful no one was sitting next to me.
It took a long time to dry my eyes and sit up in my seat. Outside the window, wistful cotton clouds swam about, worry free. I watched them mindlessly, wishing I could be like them, wondering what awaited me on the other side of the ocean. I felt a stab of fear go through my heart. It was the fear of the unknown. The doubts of my decision. I took a deep breath. I could twist myself into a sniveling pretzel or I could prepare myself for my future. I took a few more deep breaths and tried to remember everything I knew about my soon-to-be new home.
The only Canadian I’d known in my entire life was Ms. Stacy from the International School of Dar es Salaam. She was friendly but didn’t talk much about her country—too busy asking everyone else about East Africa. Her host continent fascinated her.
The one day we explored Canada was the day Ms. Stacy read a book by William Parry to the class. It was the first chapter from a diary written by a man who’d traveled to the Arctic a hundred years ago. It was a story about the most remote and barren place on earth where exposed skin froze in seconds. I shivered just thinking of it.
“Hey, Ms. Stacy, do you live in an igloo?” Tanya had asked, interrupting Ms. Stacy’s reading.
“No, Miss Harding, I do not.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“We have regular homes like anywhere else.”
“Have you ever seen a polar bear?” It had been Shanti this time.
“No, Miss Brahmin, I have not.” Ms. Stacy had looked like she’d heard these questions before. She'd tried to get back to her reading, but the girls were not finished.
“Father told me Canadians eat seals for dinner,” Bethany had chimed in. “Baby seals too. Is that true?”
“Little baby seals?” Sophie had said, horrified. “That’s disgusting.” Seeing her face, I'd wondered for a moment if she felt the same about the children forced to work in her parents’ mines in Africa.
“Well,” Ms. Stacy had hesitated, “It’s certainly a traditional delicacy in certain regions, but you won’t see that at—”
“Is everyone in Canada fat?” Shanti had interrupted. “Like those Eskimos on TV.”
“The correct word is Inuit, Ms. Brahmin, not Eskimo,” Ms. Stacy had said in a firm voice, though her face was now flushed. “And we come in all sizes, like everywhere else.” She'd let out a loud sigh.
“They’re fat because they eat seal blubber,” Anne had said, giggling.
The others had joined in the laughter. These girls attacked in a pack.
“You eat seal blubber?” a boy at the back of the class had asked.
“Have you ever eaten seal heart, Ms. Stacy?” another boy had asked.
“How about a walrus?”
“Gross!”
“Fatsos!”
“Jelly belly!”
“Blubber eaters!”
The whole class had erupted. “Blubber eaters! Blubber eaters!”
“Settle down, everyone,” Ms. Stacy had said. Her plump cheeks had turned bright pink now. She'd picked up her book and begun to read the next chapter out loud, trying to drown the heckling, her voice wavering.
I folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. I was on my way to the land of icy cold winds, polar bears, and possible blubber eaters.
I wasn’t at all ready.