Her White Christmas
Pratap Reddy
Wearing a thin, hand-knitted cardigan over her crumpled sari, Prema Sudhakar looks all of her sixty-odd years. It’s late in the evening as she anxiously scans the collage of unfamiliar faces besieging her in the foyer of Pearson airport.  A young south Asian male enters the terminal, but noting his beard her glance slides past him. But the stranger walks right up to her.
– Hi, Mom, he says.
– Shyam! I didn’t recognise you!
– Have you been waiting for long, Mom?
Relief floods over Prema, moistening her eyes.
– No, only a few minutes. Where’s Shilpa?
– She’s at work.
– In her condition, she shouldn’t be going to work, Shyam.
– Mom, things are different in Canada.
Shyam takes charge of the luggage and they proceed to the parking lot. Out in the open, Prema shivers.
– You’ll need warmer clothes, Mom. Snow is expected next week.
– Do you think I’ll get to see a white Christmas?
– I’m sure you’ll have your wish. The two winters I’ve seen were pretty bad.
– Will I be able to see the Aurora Borealis, too?
– Idiot! To think that your mother was a Geography teacher!
– By the way, how’s Anu?
Anu is his sister who, as of now, is living along with her husband in Austria in an unpronounceable town on the Danube. They are both artists and have a habit of washing up in the unlikeliest of towns in the world.
– Shyam, it’s you who ought to be telling me how Anu is. She’s your little sister and she lives abroad like you.
– Maybe, Mom, but Europe is pretty far away from Canada. At the moment, we cannot afford to visit her.
Haze hangs like a giant’s breath over the city. They seem to be driving forever, tailing a never-ending procession of red lights. The car slows as they enter the street where Shyam lives. In the thickening dusk all the houses look alike in their drabness, pinpricks of light oozing out from within.
Shyam stops the car and steps out to open the car-door for his mother.
– Welcome to Canada, Mom!
Prema trembles as a gust of polar wind washes over. She follows her son, her shoes scrunching over fallen leaves. They enter a narrow row-house, one of many pressed together like slices in a loaf. Inside, an enormous staircase fills the hallway.
Prema sits down on a stool, and unbuckles her shoes.
– Mom, you relax in the living room while I fetch your suitcases.
Prema chooses to potter around the house: a few spartan and mismatched pieces of furniture – procured exclusively from garage-sales – are deployed here and there. On the kitchen countertop there are a pile of flyers and two unopened envelopes addressed to a Jojo Mbele.
The glass front-door closes with a crash. Shyam comes in, lugging two enormous suitcases.
– Mom, would you like to have dinner?
– I’m full, I had something called Asian vegetarian meal on the plane, she says, pulling a face.
Shyam unearths a packet of frozen rotis and a dish of leftover curry from the fridge. While he’s heating them, Prema, who has already nosed around the kitchen, sets the table.
When he finishes his dinner, Shyam roots out a card from a kitchen drawer.
– Let’s call Dad, he says.
He punches in a long series of numbers, frequently peering at the card. He disconnects, and dials again. He does this repeatedly while Prema regards him like an implacable deity.
– We use a card to call India. It’s much cheaper.
– I’m not surprised, says Prema.
– It’s ringing! Hi, Dad! I’m good. How are you? …Mom, talk to Dad.
– Hello! I’m fine…I guess she must be OK, she has gone to work…yeah, you’ve heard it right. Is the maid coming to work every day?…I know it’s only a day since I left India…Goodnight…Yes, it’s night here…Goodbye!
– Mom, you must be tired. May I show you to your room? It’s on the second floor.
– I’ll wait for Shilpa.
– It will be midnight when she returns.
– I don’t mind. How does she come back?
– I pick her up from the factory.
– No wonder you look so thin and tired. By the way, the beard doesn’t suit you.
– I knew you’d say that, Mom. I’d like to go to my room now. I’ve had a long day.
– Suit yourself. I’ll watch TV until Shilpa …
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