First stop – Toronto
“Ladies and gentlemen! We will be landing at Toronto Pearson Airport shortly,” announced a stentorian voice as the BOAC super liner from London Heathrow descended to a smooth stop. My nose was squashed against the window and my 22-year-old heart fluttered with unfamiliar emotions. I was joining my newlywed husband Sam – whom I hadn’t seen since our marriage four months ago in Madras, India.
The long immigration line stretched before me in the huge, brightly lit airport, and I felt quite insignificant. A motley crowd of people spoke multiple languages and wore assorted styles of dress. It was reassuring to see some women in saris, like me. I heard fragments of conversation in Hindi: “Chalo, aah gaye hain hum…” (Ok… we are finally here…”).
When the immigration officer with an unfamiliar accent stared at my passport and asked: “How do you say your name?” I repeated it slowly and clearly for him. I realized that my last name might prove problematic. Although my husband and many of our friends later Americanized their names, it was a part of our heritage that I wanted to preserve.
Newlywed life in a new country
Holding up my green silk sari slightly above the floor with my right hand, I walked briskly to the baggage claim area and looked for a porter to assist me. Handling two suitcases by myself was more difficult than I had anticipated. I saw everyone else grabbing the metal carts lined up against the wall, so I got one as well. My excitement and determination to succeed lifted my spirits.
Straining my eyes towards the crowd waiting outside the wide glass windows, I saw someone smiling and waving to me. It was Sam, with a couple of his friends. Gripped by sudden shyness I averted my eyes and refused to meet his gaze. We had not seen or talked to each other since our marriage, our only communication was through letters, which took forever to reach. It was like meeting a stranger. Dragging my feet, I went through the doors to meet him. Sam gave me a big hug, but I couldn’t reciprocate.
A winter’s tale
It was dark as we drove home. Brightly lit high-rise buildings stretched their spires far into the night sky. The broad highways were so different from the jumble of twisting, narrow streets in India, crowded with cars, bikes, and auto rickshaws. Snow blanketed the ground and my fingers tingled from the cold. I had naively assumed that March meant spring and warm weather – only to find out that winter extended until May in Ontario. The sweaters I had bought in India were woefully inadequate, as were my saris and canvas shoes.
“We’ll go shopping tomorrow and get you some boots, gloves, and a hat,” Sam promised, sensing my discomfort. Most Canadian women wore dresses in those days, with pantyhose and long coats to stay warm but I opted for a pair of heavy-knit pants and thick socks to ward off the chill. My beautiful saris were put away for special occasions as I began my transition to Canadian life.
A pocket-sized home
Our apartment was a tiny one-bedroom with an adjoining sitting room, a small bathroom, and a minuscule kitchen that would barely fit two people. It was on the second floor of a modest two-story house in a northern Toronto suburb, owned by an immigrant Italian couple.
Our bedside table was a large cardboard box covered with a bright-colored khadi sheet. The living room sofa was Sam’s former bed, covered with a batik cotton bedspread and several large pillows. It took us a few months to buy proper furniture.
The Italian couple spoke very little English. The landlord, a factory worker at Rothmans Cigarettes, communicated with us in broken English. The landlady spent most of her time scrubbing the floors of an already immaculate house. She was always dressed in black from head to toe, summer, and winter. I never saw a hint of color, not even a scarf. It was a stark contrast to my bright silk saris – and the vivid colors commonly worn in my community. Their two school-aged boys acted as interpreters for their mother, who spoke to them in torrential Italian. The boys spoke to each other in perfect Canadian English.
A far cry from Bangalore
The front door of this house faced a busy street and was never used. Straggly grass struggled to survive in a tiny side yard, devoid of flowers. It was a far cry from my parents’ spacious house in Bangalore, with its red tile flooring, high ceilings, and a large portico in front, with a profusion of yellow roses and red bougainvillea trailing over the compound walls. Tears pricked my eyelids.
“This is the best I can afford at the moment,” Sam explained. “I am looking for a better-paying job.” I clenched my fists and swallowed hard.
“I have to get used to this,” I thought to myself, with a momentary flash of irritation that he had not explained any of this to me in his innumerable weekly letters.
Driving to NYC for Indian groceries
I found two battered pots and pans in the kitchen – dented and pockmarked– left over from Sam’s bachelor days. There were no Indian spices or other cooking supplies. I wondered what we were going to eat.
Toronto had no Indian grocery stores or restaurants in those days – the small group of Indians who lived there took turns driving to New York City on the weekends to buy large quantities of Basmati rice, lentils, and condiments which were then shared. The next day several of Sam’s friends generously dropped off supplies so I could start cooking.
Sam had a rudimentary knowledge of cooking and taught me the basics until I mastered the finer points of Indian cooking.
Learning to navigate like a local
In the ensuing days, he showed me how to get bus tokens and ride the bus to buy groceries at Powers and Loblaws. I felt like a wide-eyed child in a toy store as I perused the shelves stocked with assorted foods that I had never seen before — milk in cardboard cartons and ham in the refrigerator aisles. I was dazzled by the different kinds of sandwich bread that were available – in India, all we had was a single brand of sliced white bread, and milk was delivered in sealed plastic bags.
Only the vegetable section was familiar to me. We came home with two brown paper bags that held enough groceries, costing about thirteen Canadian dollars, to last for at least two weeks.
He showed me how to do laundry at the coin-operated laundromat conveniently located kitty corner from our apartment. I was used to having my clothes washed by hand. This was so much easier and less labor intensive – although washing 6-yard saris in a machine was tricky. Drying them was even more problematic – they had to be folded while damp and hung up to dry in the bathroom. There was a lot to learn, but Sam was a patient teacher, which I appreciated.
Finding friends
When I joined the College of Education to get a teaching degree, I made many Canadian friends who were anxious to taste Indian food. They would often solicit invitations to dinner. I put together many meals in that tiny kitchen, using a couple of cookbooks that my mother had the foresight to pack for me. Samaithu Paar (Cook and See) and Mrs. Nayak’s Indian Recipes came in handy. I still have the original tattered copies.
We shopped at Honest Ed’s – the famous discount store in downtown Toronto frequented by many young Indian and other foreign students far from home — and bought more pots, plates, and cutlery. Soon many aromas were coming from that kitchen – the smell of cumin, cinnamon, curry, and cloves combining to tickle the palate. We ate our food in the living room, balancing our plates precariously on our laps.
Immigrants with a common goal
Our little apartment was always filled with friends, fun, and merriment, although Sam and I would sometimes worry about whether the landlady might complain about the noise.
We soon fell into a pattern of tolerance with her, and she would offer us heaping bowls of spaghetti sauce with meatballs or generous servings of lasagne, while I shared pulao and chicken curry with them. Sometimes she played Italian music on the turntable, and we listened politely, though we didn’t understand a word.
Our landlords were sorry to see us go when we moved to the US in 1970. I realized later that we were all immigrants with a common goal, trying to make a better life for ourselves and our families, in a strange new world with unfamiliar customs and ways.
