A Convergence of Solitudes

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EDITION

© 2022 by Anita Anand

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RIGHTS

RESERVED

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: A convergence of solitudes : a novel / Anita Anand.

Names: Anand, Anita, 1962- author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210367210 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210367245

ISBN

9781771667449 (softcover)

ISBN

9781771667456 (

EPUB

)

ISBN

9781771667463 (

PDF

)

Subjects:

LCGFT

: Novels.

Classification:

LCC

PS

8601.

N

28

C

66 2022 |

DDC

C

813/.6 — dc23

The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Book*hug Press also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Book Fund.

Book*hug Press acknowledges that the land on which we operate is the traditional territory of many nations, including the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnabeg, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee, and the Wendat peoples. We recognize the enduring presence of many diverse First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples and are grateful for the opportunity to meet, work, and learn on this territory.

for my mother, Kailash Anand

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Disque 1

Face A

1. Prélude: Six solitudes (instrumental)

2. Samskara: Suite en quatre mouvements (Suite in Four Movements)

i. Aux quatre vents (In All Directions)

ii. La fuite (The Escape)

iii. Neige folle (Crazy Snow)

iv. Kermesse (A Celebration)

3. Un jour, un voyage (One Day, a Journey)

4. Je me souviens (I Remember)

Face B

5. Rêves d’indépendance (Dreams of Independence)

6. Va-et-vient (Come and Go)

7. Chercher un ami (Looking for a Friend)

8. Partita: Deux coeurs et cinq rivières (Two Hearts and Five Rivers)

Disque 2

Face C

1. Shakti: Sonate en quatre mouvements (Sonata in Four Movements)

i. Se retrouver (Finding Yourself/Meeting Again)

ii. Enfants sans nom (Nameless Children)

iii. Le miroir (The Mirror)

iv. Ciel indigo (Indigo Sky)

2. Chimérique (Quixotic)

3. Courir ensemble (Running Together)

4. Un jour, un voyage (One Day, a Journey — reprise)

Face D

5. La chanson de Saraswati (Saraswati’s Song)

6. Le pays qu’on choisit (The Country We Choose)

7. Feu de joie (Bonfire)

8. Une convergence de solitudes (A Convergence of Solitudes)

9. Coda: Le rythme des marées (The Rhythm of the Tides)

Acknowledgements

Colophon

About the Author

Disque 1

Face A

1. Prélude: Six solitudes (instrumental)

1996

"Sunil, what have you done with my keys?"

Hima’s voice reached Sunil in their bedroom, where he was getting dressed. He gazed around, spotted her change purse and opened it. The silk lining was torn, which made a new pocket just big enough to slide a finger inside.

He froze as he felt something like two tiny metal buttons. The bugs! So this was where they’d been all along.

He did not want this to be true.

His finger pressed against one of them, pushed it up through the lining, pulled it out. Relief swept through him. An earring, a small, glittering diamond. He put his finger back in and pulled out the other one.

Hima appeared in the doorway. Sunil gave her a sheepish smile.

Your jewels, Madam, he said.

She shook her head and disappeared from the doorway. Before the front door shut she called back that she was taking his keys.

And if I want to go out? He did not much enjoy being alone with his thoughts. They could be so treacherous. An idea came to him. He’d call Rani. He brightened at the thought of an excuse to spend time with his daughter.

On the bus returning from the airport, Mélanie glanced at her mother, fast asleep across the aisle. Someone had left a copy of the Montreal Gazette on the seat beside her. Mélanie reached over, picked it up and began flipping through the pages. The Letters page. Surprise, surprise. A Gazette reader had more to say about the former premier’s infamous declaration — blaming the loss of the referendum on l’argent et le vote ethnique. She counted on her fingers. That was almost six months ago. God. Time to move on!

But she was one to talk. Until very recently, she’d spent all her time scouring newspapers from two decades ago. Way too distracted to pay attention to anything happening around her. Her father would be heartbroken. He’d be livid if he knew she’d basically ignored the last referendum. She didn’t care. Yes, she did. Maybe her old self wouldn’t have. Poor Serge. The tug of regret combining with shock as she recognized Sunil Roshan’s face on the Obituary page.

Jane stood with her back to the wind. She held the line in her left hand, and lifted the kite she’d painted in the other. There were people walking by in the park, mostly people with dogs. She felt their stares. She was alone, and enjoying herself, and this would always be considered odd. This was the first time she’d ever taken one of her paintings outside. A swirl of vibrant colours. It was the first warm day of spring. There were still patches of snow mixed with gravel on the field. Her last kite had been a giant fleur-de-lys, guaranteed to keep strangers and their small talk away in this Anglophone neighbourhood. As she let the wind catch the kite, she wondered why she had never done this simple activity with Mélanie when she was a child. The top lit by the sun now. The pull of the kite, its strength always surprising.

Hima was re-learning. Needing to wear warm socks at night. Waking up to an empty bed, eating breakfast alone. At the grocery store now, training herself not to fill her cart with food she’d enjoyed with Sunil. The cashier was the woman from two buildings over who had suddenly started talking to Hima when she’d returned alone from the hospital. She’d noticed the ambulance.

I feel so bad for you, this woman was saying as she placed Hima’s items in a bag. It was the same for me. Such a shock. Some wives are more prepared for the death of their spouses. They get to witness a slow decline.

The implication being that those wives were the lucky ones. What is lucky about having to look after a sick person? Hima felt impatience for this woman, and cut her off, shaking her head and waving her hand in her face. She walked down the slope to their — her — apartment, with careful, heavy steps to avoid slipping on the black ice. Irritable now, the cashier’s words still in her head, causing trouble. Her legs wide apart, shifting the weight of the bag in her arms. A slow decline.

It was a shock, yes, of course it was, but her life had not been stable for a long time, always up and down. As she turned the key in the lock and entered the front hall, she prepared for the stillness that would greet her. She was horribly lonely, but she had been lonely for a while. It was just a matter of degree.

The gob of phlegm in his bathroom sink. His bedroom blinds askew.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, the cutlery drawer pulled halfway open. Funny, Serge hadn’t noticed any of this when he came home last night. A remnant of a dream, a baboon with its lower lip out in a pout, the sight of the open drawer resonating now. Other signs gradually registering as he prepared coffee: yesterday’s newspaper on the kitchen table, and not in the magazine rack. Fingerprints — blue ones! — on the surface of the stove, a ball of pasta in the garbage, a saucepan and a plate with remnants of the same noodles in the dishwasher. Imagine: explaining to a journalist that he always washed his dishes by hand, a changed man now. Really.

Fastidious about keeping the blinds straight.

Yes, really.

That gob of mucus in the sink is not mine.

His heart leaping, falling, much too heavily, like blows but from inside his chest. Hope, followed by the abject fear of it. A memory of Mélanie’s face, contorted with bitterness, spilling and slurring, that last time she was here. Serge, she’d said, instead of Papa. Where was she? Close? Eyes darting around the room, but no, of course she was not hiding in a corner of the kitchen.

A possibility, though, of forgiveness? Of starting over, like in a brand-new country, tabula rasa. The excitement pressed against his ribs, wrapped his stomach in this hard, frozen soreness. Must calm down. Up the stairs to his bedroom. His heart still pounding. But a slow climb, like an old, old man.

Facing the framed picture of Shiva on his bedroom wall now, slow inhale, exhale, dropping to the maple floor, crossing his ankles to land in the lotus position. Half-closed eyes, preparing to receive whatever the universe was planning to send his way.

On the way to Hima’s apartment, Rani tried not to think about the last time she had been on her bicycle — her heart pounding, her head buzzing with a kind of manic energy. Rob believed she was grieving normally. Even if she told him what she had been up to that night, he would have just blamed it on the pills. But she would keep this story to herself. She imagined Mélanie saying, in an aggrieved tone, At least you know who your parents are. You can always say ‘I’m like that because of my father.’

Was she like Sunil?

Is this how it starts?

2. Samskara: Suite en quatre mouvements (Suite in Four Movements)

i. Aux quatre vents (In All Directions)

1975

The school pictures had arrived and were handed out. The same photographer did the rounds of all the schools Rani had attended. You took the pictures home and returned with money if your parents agreed to buy them. Some parents couldn’t afford them. Others, like Rani’s, could but objected to spending the money, didn’t even bother to take the pictures out of the plastic sleeves.

Do you want a class picture, Rani? the teacher asked. I have an extra copy.

Rani accepted it, and remained seated, studying her new classmates’ faces, silently matching names to each. The fifth time she’d changed schools. Would she even be here for grade seven? Some of the kids stood up at their desks, shouting, gleefully pointing out each other’s stunned stares and dorky smiles.

Such a relief to have arrived at this particular school only last week, too late for Picture Day. This year there would be no moment of mortification and shame as her eyes fell on the shit-stain in the bottom row.

Rani was itchy. And the blouse was not just uncomfortable: it was weird, bright purple with a lot of fussy gold embroidery and little round mirrors sewn into it. It had come in a parcel from her mother’s family that Uncle Krishen and Aunt Thérèse had carried back from India. Hima had made her wear it to school, and now to visit their relatives, insisting that her aunt Thérèse would love to see her wearing it.

Well, yeah, she was right about that.

Que c’est joli! Venez ici, mes amours. Venez voir la belle blouse de votre cousine.

Rani’s young cousins came running over — they looked so much like two pairs of twins — and here was the familiar rush of pure envy. None of them had to be alone at school in strange clothes covered in little mirrors. But as Thérèse continued to compliment her blouse, Rani relaxed, and even stopped itching. She noticed something: unlike her mother, Matante Thérèse genuinely seemed to enjoy children.

Rani’s aunt was a hippie, and apart from children, what she loved the most in the world was everything that was Indian. She outlined her green eyes in kohl, wore a nose ring, dressed in brightly patterned salwar kameez. Today, even ankle bracelets. The house was full of incense, Indian cushions and rugs, sitar music. Thérèse was the opposite of all the other white people Rani had ever met. She’d even married Uncle Krishen, whom she called Balamji, Chéri and Beloved Husband. Rani’s cousins looked vaguely like their father but with lighter skin. The girls’ hair was in French braids, and the boys had Beatles haircuts. This afternoon, dressed in matching wine-coloured jumpsuits their mother had knit, they looked like a children’s rock group. Chattering together in French. Rani forced herself to join the conversation now and then, even when she had nothing much to say. She knew her cousins had no idea how happy she was in this alternate language reality, where she sang Au clair de la lune, chanted Violette à bicyclette and learned the French names of flowers, berries and insects. It was like one long game she knew was too childish for her; at twelve, she was too old. But, still, she sang and ran around in the woods behind their house with them, greedily absorbing their language, enjoying this break from the rest of her life.

The school bell rang, breaking the silence. Friday, finally. Rani watched her classmates jump out of their seats, cheering, forming pairs and little groups as they went outside together. One girl was saying to another, I have a lot of new friends because of Hebrew School but I hate them all. If only this girl could somehow trim those excess friendships from herself and glue them onto Rani. Rani took her time packing her school bag, zipping up her coat. The important thing was that nobody should notice that she was alone. Maybe someone was waiting for her after school, a friend; nobody would know yet that this would be impossible.

When the voices had faded from the schoolyard, she walked toward the main doors, by the principal’s office, rather than the side doors that the kids were supposed to use. She could probably stay in the building until after dark if she liked. She’d never get in trouble; it was as if she were invisible, as if she were the one who was colourless. She opened the door slowly and peered out. She didn’t see anyone there. Nobody left to chase her down the street shouting things.

She resumed the daydream that played like a never-­ending

TV

series in her head. Her name was Samantha; her sister’s, Stacey. Their mother stayed at home, made normal, odourless food, and each kind of food fit cleanly into a section on their plates. Her eyes were green, Stacey’s blue. They had to be careful about sunburn.

Rani, Uncle Krishen said, following her as she stepped off her bicycle and walked it to the back of his house. I have a favour to ask of you.

Sure!

Just speak English when you’re here.

Oh! Rani said. Her heart sank. She looked at her uncle’s handsome face. The habitual teasing expression wasn’t there.

I always speak to you in English, she said, propping her bike up against a tree.

And that works, right?

What? Yes, of course. Rani normally enjoyed their conversations. Maybe because she was older than his kids, he talked to her almost as if she were an adult herself. He was younger than her parents and, although he had immigrated here after they had, he seemed less foreign, better adapted.

So just speak English to your cousins, all right?

But they always speak French.

That’s the problem.

Speaking French is a problem?

I want to put them in English school.

Why?

To broaden their horizons.

Rani felt dismayed. She liked spending time in their alternative reality. Anyway —

I wish I could go to French school.

Why would you want to change again? he asked. You’re always complaining about changing schools.

Now this was really disappointing! If she talked to him, it was because she’d imagined he was somehow on her side.

Anyway, you’re not allowed to go to French school, Krishen said. You have to be baptized.

Why are your kids baptized? Rani said, repeating something she’d heard her parents say. You’re not Catholic.

Krishen shrugged. For Thérèse. It wasn’t about religion. Actually, it was so we could send them to French school. But I’ve changed my mind.

What about her? Rani felt a pang for her aunt.

So I can speak French to my aunt? It seemed to Rani that Matante Thérèse would appreciate her efforts.

Krishen waved his right hand dismissively. He said something in Punjabi that she couldn’t understand and walked into the house.

Libellule. Pomme d’api. Martin pêcheur. There were so many words that Rani learned from Matante Thérèse that she had never learned in English. Her aunt had made a pie with the mûres they had all picked that morning. She had explained how to tell them apart from the poisonous berries. She put the pie on a lace doily and asked the kids to go pick some flowers to make a beau bouquet for the picnic table. The kids went running off in all directions, aux quatre vents.

Rani’s cousins gave her a doubtful look as they all arrived back at the table.

She looked down at her flowers, which were not neat and pretty like theirs. The ends were scraggly and full of dirt.

Who told you to pull the flowers up by their roots? they asked her, one after another.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know. She could not admit that she, their older cousin, had never learned how to pick flowers.

"I didn’t come here from India so that my daughter would go shit in the woods," roared Sunil.

Rani wondered if her older brothers had ever wanted to go to camp. They probably wouldn’t remember, if she asked them. She wasn’t really surprised to be turned down. And who knew if camp was really the answer? The children there would probably all know each other. It would be like school.

Sunil, said Hima. Watch your language. She said this in their own language, but Rani understood.

What an idea, though, said Sunil. We don’t earn salaries so our kids can sleep outside!

Rani did not tell her parents the reasons she wanted to go to camp, the embarrassment she kept experiencing at her cousins’ house. There was something wrong with the way she was growing up. She thought of her science teacher talking about how animals adapted to their environment. Well, it wasn’t very adaptive to be going to an English school in a place where most people spoke French. And her parents really didn’t know anything about their environment, beginning with the names of insects. Her parents called all insects flies.

It wasn’t their fault. They were from the other side of the planet.

They’d sent her older brothers to boarding school, so maybe camp had never come up.

But her father’s answer rankled all the same. What salary was he referring to? He hadn’t worked in years.

At her cousins’ house, watching them from the entrance to their playroom, not sure where to stand. She was almost a teenager, only a few years older, but a lifetime in child years. She wandered over to the living room, where Thérèse was fiddling with the

TV

channels before settling on a concert.

What was this music? A thrill went through Rani from the first few notes. The beginning of the melody, the guitar and bass, and then this voice, the voice of a man who sounded like he was about to start crying. In French. But French from right here, not France. She dropped down next to her aunt on the sofa. At home, nobody ever thought of switching to a French channel. Words at the bottom of the screen named this revelation: Sensibilité. She whispered the syllables to herself.

The lead singer was smiling, but he had the saddest eyes ever. And a strange kind of beauty, like Jesus, all skin and bones, long hair, wispy beard and loose floppy clothing. Probably exactly the kind of charisma that Jesus must have had. The warm smile he wore was even more beautiful because of those eyes, with their dark circles, and that voice, so naked and raw, as if he was in pain. Love, his face said, love for the people. The music moved from a simple folk melody to a rising, crazy, emotional, symphonic climax, singers from other bands joining him on the stage, creating an instant choir.

The man with the vulnerable voice kept smiling as he sang, and the smile was so big and kind that she began to fantasize that it was for her, that he was smiling at her through the

TV

screen. But of course, it was for Québec, for l’indépendance, for le pays; he was shouting now and the people in the audience were whistling back at him like a huge flock of ecstatic birds. This was all about a dream, a dream of a beautiful country where they would be free. She wished she could be in that audience, warmed by that loving smile.

Rani was wheeling her bike out of the garage when her father came out and put his hand up to stop her. Her mother’s head appeared in the window. She called his name, and they began speaking a mixture of Punjabi and English.

He turned back to Rani and gave her an apologetic look.

What? said Rani.

This weekend isn’t a good time to go see your cousins.

Why?

Well, you see, the family is splitting up.

What? Couples split up. She had never heard of families splitting up.

Oh, you know. They had all those fights . . .

Uncle and Matante Thérèse did? Rani thought guiltily of the last time she had spoken to Uncle Krishen.

The whole family. The girls sided with your uncle, the boys with their aunt. So now your aunt is leaving with the boys. The girls have decided to stay with their dad.

Rani was stunned. She thought everything in that family was so much better than hers. And now it was cracking down the middle?

Fights about what?

"Ah, I think stupid things. You must have heard . . .

TV

channels, schools, French-English stuff."

ii. La fuite (The Escape)

1977

She turned and asked why they were following her, and they repeated her question back, but with an Indian accent. She felt humiliated and angry. She didn’t sound like that. They laughed nastily, frightening her. They were coming up to the strip mall. She could cut into the record store. Or would they follow her inside? No. She went to the back and absorbed herself in studying the liner notes on a Sensibilité album. Her eyes fell on the lyrics to a song called Fuite— escape — and someone, maybe Serge Giglio himself, had written in swirly handwriting above the typed lines that this song in particular was Pour toi, mon amour. She read and reread those four words, her heart beating loud in her chest, from excitement now, not from fear.

A tinkle as the door opened. She glanced up. Shit, they were here. Not moving, just lurking in the doorway. But a store employee was walking toward her now, smiling, asking her in French if she wanted to listen to the album. She said she would love to. A rush of joy, just to be speaking French. Since Matante Thérèse had left her uncle, she’d keenly missed their conversations.

Of course, she had the album. She listened to it all the time. She had all of their albums. But she accepted the headphones offered to her. They cushioned her ears, wrapped her in the warm sound, blocked everything else out. It was like she’d accepted a new head, one in which only music played. She turned and faced the back of the store, let herself be absorbed by the sounds of Serge’s twelve-string guitar, let the bass hum through her body, here was Serge’s soothing voice now.

Dusk by the time she left. Purple sky, a bit of fuzzy light from the baseball park across the street. Nobody waiting for her. She supposed they’d heard her having a conversation with the guy in the store in French, about a French record. Disconcerting for them, almost as if she’d performed a magic trick.

Hima was exhausted. Chopping onions, ginger, garlic. Making dough for the chapatis. Sunil was always there with her, but he was exhausting too, in his own way. Their daughter said they should just order pizza or something, like other people. She claimed that fried onions and cumin seeds gave her indigestion. Difficult girl. Who exactly did she think she was? The boys had always been too hungry to complain. They wolfed down anything. No fuss.

Why should we order pizza? Hima said. Are we Italian?

No, said Rani.

And are we just ‘other people’? Sunil said.

No, of course not, Rani said.

Hima picked up on the sarcasm, was pretty sure Sunil missed it. No, of course we’re extraordinary, especially you. But for Hima the issue was different. As a daughter, Rani should be helping prepare the meals with them. She should be helping, period. And she should learn to cook food from her own culture. Otherwise, what was she? She pictured two wavy dashes: approximately equal. This was followed by a minus sign.

Why do you spend so much time listening to music in your bedroom? asked Sunil. His eyes showed genuine concern. Is something wrong?

Why would something be wrong?

It’s just, beti, it can’t be healthy!

Hima saw that Rani was rolling her eyes now.

And what is this French music you are always listening to? Hima said.

It’s Québécois, said Rani. It’s from here.

Québécois, repeated Hima. You are Parti Québécois now?

All we need, she continued, when Rani didn’t answer, but then stopped. She saw, in her husband’s expression, that he was far away. She reached out and touched his shoulder. Come back here, you.

And then, to Hima’s amazement, the girl was at the door, putting her coat on, walking outside. The gall. All this cooking, and she wouldn’t even deign to eat with them.

Hey, where do you think you are going? Hima said.

I feel like riding my bike.

She feels like. Hima felt dismayed.

She turned to her husband, who was just smiling benignly now. Aren’t you going to do something?

Ah, at least she is not spending the whole day in her bedroom, said Sunil.

Sunil picked up the giant plastic bag from the floor of the bedroom