Men only want to sleeping, sleeping, sleeping

A hot Italian sausage , please.

Yes, she says.

How old your baby? She asks, flipping the sausage on the grill.

One. I say.

I want babies too. But difficult to find a nice man, you know. Men only want to sleeping, sleeping with woman. Sleeping, you know. Just sleeping and that's it. No good.

Yes, I say. Only have babies with nice man.

Yes, she say. I want with nice man.

Where you from? she says.

India, I say.

Aah, I am thinking Italian, she says. You are looking , from Italian.

Where are you from? I ask

Turkey. (pronounced (toorkey, in a very turkeyish accent). You know Turkey?

Yes, I say.
She smiles.

I get my passport, then I go home, She says.

Passport? I say. Oh, Citizenship?

Ya, shes says, citizen. Then I go back. Here, no life. Turkey, very good. Here, too much work, work work. everything rush , rush. And tax. Too much tax. Tax, tax, tax.

I, no like here.

Have you applied for citizenship? I ask.

Yes, she says. One year and 5 months more, she says.

She is counting.

Here, your hot dog. You enjoy.

You look good. Like Italian. Good with baby.

Thank you, I say. Grin, grin.

Well, good luck, I say. Adding relishes to the hot dog.

I will see you again. Ketchup and Mustard.

Ya, she says. Nice to talk to you.

Bye.

Conversation with a hot dog vendor from Turkey, outside Union station in Toronto. 1.30 pm , Monday afternoon.

She belives men mostly just want to sleep around, Canada has way too much taxation, and that someone who looks incredibly Indian can also look Italian.

The Procelain Doll

So, I'm not really into porcelain dolls. I think they look beautiful and all that, but I have never bought one or would. Too pink and pretty, and too figurine for me. Too collectibles item.

But I did get one home with me the other day. Pink and pretty and figurine.

But this one I shall keep. Because this one has a story.

And as much as I might not like porcelain dolls, I love stories . Especially the ones that happen to me . And have real people in them.


Tuesday afternoon. Close to 4 pm. My one year old is being what a one year old will be, on some days. A difficult one year old. Refusing to play, or sleep, or sit in the stroller to go to the park. Doesn't mind being carried around, so I put her in my sling, and set out for a walk. I plan to walk around downtown, maybe browse the drugstore, try on some nailpaint, or walk into an art gallery, or a random store that looks interesting enough.


So as I'm turning the corner around my condo, I notice the store that's right there. It's always been a bit of a favorite of mine. I haven't really ever bought anything from there, except a small furry , very life like, kitten which goes "Meow, I love you" when you press a button. Enough to entertain a one year old . For a dollar.


So anyway, this store has always been nice to browse through. First off, it was always absolutely packed with stuff. Packed , as in shelf to shelf, wall to wall. All kinds of stuff. Curios, mostly. Figurines. Lamps. Some nice, some hideous. Paintings. Prints. Incense. Key chains. Tin soldiers. Toy airplanes. African masks. Calendars. Just knick knacks and more knick knacks and even more knick knacks.

And a large selection of porcelain dolls.

So on some lazy afternoons, I would grab myself a coffee and just browse the store. Talking to the Chinese owner. Looking at knick knacks. Smiling to myself over some hideous looking lamp.

And if I was really in a mood, I would name the dolls.


The other thing that always caught my attention about this store was the fact that for the last 4 years , there has always been a sign on the door. "Closing Sale. Everything Must Go". Now, that is a gimmick that some store owners use to attract bargain seekers, especially around downtown. But sometimes it really does mean that store is shutting down and they are trying to get rid of the inventory.

For 4 years, I kid you not, the sign was always on the door. And the door was always open for business. And the store never shut down.


Till the last Tuesday when I walked by. Which is what piqued my interest. There was again a sign. It read. "Store shut down. Everything must Go. " And next to it was a very legal looking, stamped document stating something like non payment of rent etc.

And although, the store was open for business, it was almost bare. Almost everything had been sold. Just a few knick knacks here and there. Few customers grabbing the last day bargains. The Chinese owner was gone. The store was really shutting down. That day.

And here I was, just by accident, standing at its door, for what would be probably the last time. So , I walked in. It seemed momentous enough an event for me. I like romanticising things, you see. For one last time, I would walk around, browse and just spend another lazy afternoon here.

And as looked around, I saw a few knick knacks that I have always spotted when I used to browse here. A few painting that I remembered seeing. Lamps, the hideous ones. And a few porcelain dolls. With their pretty dresses.


So, anyway , that is the background to what followed.


As I walked around with my daugher slung on my hip, this lady walks up to us, also carrying a little baby girl. Mothers attract mothers.

Reasonably tall, 5'7 , I should say. Hair tightly pulled back in a bun. Very neat, not a hair out of place. Fair skinned. Not Caucasian. Wearing a summery reddish pinkish, clingy knee length dress. Bit of a tummy. Post pregnancy sort of bulge. Curvaceous, full bodied figure. Light eyes. Against her fair skin, you noticed them. Light eyes.


She walked over and smiled. We said our hello's. She asked how old my daughter was. I answered and asked about hers. Mom talk.

We told each other how cute the other's child was and how hard somes days can be and teething issues and all that. I didn't mind. She was an eager first time mom and she was pleasant.

Then she turned aorund and said something to the man at the cash register. Which is when I figured she wasn't browsing through. Turns out she was married to the guy at the cash register. Who was also the guy in charge of the foreclosure of the store.

She told me the owner could not pay the rent and hence the store had to be foreclosed. Hmm, I said , "too bad'.


As she continued talking, I wondered where she was from. I figured , probably Spanish or somewhere in Eastern Europe.

See, I am curious about stuff like that. Especially being in a city like Toronto. Because mostly everyone in this sity is originally from somewhere.

This city hands you multiculturalism on a platter. And then some more. You never know who you will meet, from which end of the world. So I normally ask. To satiate my curiosity. But I always guess first. In my head. It's like a game.


Spanish. Or eastern European. I was sure. Her English was accented. Something about her face. Something about her body. Something about her husband. I was sure I was close.


"What's your daughter's name?" She asks.

Gia", and "your daughter's?' , I ask.


"Mallika"


"Oh," I say, "That's an Indian name."


"Yes" she says. " I am from India. "

"Oh, "..says my head.


I'm from India too, I tell her.

My head is reeling.

"Where, in India?" I ask.


Punjab, she says.


Oh, I am from Punjab too. I say.


And soon we are exchanging names. Jugraon, Nangal, Doomwali, Bhatinda, Ludhiana.


Me and Jassi.


That's her.
Jassi from Jagroan. A village in Punjab. Not too far from Doomwali. Another village in Punjab . My ancestral village. Where I spent many a summer, growing up.


So , N from Doomwali in Bhatinda and her daughter meets Jassi from Jugraon and her daughter , in a store in downtown Toronto, which N have browsed for the last 4 years, and which is finally shutting down for non payment of rent by the Chinese owner and the foreclosure is being handled by Jassi from Jagraon's husband.


I was wrong about Spain or Eastern Europe. I was not even close.


We talked some more, now obviously, a greater comfort level established.

And then it was time to leave. So I said goodbye and how lovely it had been to meet her . She asked me to wait a minute.


Then , she walked over to a shelf, picked up something and handed it to me.


"This is for Gia, from Mallika. "


I looked down at my hand and there she lay. The porcelain doll in a pretty white dress. With blue frills at the edges . Same blue as her beaded necklace. A wreath of pink roses in her hand. A pink heart adorning the veil on her head. Brown hair. Black eyes. Pink lips. Barefeet.

Thank you. And I left.

And as much as I still am not porcelain doll person, I think this one's a keeper.

And in my head, I might even name her.
Jassi or Mallika. Those are the contenders.

The Chinese taxi driver and the Pakistani lady.

So on my way to a job interview, the other day, I hailed a cab. The driver was an older (ish) Chinese guy. Spectacled, salt and pepper hair, a very gentle, yet somewhat naughty face , with eyes that smiled, wearing a crisp half sleeved button down cotton white shirt.

Hi, I said. He said hi. 375 University, please, I said. 375 University, he said.

And normally I will strike a conversation with a cab driver because I think cab drivers have very interesting stories to tell. And are mostly very eager to talk. And I love random conversations with random people. One off's.

But since I was on my way to an interview, I was doing a last minute mental run of my resume. Then, at a traffic light, this other cab pulls up next to us and an African cab driver sticks his head out the window and with a beaming smile across his way yells to my cab driver "Give me all your money" . My cabbie, also very amused, exchanges pleasantries and then we are on our way.

"You know that guy" he starts with a heavily Chinese accented voice. "He have interesting story."

"Yes?" I say...putting away my resume. Conversation with taxi guy vs resume prep. The former wins hands down.

Turns out that the other cab driver is from Trinidad. Some 12 years ago , him and my cab driver, met, when they both came to Toronto and started driving cabs. 5 years later, cab driver from Trinidad wins the 1.1 miliion dollars lottery! 1.1 million..12 years ago..you do the math!!


So he cashes his lottery and heads back home. A millionaire.

The Chinese cab driver's life moves on.

A month ago, the Chinese cab driver meets the Trinidadian cab driver, who is back now in Toronto, driving a cab again. Apparently, and so he says, he gave all his money to his family.

"Why he do that, " continues my cab driver, in a very animated voice, "he have no wife , no children. Who he give money to?".

"If I win money, I retire. I no drive taxi "

"I retire. He, a fool. I tell him"

"He, the only millionaire taxi driver, in Toronto"

And there in lays the affirmative to my theory. Always strike a conversation with a cab driver. They have some really interesting tales to tell.

I'm hoping to hail a taxi another day which is driven by the only millionaire taxi driver in Toronto. Because that would most certainly make for some very interesting conversation.

The Pakistani grandmother.

I was hanging out at this park near where I live. Something I do , almost every evening with my daughter. She plays, I sit there, facebooking on my Iphone, or soaking in the sun, or reading a book.

Only that Tuesday evening, I was gazing at people, which is also what I do. Check out passer bys, wonder what they do, what their story is. Which is when I noticed her. Walking towards us with a stroller.

She was wearing a salwar kameez. And although you have numerous suit and sari clad women in the suburbs, it is a somewhat rare sight in downtown. So I noticed, and I smiled, and she smiled back and came and parked the stroller next to where I was.

Late 60's, I would imagine, pepper and mostly salt hair in a braid, green and maroon cotton salwar kameez with sneakers, a very approachable face with extremely soft features. She let her granddaughter, who she babysits every day, out of the stroller and sat down next to me on the bench. Eager for a conversation.

And this is her story.

She came to Toronto from Pakistan in 1973. And she had been here ever since. She talked of a Toronto (which is now one of the most multi cultural, immigrant populated cities in the world), where there were hardly any immigrants from India or Pakistan. She spoke of how there was only one (as opposed to the gizzilion today) store that stocked Indian groceries, and the stock came in on Tuesdays and if you didn't get there in time, the masala packets were all gone!

And then she spoke of being a mother and a grand mother and of being a wife, and a woman. She gave me a perspective of her generation. She said it was hard. To be a working mom of two, to run a house of four, to cook and clean and manage the groceries. She spoke of her husband being a good husband and a good father and helping out. But she also said that the brunt of the work was hers as it is often a woman's. Sort the kids clothes, figure out whether the atta is over or is it the dal, keep track of meetings at work and PTA'S at school, dentists appointments or time for immunizations.

I asked her if she was bittter about all the work she had put in. She said no. That's just the way life was. And now her son and daughter are grown up and setlled. She is retired, as is her husband. The pension is comfortable. She relaxes. Does her yoga. Long pareyr hours. Babysits the grandchildren. Is no longer always in a rush.

I her daughter's life different than her, I ask? "To some extent , yes, "she says. "But some of the battles a woman fights always stay the same , "she adds. Not offering any further explanation, smiling , expecting me to just know.

" But," she says, "I help her out with the kids. so she can stay at work. See, I didn't have any help so I had to wait till my kids were 11 years and older to pick up a job. "

"I help her out as much as I can. Make it a little easier for her than it was for me. "

She spoke of how much she missed Pakistan. Especially when she first arrived to this land of foreign people, foreign culture and way too much snow. How she even misses it now, afetr so many years. How a foreign country can never be the same as home.

How this is home now, though, and she will live out her life here.

An hour had passed. It was time to leave. We put the kids in their stollers. I let her know how wonderful it was talking to her. She smiled and said she came her often and we should meet up more. She said she would bring some homeopathy medicine for my daughter who had trouble teething. And that I should meet her here again on Monday morning.

We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

I was meant to meet her yesterday and get the medicine. I had a hectic day and couldn't go. That's life.

In two weeks, I go back to work and most likely will not have time to go for my evenings at the park. I am hoping to meet her again before that. And have another conversation. With yet another interesting stranger.

This one made me think

Two 25 year old's. D and O. They grew up blocks apart in Toronto and met in primary school. Best friends , since then.

D was just starting out as a photographer. O had just landed a job in the financial district with a reputed investment firm.

Here they are, in the picture, in D's car. D is on the left , in the driver's seat. O is beside him. It is te Thursday night and they are returning home from having watched an NBA game in a friend's house. D is driving O and O's girlfriend back home. O's girilfriend is sitting at the back and she is the one who took this picture.

Two young boys, with their whole life in front of them. Starting off in their careers. Best friends since primary school and still going strong. Happy, dating, going for games, living their twenties. Sounds just right, doesn't it?

What doesn't sound right , then , is that three minutes after this picture was taken, both of them were dead. Shot dead.

So, then , here's the story.

After they left the game, and were driving back home, they got a call from one of their friends from the friend's condo that they had just left from. They had mistakenly taken someone's keys with them. So they turned around the car and headed back to return the keys.

It was a warm night , so they had the car windows rolled down. When they got to the friend's condo, they parked under the building and waited for their friend to come down.

Out of nowehere, a man walked up to the car, at the D's driver's side. D' barley said something like "how's it going" , before the man fired. One bullet hit D in the chest, the second hit the car and the third hit O. By the time, the ambulance got them to the hospital, they were already dead.

It's been a year since this incident. The killer was never caught. There have been no suspects. The police is baffled. It could have been a car jacking gone wrong. A junkie on the street. A planned murder with a motive.

And although it matters that justice must be served, D and O are gone. At 25 years of age. And they will not be back. Ever.

I was fairly overwhelmed after I read this story. I felt a lot of things. I thought a lot of thoughts. More than I can even pen down.

I felt sad. I felt angry. I felt scared. Threatened.

I missed my best friend. I wished we lived closer. I wish we had more time to get together and talk and laugh, like we do when we are together.

I felt protective of my kids who I think are growing up in an unsafe world.

I felt thankful for what I have. And fearful of what could be lost. And how easily and quickly it could be lost.

D and O, rest in peace.

Kudos to your friendship.

My heart goes out to your families.

And to make some sense of all this, I tell myself you are in a better place. Hanging out. Like best friends do.

The vibe of children

I was at this music session with my one year old daughter. We go there every Wednesday. It's an hour long. And come Tuesday evening, I am looking forward to it.

A very talented, mother of one, local Toronto musician, N, comes along, with her guitar and strums some songs for kid ranging in age from 0- 5 years. It is a relatively open space, everyone sits on the carpet on the floor, there are various musical instruments lying around for the children to discover. Tambourines, african drums, marracas, shakers, flutes. Also, some colored scarves for the kids to throw around in the air, or on each other. Scarves of muslin cloth in blues, oranges , pinks, reds, greens.

N, sits on a stool, with her classic brown chunky boots and her guitar. She croons. Fun songs. Old Mac Donald. Speckeled frogs. You are my sunshine.

The kids sit around her in a circle. Well, some sit. Some lay, some run around, some talk, some laugh, some cry, some sing, some dance, some shout.

See, that's the thing. They all do what they want to do. So in the moment. The whole vibe of that room in that one hour is so in the moment.

And that's why on every Wednesday, I just totally love being in that room full of children. Because in that space, and in that hour, there are no agendas. There is no false political correctness. There is no pretence. There is a musician. And then there are just these little people being who they are, doing what they want.

Here, I am tired , hence I shall just start bawling at the top of my voice. And stomp my feet while I do that.

I want that toy so I am just going to snatch it from you. Then if you look visibly upset or start bawling, I will either give it back to you or run away to the other end of the room with the toy.

I am tired and sleepy and I don't really care for the music so I will just lay here and sleep. Or pretend to.

I will dance like no one is watching.

I will smile at you not because it is nice to do that but because I feel like. Or don't.

I will continue staring at your face just because it is a new one.

I willl dig my nose. And analyze the find.

I will scratch my bum.

I will now make a poop in my diaper and stink up this whole room.

I will pull at the strings of N's guitar.

I will make up my own lyrics. And sing them at the top of my voice. Louder than everyone else.

I will pull my T-shirt up and show my friend my newly disovered belly button. After which, he will proceed to do the same.

I will play that big drum and then sit on it.

I will put the shaker in my mouth.

I will eat the orange scarf.

It's joy . Sheer joy. The vibe of these children.

The stranger in my window

I have known you since July 2008.
I know where you live. On the 3rd floor of 21 Carlton Street. I know that your condo had a balcony. A tiny one. Tiny or big enough to fit two foldable balcony chairs. In beige fabric. One plastic foldable balcony table, on which stands a yellowish beiegish planter that is plantless because it is used as an ashtray.

I know that every day at around noon, you make your first appearance on this baclony, sit on the above mentioned chairs, place a Starbucks coffee on the above mentioned table and smoke a couple of ciggaretes, which you flick into the above mentioned planter acting as an ashtray. I know that your balcony is your place to come out and sit on , only when you need to smoke.

I know you are tall. I am guestimating 6 feet plus. Big. Sort of in a rotund way. You have blonde hair. When you are home, you are mostly in lounging clothes. T-shirts, baggy sweatshirts, track pants, shorts. Flip flops. Always, flip flops on the feet.

Your body language is relaxed. Bordering on lazy.

The first time in the day that you come out on your baclony is when you have just woken up and risen out of bed. Clothes dishevelled, eyes sleepy, hair tousled up, expression grumpy as in "not a morning person" grumpy.

And you are definitely a morning smoker. You need your coffee and smoke as soon as you get out of bed.

And you are not an early riser. You normally get out of bed around noon.

Which often makes me wonder what you do? Like, for a living. I guess, maybe a student, with classes starting late. Or a working professional with a night shift kind of job. Those are the two most obvious ones. You could be so many other things.

Late riser, that you are, for sure.

I think you have a girlfriend. The again, she could be a friend, maybe even a sister. But I like to think of her as a girlfriend. She is there on Sundays. Aound noon, you both sit out and talk. She talks, she is very chatty. You mostly listen. You smoke a couple of ciggarettes. She, one or two. She is regular. Every Sunday, so far.

Then sometimes, there are other people. Like your friend the other day. With the 'mad scientist" look. Wearing a tie and walking out on the balcony with a bong in his hand. Smoking up, the two of you. Lots of ciggarettes that day. The rare time that I actually saw you in the evening.

Because mostly I just see you in the afternoon. When I am in my kitchen, fixing and eating my lunch. I see you sitting there. Smoking. Talking on your cell phone. Gazing blankly into space. And so, while I eat my luch, I glance at you. And I try and imagine who you are, what you're thinking, how your day has been and what you are like. And then I'm done lunch or you're done smoking and we go our separate ways.

You are the stranger. Who lives in the condo facing mine.

You are a stranger. And I have known you for the last 11 months.