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From
Tehelka Magazine, Vol 9, Issue 18, Dated 05 May 2012 |
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| CULTURE & SOCIETY |
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PERSONAL HISTORIES |
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A series on true experiences
TURNING THE CORNER
‘I thought I should call 911 rather than open the door’
By Achyut Dutt
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Illustration: Rishabh Arora |
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THE SNOW had now turned into ice pellets. Canada, in February. What did I expect? It was -27°C as per the bulletin that evening, and -42°C with the wind-chill factored in. A blizzard was sweeping incessantly by.
Another gust and the restaurant shook. “Wish I could split,” I said out loud. Didn’t matter, I was the only one there. My eyes fell on the falafels under the counter. I took out two and sat down in a corner. I was kidding myself, of course. I couldn’t split, I needed this job.
Hector, my nightshift partner, hadn’t turned up and I was by myself, manning the joint alone. It was now 4.30 am; the drunks from the bar down the road having staggered in, gorged and left. The drug-addled fences trying to hawk stolen GPSs and car stereos were gone. Outside, there was not a soul tonight.
As I sipped coffee, a rare wave of melancholy swept over me. As of last week, the money we had brought along with us had run out. We’d down-sized to a tiny one-room cubbyhole. But things would work out. After all, the first five years are the toughest for an immigrant, they say. And we were here only three months.
As I sat in the shadows, I noticed this guy just outside, in a parka. He was leaning against the locked glass doors. The hooded figure was rocking back and forth. Hands outstretched, he was trying to tap on the glass and steady himself at the same time. I wondered if I should let him in. After all, this could be a hold-up and I shouldn’t be opening the door to this creep. I should be calling 911 instead.
A sudden gust sent the guy sprawling on the sidewalk. His cap went flying and his hood came off and it was then that I realised it was a she. A mass of golden brown hair cascaded down to her shoulders as she lurched back up to the glass. She had just socks on, no shoes. Scrambling to the door, I let her in.
She was cold and as I held her, she shivered uncontrollably. I sat her down, fetched my snow jacket from the employees’ closet and draped it around her. She smelt awful but I somehow managed to hold her tight, allowing her body to get warm. The shivering passed.
I reached for the phone, “I’ll call 911, hang on,” and the next thing I know, she had her hand clamped over my wrist. “No, please,” she whispered. There were multiple puncture marks running down the sides of both her arms.
“OK, relax, are you hungry? She nodded. I heaped a plate with shish taouk and placed it in front of her and as she wolfed the food down, I couldn't help noticing how pretty she was. Couldn’t have been more than 14, maybe 15. Her eyes were the bluest I’d seen.
When she was done, she looked much better. “I don’t have any... cash,” she said, “but if you want... we can... I can... you know... I’m good, really good.”
I shook my head, “It’s on the house, relax. Try to get some sleep,” I managed. She laid her head on the table surface and was out like a light. I balled up a couple of clean aprons, lifted her sleeping head gently and slipped the makeshift pillow under.
It was just past six and I was closing up, when she stirred. She padded up to me and kissed me on my grey bearded cheek. She smelt yucky as hell, but it was hard for me not to smile.
She waited till I closed up and soon we were both on the sidewalk. She was a pixie, in the large shaggy jacket I’d given her. In one hand, she held a paper bag of shish taouk and a $5 bill I had made up for her to take along.
We walked to the bus stop and stood, not saying a word. The wind had subsided, but it was still bitterly cold. After a while, the 51 autobus came up and she was about to get in, when she hesitated, as if she wanted to say something. Then she turned and with a brief wave, disappeared into the bus.
I stepped off the curb to cross over to the metro entrance, when the 51 turned the corner. And I wondered if she would turn hers.
I was sure I would turn mine. Some day soon.
Achyut Dutt is 57. He is an aerospace engineer and lives in Quebec, Canada.
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