“So Sarosh thanked him and went to his desk. For the umpteenth time he bitterly rued his oversight. Could fate have plotted it, concealing the western toilet behind that shroud of anxieties which had appeared out of nowhere to beset him just before he left India? After all, he had readied himself meticulously for the new life. Even for the great, merciless Canadian cold he had heard so much about. How could he have overlooked preparation for the western toilet with its matutinal demands unless fate had conspired? In Bombay, you know that offices of foreign businesses offer both options in their bathrooms. So do all hotels with three stars or more. By practising in familiar surroundings, Sarosh was convinced he could have mastered a seated evacuation before departure.
“But perhaps there was something in what the supervisor said. Sarosh found a telephone number for the Indian Immigrant Aid Society and made an appointment. That afternoon, he met Mrs. Maha-Lepate at the Society’s office.”
Kersi and Viraf looked at each other and smiled. Nariman Uncle had a nerve, there was more lépate in his own stories than anywhere else.
“Mrs. Maha-Lepate was very understanding, and made Sarosh feel at ease despite the very personal nature of his problem. She said, ‘Yes, we get many referrals. There was a man here last month who couldn’t eat Wonder Bread — it made him throw up.’
“By the way, boys, Wonder Bread is a Canadian bread which all happy families eat to be happy in the same way; the unhappy families are unhappy in their own fashion by eating other brands.” Jehangir was the only one who understood, and murmured: “Tolstoy,” at Nariman’s little joke. Nariman noticed it, pleased. He continued.
“Mrs. Maha-Lepate told Sarosh about that case: Our immigrant specialist, Dr. No-Ilaaz, recommended that the patient eat cake instead. He explained that Wonder Bread caused vomiting because the digestive system was used to Indian bread only, made with Indian flour in the village he came from. However, since his system was unfamiliar with cake, Canadian or otherwise, it did not react but was digested as a newfound food. In this way he got used to Canadian flour first in cake form. Just yesterday we received a report from Dr. No-Ilaaz. The patient successfully ate his first slice of whole-wheat Wonder Bread with no ill effects. The ultimate goal is pure white Wonder Bread.’
“Like a polite Parsi boy, Sarosh said, ‘That’s very interesting.’ The garrulous Mrs. Maha-Lepate was about to continue, and he tried to interject: ‘But I —’ but Mrs. Maha-Lepate was too quick for him: Oh, there are so many interesting cases I could tell you about. Like the woman from Sri Lanka — referred to us because they don’t have their own Society — who could not drink the water here. Dr. No-Ilaaz said it was due to the different mineral content. So he started her on Coca-Cola and then began diluting it with water, bit by bit. Six weeks later she took her first sip of unadulterated Canadian water and managed to keep it down.’
“Sarosh could not halt Mrs. Maha-Lepate as she launched from one case history into another: ‘Right now, Dr. No-Ilaaz is working on a very unusual case. Involves a whole Pakistani family. Ever since immigrating to Canada, none of them can swallow. They choke on their own saliva, and have to spit constantly. But we are confident that Dr. No-Ilaaz will find a remedy. He has never been stumped by any immigrant problem. Besides, we have an information network with other third-world Immigrant Aid Societies. We all seem to share a history of similar maladies, and regularly compare notes. Some of us thought these problems were linked to retention of original citizenship. But this was a false lead.’
“Sarosh, out of his own experience, vigorously nodded agreement. By now he was truly fascinated by Mrs. Maha-Lepate’s wealth of information. Reluctantly, he interrupted: ‘But will Dr. No-Ilaaz be able to solve my problem?’
“ ‘I have every confidence that he will,’ replied Mrs. Maha-Lepate in great earnest. ‘And if he has no remedy for you right away, he will be delighted to start working on one. He loves to take up new projects.’ ”
Nariman halted to blow his nose, and a clear shrill voice travelled the night air of the Firozsha Baag compound from C Block to where the boys had collected around Nariman in A Block: “Jehangoo! O Jehangoo! Eight o’clock! Upstairs now!”
Jehangir stared at his feet in embarrassment. Nariman looked at his watch and said, “Yes, it’s eight.” But Jehangir did not move, so he continued.
“Mrs. Maha-Lepate was able to arrange an appointment while Sarosh waited, and he went directly to the doctor’s office. What he had heard so far sounded quite promising. Then he cautioned himself not to get overly optimistic, that was the worst mistake he could make. But along the way to the doctor’s, he could not help thinking what a lovely city Toronto was. It was the same way he had felt when he first saw it ten years ago, before all the joy had dissolved in the acid of his anxieties.”
Once again that shrill voice travelled through the clear night: “Arre Jehangoo! Mua, do I have to come down and drag you upstairs!”
Jehangir’s mortification was now complete. Nariman made it easy for him, though: “The first part of the story is over. Second part continues tomorrow. Same time, same place.” The boys were surprised, Nariman did not make such commitments. But never before had he told such a long story. They began drifting back to their homes.
As Jehangir strode hurriedly to C Block, falsettos and piercing shrieks followed him in the darkness: “Arré Jehangoo! Mua Jehangoo! Bulsara Bookworm! Eight o’clock Jehangoo!” Shaking his head, Nariman went indoors to Hirabai.
Next evening, the story punctually resumed when Nariman took his place on the topmost step of A Block: “You remember that we left Sarosh on his way to see the Immigrant Aid Society’s doctor. Well, Dr. No-Ilaaz listened patiently to Sarosh’s concerns, then said, As a matter of fact, there is a remedy which is so new even the IAS does not know about it. Not even that Mrs. Maha-Lepate who knows it all,’ he added drolly, twirling his stethoscope like a stunted lasso. He slipped it on around his neck before continuing: ‘It involves a minor operation which was developed with financial assistance from the Multicultural Department. A small device, Crappus Non Interruptus, or CNI as we call it, is implanted in the bowel. The device is controlled by an external handheld transmitter similar to the ones used for automatic garage door-openers — you may have seen them in hardware stores.’ ”
Nariman noticed that most of the boys wore puzzled looks and realized he had to make some things clearer. “The Multicultural Department is a Canadian invention. It is supposed to ensure that ethnic cultures are able to flourish, so that Canadian society will consist of a mosaic of cultures — that’s their favourite word, mosaic — instead of one uniform mix, like the American melting pot. If you ask me, mosaic and melting pot are both nonsense, and ethnic is a polite way of saying bloody foreigner. But anyway, you understand Multicultural Department? Good. So Sarosh nodded, and Dr. No-Ilaaz went on: ‘You can encode the handheld transmitter with a personal ten-digit code. Then all you do is position yourself on the toilet seat and activate your transmitter. Just like a garage door, your bowel will open without pushing or grunting.’ ”
There was some snickering in the audience, and Nariman raised his eyebrows, whereupon they covered up their mouths with their hands. “The doctor asked Sarosh if he had any questions. Sarosh thought for a moment, then asked if it required any maintenance.