Everything Was Good-Bye by Gurjinder Basran Read Free Book Online

application out of my backpack, showing her the creative writing program in Toronto that I wanted to apply for.
    “Oh Meena… You know how Mom feels about that. It’s been hard for her since Harj left. Don’t make things harder for her.”
    “I’m not.”
    “I know. I know you’re not. But she worries and, well, with Harj gone…”She paused. “Things are different … I know it’s hard, we all miss her, but she made her choices and we’re all living with them. For you part of that is doing what Mom wants you to—unless you want to go back to England?”
    I pulled my knees into my chest. “And when do I get to do what I want?”
    “When you get married.”
    “When I’m married? Then I’ll just be someone else’s daughter and someone’s wife. When will I get to be who I am?”
    “This is who you are.” She touched my shoulder in an attempt at affection before leaving to answer our mother’s call to tea.
    I lay on my bed thinking about Harj. Two years ago I’d come home from school to find Tej crying. When I’d asked her what was wrong, she handed me the note that she’d found on the coffee table. I’d said good-bye to Harj before I left for school; she told me to have a good day. I tried to think if she’d said it differently than she usually did. Should I have known by her tone that I wasn’t going to see her again? But I wasn’t paying attention. It was just another day that I was wishing away. At times, I thought it would have been easier for my mother if Harj were dead. There was no betrayal in that type of loss; it was acceptable, even manageable.
    The year that Harj left, my mother sent me to England for the summer to stay with my sister Parm and her new husband. After a week, I realized my vacation was an intervention; I was sent there to learn how to be good. I spent that summer vacation wearing a salwar kameez, mouthing prayers from the Guru Granth Sahib and learning how to make roti. I passed my days with chores and between tea time and supper would retreat to the solarium while Parm sat in the front room, tuned into the much-loved Australian soap opera Neighbours. Oddly, it was during an episode of Neighbours that I met Ranjit, who lived next door in an identical red brick house. His mother had sent him over to get some spinach from our garden so she could make fresh saag paneer for dinner.
    He was two years older than me and, despite a very religious and traditional Sikh appearance, turned out to be pretty cool. He wore Pepe jeans and khakis before they were common and had a cd player even though stores were still selling records. He was passionate about the hybrid of hip hop and house music, claiming that it gave the world a sound to match the technological revolution. He was sure that Macintosh and ms-dos would change how we experienced life, so he studied computer programming while living within the confines of our cultural programming. We were a lot alike. He wore a turban to please his mother and I was trying to learn how to make a round roti to please mine. On the days that Parm and her husband were at work, Ranjit and I would sneak away and take the Under-ground into London to explore the world that we were not supposed to be part of.
    Two days before I was to return to Canada we were on the train, on our way back home, when he suddenly asked me if I would ever marry someone with a turban. His eyes were as intense as the silence that followed. I didn’t want to tell him no; I didn’t want to tell him yes. I sat for a moment, wavering between reason and emotion, swaying with the movements of the train.
    “No, I could never marry someone who was so religious and traditional,” I told him.
    “Yeah, but you can look the part and not be, you know?” “No, I don’t know.”
    That was the last time we spoke.

1.3
    M r. Peters looked up from the blackboard just as I was attempting to slip into English class undetected. He put his chalk down and wiped the dust on his denim pants