THE IMMIGRANT by Manju Kapur Read Free Book Online

morning he made his way to 4098 Quinpool Road. The menial nature of his job galled him. All he did was take impressions, mix silver for fillings, help with flap operations and wisdom teeth removal, prepare injections, develop X-rays, change little paper cups of water, hold and clean the suction, arrange the cloth around the patient’s neck and take out files. He had trained a high school pass boy to do this for him in Dehradun. Never mind, he told himself often, in the new world PhDs drove taxis if necessary.
    The money he possessed was a jealous mistress; he wished he could stop offering her the attention she demanded, but he was powerless. Each dollar invited his anxious love, each cent demanded his careful protection. Over and over he calculated: twenty eight dollars a day meant hundred and twelve dollars a week. In one month he would earn four hundred and forty eight dollars. Rent was two hundred dollars, the balance two hundred and forty eight would have to cover everything else.
    Once the school year started there would be a fresh loan to cover eight thousand dollars of fees, plus living expenses of four thousand five hundred a year. With scrimping and saving, make that four thousand dollars. Total = twelve thousand dollars. The bank would own him, but then the bank owned many students. Starting life deeply in debt was the way things were done here: don’t worry, don’t worry, you are going to be a qualified dentist.
    Dr Sharma approved of his new life. About once a fortnight he dropped in, drank a cup of tea and demanded details of Ananda’s finances, job, boss, duties, eating arrangements, friends and landlord. After the written part of the DDS, how much time before he could appear for the second, clinical part? Should he spend more years and specialise? If he joined a practice where there were specialists, he could be the general practitioner. Would he prefer a hospital? And how many more years for citizenship? What about his social life, the boy was always in when he dropped by.
    Ananda lied and quickly created some mythical friendships. He couldn’t bear that his uncle should find him wanting in any respect.
    The truth was that the whole long summer Ananda was very lonely. Weekends were the worst, and he had much time in which to relive his parents’ deaths. His isolation pressed upon him and numbed his capacity to break his solitude. In India whether at home or in the hostel he had always been surrounded by people, his life open to inspection, comment and group participation.
    Now he realised how much his uncle had done for him. The family cocoon he found himself in had felt uncomfortable and alien, but shreds of Indianness transported across oceans did mean something. Despite all that was said, blood (his uncle) was thicker than water (Gary’s parents). They may have said he was like a son, but there was no daily interaction, no constant checking that he was all right. To be fair, they did not check on Gary either, so perhaps this could not be a basis for comparison.
    At times it could be a heady feeling, not being accountable to anyone but often towards evening that momentary excitement degenerated into lonesomeness and he grew sick of his seesawing emotions.
    Much thought was spent on food.
    As he boiled his vegetables and seasoned them with butter, salt and pepper, Ananda wondered how much his caste meant to him. His uncle pushed him gently towards the eating of flesh. He offered himself as an example. Should one’s identity depend on what one ate? If Ananda married a local girl, he would find himself in a difficult situation. When one came to a new country, one had to come wholeheartedly otherwise one could be very miserable. He wasn’t telling Ananda what to do, all he was saying was that the boy should think about it.
    It was Ananda’s own cooking that added fuel to this particular fire. He couldn’t bear to eat another boiled vegetable, another sliver of cheese. He wanted to be able to eat fast