When Dreams are Calling by Carol Vorvain Page A

style, in her
expensive, shiny clothes and always in too much of a hurry to stop and
help
someone else.
    I will always remember her voice, her words and
the way I felt. She
was my own blood, the same one I use to write long letters to when she
immigrated to Canada and she needed some encouragement.
    This last blow hurt even more than any other.
It made me think again
of the meaning of family. For now, I might as well have been an orphan.
    But, back from his too long holiday, God took
pity on me and soon
after my return from the hospital, an Indian girl moved in:
    “My name is Simrin,” she said with that lovely
Indian accent which
even Russell Peters would envy. “I heard what happened to you. Such a
shame,
really. But, you never know…things happen for a reason. I know what you
need.”
    “Knowing is not the problem, dear. On the other
hand, having is. I
need a job and I need to get better,” I said, sadly.
    “You’re right. But for now,
we’ll go together to
an Indian wedding. It will be fun. We’ll dance, get drunk and who knows
what
else…” Simrin replied, smiling provocative.
    “Getting drunk and at an Indian wedding will be
something new to me.
As to that “what else” stuff, it is out of the question.”
    I could just imagine myself dressed in a pink
sari, barefooted, with
some Henna on my pale, white hands.
    “So, it’s all set.”
    “It is, if I’ll make it till then.”
    “You’re a tough cookie, you’ll be more than
fine.”
    “I’m not that greedy. Just fine will be quite
enough for now. Or
maybe not enough, but good enough.”
    So the next Saturday, here I was, dressed in a
pink sari, to what
was to be my first and probably my last Indian wedding. Although I
didn’t get
drunk and because I was so sick I was barely able to walk, let alone to
dance,
I had fun watching the rice and other kinds of seeds thrown in the air
and over
each other, as a symbol of fertility and abundance. I learned that food
eaten
by hands is not bad, but it can become so when everyone else’s hands
are
touching it. I smelled the curry over and over again, from the first
word the
Indian guy at the door said to me, to the last piece of clothing
touching my
skin. Other than that, I don’t remember much of it.
    “You must be tired and something tells me a bit
hungry too,” Simrin
told me once we got back home. “You don’t like curry much, do you?”
    “I think I’m still at the first phase, trying
to get used to its
smell. At least, I could easily tell an Indian from a non-Indian, even
blindfolded.”
    She laughed:
    “True. You know what they say, you are what you
eat.”
    “With the Indian version being: you smell like
what you eat.”
    “Admit it: it’s cheap perfume!”
    “With the emphasis on cheap!”
    “I love your humor, even the cynic side of it.
I’ll make us a cup of
tea and some tasty sandwich. You don’t look well tonight. I think I’ll
sleep
next to you, just in case you need something.”
    “If only all the Indians were like you,
Simrin,” I answered,
grateful for her willingness to help me.
    “And all the Romanians like you, Dora.”
    “But we know they are not,” we both said in one
voice.
    For the next few weeks, Simrin took care of me,
like a devoted
mother will do for her child. Each night, she made sure she put a smile
on my
face, listened to my worries, tried to give me advice and prayed with
me, for
me. From a stranger, she became my family and my mom’s cousin from
family
became a stranger.
    For years and years I hated my mom’s cousin for
not helping me and
for destroying my trust in what a family is. All those days when I was
shivering with fever under the blankets, I was imagining her in one of
her
shopping frolics, smiling and laughing, hiding behind her beautiful
appearance
a heart of ice, deceiving and mean. For years, I wished one day she
would feel
what I felt, she would need someone to help her and everyone would turn
their
backs on her.
    But then, one day, I