Au Canada

In spite of the snippy service by a snooty, fresh off the boat cashier named Poonam, the hot chocolate at Tim Hortons warmed the cockles of mom’s frozen heart.

As the warm liquid coursed through her veins and returned the circulation to her numb fingers, mom was thankful for living in a warmer climate - one that does not involve wearing thermal underwear year-round and wiping a runny, red nose à la Rudolf the reindeer.

In downtown Montreal for a week-long conference, mom had forgotten how frigid the Canadian weather could be, especially for someone whose teeth start chattering when the temperature dips to the 80s.

The cold didn’t bother her as much 13 years ago, when she was the lone desi in a southern Quebec university. Mom was younger and a lot plumper then. The average meat and potatoes québécois predicted she wouldn’t last the winter on a vegetarian diet, but the thayir sadam - chips - pickle padding on her hips, combined with the thought of returning to an English speaking country, kept mom alive through two winters.

Things were different on this trip. The thermal layers, gloves, scarf and jacket were no match for the gusty wind blowing in from the St. Lawrence River, and mom could only stare in awe at the petite young girls in Chinatown dressed for a Shanghai summer.

Bundled as she was in various layers of clothing, and dealing with a constant drippy nose, mom was somewhat surprised this time to find herself on the desi radar at the conference. While manning a booth at the trade show for her department, the lone desi female soon found herself neither alone nor lonesome for very long.

“Hello, myself Pitamber “Pete” Patil from Plano. Your good name please?” an invariably pot-bellied, balding guy in a plaid jacket would query, squinting at mom’s name tag.

Variations of “Where from in India?” “How long you been working for this company?” “They pay well?” would follow.

The bolder ones would shake hands, hanging on to mom’s limp palm while she looked around furtively for hand sanitizer.

“How long you have lived in America?” “You came for job or …?” “What language do you speak? Punjabi?” “Which hotel are you staying in?” “How much you paying for room?”

One particularly persistent admirer delivered his slickest pickup line with a leery smile, “Oh, you’re married? You’re kidding. Wow, you have children? Really, you don’t look old enough to be married even. How old are you?”

He proceeded to tell mom about his lonely status in Montreal because his wife apparently didn’t like to travel. “She just likes to stay home with the kids,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, while mom made a mental note to accompany dad on all future conferences.

“What you doing for lunch? I will look for you. You sit with me, OK? You like isus-spicy food?” he winked at mom, as she tried to steer herself away from him and attend to potential customers.

By the end of the trade show, mom was glad she wasn’t blonde and busty like the Swedish beauty in the next booth fending off advances from all nationalities.

Her last night at the hotel, after many days of eating bread, walking around in frigid, sunless weather, sleeping on overly-soft down pillows and surfing through the five English channels on television, mom sent an e-mail to dad.

“I miss you so much,” she typed, hoping that simple sentence would convey her anguish on being away from him and her longing, desire, yearning and inclination to be with him the next day.

Nearly a week later, mom is still waiting for a response.