Toronto Talks in Whispers

I thought I knew a bit about the doggie position. But in Toronto you need dogs for that. According to one law, if you are into canines, then every morning you walk around with a plastic bag while your poodle leaves his precious poo. Then you go down on your knees and scoop the crap in the bag. That bag marks you out as a conscientious citizen. You could carry a Prada as well, but then Canadians do not seem to care much about labels.

Canadians do care about what others think of them. They also care about what they think about themselves. A recent month-long trip (which I admit was mostly restricted to Toronto) gave me more of an insight into what the country is not rather than what it is. It is not hurried, not harried, not terribly political, not a leader, not a country that washes its dirty linen mainly because it tries so hard to be squeaky-clean. I got the impression that you could be in Toronto and do what the Romans did, and even ask for your slice of Rome and get it. And I do not mean the coffee at Tim Horton’s.

Therefore, when upon my return the father of a Sikh friend sounded ecstatic, I understood why. He shouted over the phone, “Oye, Tonto gayee...wah, wah, ekdum fuss class hai. Puttar tau suttle-vuttel ho gaya, hum bhi sochey chalo aakhree din udhar hi guzaar dein.” It seemed like a good place to die in. Mainly because there is a lot of space. And Sikhs in British Columbia’s Liberal Party constitute 80 per cent of its members. In fact, there was a bit of a war going on about ethnic recruitment. The protestors feel it is not merely about how the Whites view this. As one letter stated, “We now hear prominent Chinese complaining that the Indians have more power than the Chinese, we hear about other ethnic groups complaining about the ‘Chinese agenda’ and so on.” The President of the Liberal Party of Canada, Stephen Drew, was appalled at the “lamentable vision: four people wringing their hands because they are of the view that the recruitment of people who have recently become Canadian is ‘anti-democratic’!…It is a party of immigrants – open, inclusive, and a haven for those who have been disenfranchised in other societies through hierarchical stigma.”

This does not mean that everyone who has left his or her homelands is in a great utopia. I met Zia, who was the bellman at the hotel. He was Bangladeshi, had worked in Dubai but felt insecure there and moved here. He was a qualified civil engineer. His wife and kids are with him. “But my parents don’t know what work I am doing. They would be quite devastated after educating me so well.”

There is a certain dichotomy that hits you at every turn. It is a liberal society where racism is not obvious, but there is an amount of straightlacedness. The much-touted legalisation of same-sex marriages is a case in point. ‘Fab’, the gay men’s magazine, came out with a special bridal issue with the cover boy dressed in white leather harness, holding a phallic bouquet. The magazine gave tips on where the nuptials could be conducted, where to get your bridal PVC gowns or white tie-jackets, how to have the ‘bachelor’ bachelor party. The fervent message of the editor to those opting for the arrangement was that, “If you choose to get married don’t embarrass us. Don’t just do your bland, boring, typical wedding. That’s the question: will they mimic (traditional weddings) or will they transform?” Isn’t legalisation a conservative option anyway?

But this is the Canadian way of thinking. The government makes decisions on issues such as changing the method of weights and measures, deciding which TV programmes the people must watch, insisting that Canadians must only buy packets of soup that have instructions in two languages, and it also decides to define marriage. I was shocked when I read this in an article by Gordon Gibson, who asked the important question: “We agree. Why should we?” He provided some insight, “We are a gentle and sheep-like people, neither founded nor tested in revolution. We are astonishingly deferential to authority…To put it simply, we value order above liberty...So are we a nation of wimps?”

If indeed they are, they seem quite happy about it. People lead their own lives, so what if the shadow of America trails them. Even Gibson was forced to state that Nixon would have got away with Watergate in Canada. For an outsider like me, the question would be -- would a Nixon ever exist in Canada? It is a pretty faceless society, and that means it has its strengths. You can belong and yet not claim anything. It can be a liberating experience, though not a rash freedom.

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Did I spend all my time reading newspapers and pondering over the state of its socio-political identity? Oh no. I love doing touristy things. The problem is that Canadians are desultory about it. For example, I went into tourist offices and they invariably sold me the idea of Vancouver. I am sure it is pretty, though for a darned five-hour flight they would have to sell me something more than, “It is like Switzerland.” In eight hours I could have been in Zurich eating the genuine Sprungli orange cake. I couldn’t understand why a first world country has to resort to such comparisons. In India, every lake and mountaintop is marketed as “just like Switzerland”, but then we have a reason for it. The Canadians don’t.

Most highlights do not have that buzz about them, which must be wonderful for the residents, but for someone who needs to see around the enthusiasm is tepid. For example, there may be long queues to enter CN Tower, but for the largest building in the world that is supposedly made of glass, they have left just one open patch on the floor, the rest being carpeted. Naturally I crawled over it to look down below.

Not surprisingly, it is the little towns set up by outsiders that make up for the hub. China Town is like China Towns anywhere in the world. And I think it is perfectly all right to shop here, since even mainstream shopping will end up with ‘Made in China/Taiwan/Korea’ tags. To our surprise there was a pure vegetarian Vietnamese restaurant. I confirmed with the lady who ran the show, and she gave me all the assurances possible. When my meal arrived, I found strips of flesh on the bed of salad. What on earth is this? I need to know my meat. “Oh, this is all soya bean stuff, just so that you don’t miss your meat.” Huh? If I want to eat veggies, why would I miss meat?

In Greek Town, which has now become a bit of an attraction because “My Big Fat Greek Wedding’ was filmed there, it is different. Here you can get all the vegetables you want. I don’t know what the Greek salad has to offer, but you are supposed to relish it. So, I picked on the olives and tried to look cool about it. ‘Aphrodite’s Palace’ is a good restaurant; they say the best. If you sit out, then you find nameplates of palmists, Tarot card readers on buildings. And there are lots of people eating Greek salad with the urgency of someone awaiting the next Yanni concert…it comes in the form of a large serving of chicken souvlaki with rice and potatoes.

I dug into the potatoes. Life seemed incomplete without them. And Gerrard Street, which was Indo-Pak town, was my eat-beat. The locals don’t go there much, and as someone said, “I cannot understand why those who come here from India or Pakistan would want to go there, but they do.” Yes, we do. It is important to know what my people have made of themselves. There are shops selling Tanjore paintings and Islamic literature, boutiques with the latest trends in the subcontinent and restaurants that have everything from South Indian to Peshawari. Somehow, the choice always ended at Lahore Tikka House. It is a dhaba-like place with one of those colourful Lahori rickshaws where you can take pictures, you sit on blue benches and from then on you are a number. It is always packed to capacity and the food is good. Not great but good. And you get kulfi on sticks.

You move towards a place for Kashmiri tea. Again run by a Pakistani. This is not your green kahwah. Here, they boil the milk till it is a sensual pink and sprinkle it with almonds and pistachios. It takes hours to prepare, so what you get is a microwaved version. One ends the repast with paan. Just like home. Strangely, this is the first time on an overseas trip that I wanted to do desi things.

On my last night there I asked my friends, a Pakistani family, to take me out to Gerrard Street for tea. We did not realise that celebrations were on. Cars were blaring music and slogans, with young guys carrying huge Pakistani flags. They were celebrating their independence day two days late due to the blackout. A lone Indian boy stood across the street with the tricolour. For some silly reason I went over and said I was proud of him. My Pakistani friends joined us. A dark man appeared from nowhere and asked one of them, “Where are you from?” “Bombay,” he replied. And where was I from? “The Siachen border.” He said he did not know where that was. I told him about the conditions on that border, how tough life was. He quickly said, “I am not into all this politics business. I am a Sri Lankan!”

What I found revealing was that while the new immigrants, people who had gone on the ’come to Canada with a dream’ visa scheme, were raucous and trying to prove their identity, those born there were different. The young man with us, who was roughly the same age as those Pakistanis in the street, just stood there, not cognizant for the most part, amused occasionally. He seemed more in control than those punks.

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Punks do add spunk to any society. You can measure awakening and angst by their level of influence on culture. By that token, Canadians tend to intellectualise that too. The Deconism Gallery on Dundas Street got three men into a “hysterical relaxation” tub to talk about fictitious truth and conjured reality. That these men would be immersed in a place that “symbolizes the womb” would not take away from the seriousness of how they – an academic, an artist and a philosopher – would view images of terrorist attacks on the inside walls of the tub. The idea was to bring out into the open the new attitude towards racial profiling. This sounded like a cuckoo thing and I did wonder what would come out of it. The programme’s moderator made a revealing comment, “It must happen very, very often in California.”

Sure, but in California it would not be such a quiet affair with barely any coverage. I saw this write-up on one of the inside pages of the ‘National Post’; it was also to be a ticketed event. No voyeurs. Which I think metaphorises Canadian culture. It is open but reserved; there is a glass wall which lets you look in and look out, but not walk through. And the people seem to have internalised this attitude.

It is best to experience a culture when it is being tested or celebrating, and I was fortunate enough to have had both. The major blackout that lasted 48 hours was a huge learning experience. Coming from a country that has power failures in many major cities on a daily basis, I was astonished by how completely at a loss most people were. The subways were out, no streetlights and people were asked to throw away food. But interestingly, the radio kept talking about the festive atmosphere, of people coming out and talking to each other, many volunteering to help.

The other test was when there was a fire at the hotel, due to the carelessness of a guest. Many Canadians from outside Toronto were visiting for the Caribbana festival. When the alarm sounded and most of us ran down in basic clothing, I saw the Canadians carry all their belongings. These were the same oh-so-cool types of the night before on Yonge Street in their slinky lycra skirts and shiny bustiers who were now playing safe.

Yet, I would not say that Canada is a money-minded society. It is not even a consumerist haven. Shopping is pretty boring, and most people are not over-enthusiastic about selling anything to you. Eaton Centre, which has a million visitors a day, is one huge characterless complex of stores. I thought the more exclusive Yorkdale Mall would be a better bet. It turned out to be listless, except for the ‘Rainforest Café’, which is interestingly done up with subdued lighting and stone seating. It would be a good place for The Last Supper!

What do the Canadians do with their art? There was a special display of Tom Thomson’s work at the Ontario Art Gallery. Instead of letting the public discover his under-rated, under-exposed work, there were separate tickets to enter that room. It seemed a stupid thing to do. How can you expect people to appreciate your culture if you ghettoise the mainstream itself?

Contrast this with the activity at the Harbour Front. I sat on a bench and there were two senior citizens talking. Said one to the other, “This seems like the UNO, people from everywhere just walking about, not doing anything.” There was an India Week on with stalls selling masala dosa, chaat, mehndi, and kurtis. The music being played was Indian remix. And then there was the ferry ride. Lynn was flat-chested with hairy legs and would have made for a pretty boy. She was the official tour guide whose enthusiasm was infectious. The most important information she could give me was about this small island, minutes away from the city, which was a nudist colony. How many locals would venture out there or admit to doing it?

Every Torontonian has one major fear: I only hope I do not have to go to Niagara Falls again! I can understand it. How much can you see of torrents of water? So what if Abraham Lincoln had asked, “Where does all this water come from?” It is entirely possible that his reputation was considerably enhanced for Canadians know that the view from their side is better than the American one. It is indeed breathtaking, especially if you are willing to go through the tunnel wearing raincoats and getting the full blast of it riding on the ‘Maid of the Mist’ to get the view from behind. We stayed for the fireworks at night and I loved sprawling on the grass with a camcorder in my hand shooting ‘patakhas’ light the sky. It was wet where I lay down, yet something crumbled in my hand. Are all maple leaves so dry?