An Immigrant’s Tale

Bleary-eyed and nervously clutching my small suitcase, I made my way through the crowded corridors of dimly lit Dorval airport. As I listened to the announcements, I scanned the multitude of signs looking for the check-in counter for my flight to Saskatoon. The two-day trip from Bombay, India, had included an unexpected delay in Paris and left me tired and disoriented. I was anxious not to miss this last connection.

Finally I located the check-in counter, only to find it deserted save for one agent who wasn’t paying me the slightest attention — her eyes instead were transfixed on a television across the hall. Following her gaze — it was the first time I had seen a television — I made out small figures flitting around the screen. I strained to hear what the broadcaster was saying.

“Savard clears a pass to Stapleton, who clears it to the open wing to Cournoyer.

“Cournoyer took a shot, but the defenseman Lyapkin fell over, and Cournoyer has it on the wing.

“Here’s a shot. Henderson made a wild stab for it and fell.

“Here’s another shot. Right in front —

“THEY SCORE! Henderson has scored for Canada!”

An intense roar filled the entire airport, a din so loud and all-encompassing that I cringed in panic and fearfully glanced around. Despite having lived my entire life in a densely populated country, I had never heard anything like it. Everyone was cheering and screaming — absolute pandemonium that subsided for a minute or two and then gathered force again. Finally, the counter agent turned away from the television and, beaming, asked how she could help me.

“What’s going on?” I blurted.

“You don’t know?” she gushed. “We just won the championship of a hockey series with the Soviets. That goal you just saw was the winning goal, with only 34 seconds left in the game. We beat the Russians!”

I had no idea what she was talking about — in India hockey was a game played outdoors on grass and certainly not a sport that evoked such raw passion. I smiled, mumbled my thanks and congratulations, and asked for my boarding pass.

Several hours later I got off the plane in Saskatoon where Rajiv, a fellow graduate student from India, greeted me. After taking a look at my light woolen jacket he asked me what was in my suitcase. Then he announced, “We’re going to the mall to buy you a parka.” I followed him to the bus stop, wondering what a parka was and how he could be so certain that I needed one. That night I stayed at his small apartment, and over dinner he explained the day’s momentous events.

“Ice hockey is Canada’s national sport, and they are absolutely crazy about it. They’re like religious fanatics, only worse. Canadians think they are the best in the world, but the Soviets are getting better. This hockey series they just finished lasted eight games, and it was very competitive. People think it’s a contest between democracy and communism.

“For a while Canada was down three games to one and the whole country was panicking. Then the team came back and won the last three games. That goal you saw on the television in Montreal was the winning goal of the series. Everybody is rejoicing.”

How auspicious, I thought, as I fell asleep later that night. My first day in Canada, September 28, 1972, is also a day of national celebration.

The following day started early. Rajiv helped me find a boarding house where I rented a room for 70 dollars a month, half board included. This fit well within the $230 monthly budget that my scholarship allowed for living expenses. The next day we took the bus to the University of Saskatchewan campus where I met the professor who was going to supervise my studies. Together we reviewed the coursework and research required for a master’s degree in chemical engineering. He confirmed that my proposed thesis met the conditions of the scholarship that Esso had offered me — it had to be about one of their projects.

With that settled, I began the difficult task of trying to make my way in this new land with its unfamiliar culture and increasingly cold weather. Simple tasks such as grocery shopping or taking a bus were full of challenges and stress as everything was unfamiliar — the money, the small talk, the idioms — everything. To cope, I tried to look upon every incident, no matter how small, as a learning opportunity. However, it soon became clear that this learning was often going to be accompanied by embarrassment and discouragement.

I had always thought that I spoke excellent English — after all, my schooling had been entirely in English. But to my astonishment, I soon realized that the only people who understood me in Canada were the other Indian students. My professors and the Canadian students would either ask me to repeat the most common words and sentences or make body gestures such as turning their ears towards me, all the while looking dazed. Sometimes they tried to be polite and, rather than ask me to repeat myself, simply guessed at what I was saying. However, their responses betrayed the truth. Finally, someone sat down with me and kindly explained that Canadians found my manner of speaking — my accent and pronunciation, my pauses and intonation, and my emphasis on different syllables — to be weird. He suggested that I speak more slowly and pronounce each word clearly and distinctly. I did, and found that it helped. Nevertheless, I got terribly discouraged at times.