August, 2021
Meet Vik
“For me, people are the comfort. If I could get a hug, that's way more comforting than a prayer. Because then your feelings are confirmed by another individual who thinks for themself. So that makes you more real than some guy in a cloud, or in a book. I do put more worth on everyone else than me. I'm still working on that. But people are the comfort. That's why I'm so happy to see you.”
I grinned broadly. We were sitting at a picnic table on a warm, sunny day in High Park. While we’d found a relatively secluded spot, tucked down a quiet path far from the busier hillside gardens, the occasional couple would stroll by, often accompanied by a curious dog. We had spent some time discussing religion, and Vik’s stubborn atheism.
“I don't think there's a soul or consciousness,” he said. “We're just biological creatures, just like every other animal, just like the squirrel running up the tree.”
Vik is an anomaly in India, where atheists are a minority by a large margin. We discussed religion in his hometown, as well as the strong influence that Indian parents have, and the pressure to get married.
“That's the thing, they want someone to take care of the assets. They saved up for us, so they want us to get it and benefit from the full security and safety of their earnings.”
“Here, it's more like, be your own person,” I said.
“Yeah, get the fuck out of the house at 18,” he agreed. “There, it’s more like ‘Where are you going? You're living with us. You are having a baby in that room. You make it quietly.’
And it's not a marriage between two people in India, it's a marriage between two families,” he went on. “So, that works. For me, I love my family. If something happened to them, I would fly home the next minute, I would drop everything: my job, my beautiful car,” he said with a cheeky grin, “and go take care of my family if I need to. That's what you're supposed to do. Or that's what I want.”
It was hard to imagine Vik returning to his birthplace, as comfortable as he looked in this environment. I’d first met Vikram in Toronto nearly a decade ago, when he had more recently immigrated. He’d actually moved just after his birthday. “I didn’t even celebrate my birthday because I was too busy packing. I got a cupcake for a birthday cake that day in my room.”
“For me, I love my family. If something happened to them, I would fly home the next minute, I would drop everything.”
I commented on how much he’d changed from those early days, when he wasn’t yet comfortable in Canada. He said it’s because he’s gotten some distance from his Indian culture.
“I actually went to London, Ontario [first],” he remarked.
“Eww, why?”
“Don’t say ‘eww’, it’s the forest city, it's full of trees and old people and old white people, may I add, but now it's full of brown immigrants. That's all there is.” He described his life in London while a leaf drifted onto our table, only to be swept away by the late summer breeze moments later. He claims he’d love to return to London—or perhaps its outskirts, where there are fewer new immigrants.
“What's your beef with immigrants?” I asked.
“Send them back home!” he said with a big laugh that startled a few nearby birds into flight. “No, I don’t have beef with them, it's just that I want to get away from my culture a little bit. I do not entertain some of the ideas of my culture. Like when someone comes and looks at my face and starts speaking to me in Hindi when I don't speak it, and they get surprised.”
English is one of India’s national languages, which was news to me and, apparently, other Indians. “So, they don’t know that, and they insult me for not being educated.”
While he implied it was a challenging environment, I was certain there had to be things he missed about home.
“The food, but I do get the food here. It’s not the same, it's just disappointing.” He described getting fed at his friends’ houses back home. “I would go to the Christian friends for Christmas so they will feed me. I'll go to the Muslim friends because they'll feed me. Oh my God, the biryani from the Muslim friends was the best. I'm not even kidding. They know what they're doing with that biryani. The Christians know how to cook meat really well, because they are not vegetarian, and Hindu does a lot of vegetarian stuff.”
Although his family was not supposed to eat beef, he still indulged. “I ate beef all the time. Really if my parents didn’t feed me, I would just go out and get fried rice or beef chili and be like ‘Oh my God. This is delicious, why are we not eating this?’ You're especially not supposed to eat meat when someone in the family passes away. It's like a sign of respect.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don't know. These are great questions. I was not allowed to ask questions like that. I ate anyway. As much as I love my family members, I'm like ‘I'm hungry and I'm sad, I need my beef.’”
Apart from the loss of familiar food, I wondered what else he struggled to adjust to.
"The worst part?" he said. "The ignorance. MY ignorance," he added, clarifying. “We don't have personal space back home, I told you right? So, you stand in line, you literally stand up to the next guy, you don't touch their butt, but you stand really close. My friend was standing really, really close to this dude because in India there's not really much space and there's a lot of people, it’s just instincts. You’re not wasting space. And the guy turned around and looked at him and said, ‘Can you get your dick off my ass?’ And I thought that was rude. Now I see he was standing pretty close,” he conceded with a chuckle. “We’re right off the boat dude, we don't know shit. Can you be nicer?
I said I was sorry that he’s encountered rudeness. but he shrugged away my concerns, saying he feels very privileged to live here. He once left the country for a time, uncertain if he would return.
“When I was leaving Canada, not knowing that I was going to come back…people cried for me. And I was overwhelmed thinking, ‘What's going to happen to me?' But then I look at them I'm like, ‘Oh my God, I have family. I have to come back.’ That’s nice, that was something I won't forget. They really cried for me. So, these people I met by myself, not through the influence of my parents, my friends, anything. These are the people I've met, and I acquired their relationships as an individual in a foreign land. There are so many people that I consider family. I have my Canadian parents, a little up north here. I just went there last week and they're like, ‘Oh my second son is here.’”
The warmth and love from his Canadian family is echoed, in its own way, by his family back in India. I voiced my thoughts, imagining how emotional they must be whenever he visits.
“Oh yeah, especially all my sisters, my cousins. My dad says “Yeah, good to see you,” and he would give me a weird hug and I'm like ‘Wow, this is the best hug I ever had.’”
“Hmmm, a classic dad hug. What about you, do you cry when you see them?”
“I cry alone. In my room. Oh, when I see them. I'm sorry, yes. I should have let you finish first.”
“You said that really fast.”
“I’m just thinking about the last time. Twice a year.”
“You give yourself two cries a year?”
“I don't give myself, it's just that's all this body can hold.”
“So, these people I met by myself, not through the influence of my parents, my friends, anything. These are the people I’ve met, and I acquired their relationships as an individual in a foreign land.”
We both reflected on how relationships can feel more meaningful when you don’t see someone all the time. But for me, it’s been hard watching my friends’ lives move forward from afar. Coming back means facing all the things I’ve missed - no easy task. Vik thought about that a moment before responding.
“Weren't they happy to see you? When you came back. Were there tears? Joy? That's way more precious than you sitting at home doing nothing, and them yelling at you to get a job. You know? They value you a little more.”
I wondered about people who never get to experience these meaningful reunions, having never left. “I know a lot of Canadians without passports,” I told Vik.
“A Canadian without a passport,” he mused. “Like I mean you could go almost anywhere in the world. Anywhere in the world without a visa? You could just walk in. I wouldn't blame them, if they don't have the necessity to leave, that's also a different kind of privilege.
“They’re happy,” he went on, rolling his eyes. “These people, with their happiness, and their fucking soulmates, and their stuff, and their stupid Instagram. I posted a bowl of ramen on my Instagram 3 years ago, that’s how happy I am. Maybe we’re doing something wrong.”
For Vik, happiness was about being in the flow – losing himself in an activity, like driving, while his mind drifted freely. As he talked, the sunlight shifted above us, filtered through the canopy of trees around our picnic table. A few people passed by our little area of the park, nodding at us when our eyes met. This felt pretty close to happiness, to me.
“When you came back. Were there tears? Joy? That’s way more precious than you sitting at home doing nothing, and them yelling at you to get a job. You know? They value you a little more.”
“Do you feel like you've changed a lot, moving here?” I asked him.
“Oh yeah. My perspective has been skewered, stretched, and expanded. It’s always a good thing. Sometimes I feel like I forget how Indian I am. The only thing really Indian about me that I would say personally is my love for the food. And I guess my skin tone kind of stands out. I don't care. I’m not ashamed or proud of it, it’s like this is me.”
We talked about white privilege in Canada, the opportunities shaped by skin tone. Vik thought it wasn’t that straightforward.
“I'm privileged,” he said. “I have a nice fluffy cushion to fall back on in India. Not that I asked for it, but it's still there. So that way I am super privileged. But also, I'm here, the fact of the matter is, I’m here, I'm privileged. I get to go out when I want. I get to do what I want. I get to spend my own money. I'm doing everything I'm supposed to, it's fine and I'm responsible for my own actions. I don't have to blame anyone. Back home you could blame the neighbors who are telling you to take that course because they will tell you what to do with your life. You’re responsible for your actions, we're all privileged, and we have a safety net.
“The government takes care of you,” he went on, referring to his Covid experiences and getting laid off. “The government paid me, my landlord reduced the rent by 50%. What the hell dude, this would never happen back home! You know the people who are selling vegetables on the trolley who can’t speak any other language and have never even been outside their city? Yeah, they can’t sell vegetables and how are they going to eat for their next meal? The government is not paying them. They're starving to death.
“And so, we're so privileged in so many ways, but that doesn't have to put you down. If you feel bad about it, I do too. We should all do something that we can. Paying a charity organization to do the work, going and giving homeless people socks in the winter. But you don't have to feel bad because you have been put in such a place. We have to do whatever we can.”
“The fact of the matter is, I’m here, I’m privileged. I get to go out when I want. I get to do what I want. I get to spend my own money. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to, it’s fine and I’m responsible for my own actions.”
The sun hung low and gold in the sky, but the day was no cooler for it. I stretched my arms at the picnic table, feeling the lingering warmth. We decided to pack up our few belongings and leave the park.
As we walked back up the path, I shared a story about a trip to India that went awry years ago. Not every experience abroad has been as comfortable and exciting as Taiwan. Vik was stricken, apologetic. It was my fault, I insisted, and it hasn’t stopped me from traveling.
He nodded, understanding. “You always remember what gives you pain, so you can avoid it. So, you don't remember the good stuff because you're enjoying it and you live in the moment, and you just pass this on.”
We cleared a small hill at the end of the path, which opened to a view of the busy gardens and their adjacent pond. Vik and I headed toward the water’s edge, and I asked him, “Should we travel, if we can?”
“I think everyone should travel,” he said with a nod. “Yeah, definitely. I know you had a terrible experience, when you were young and traveling, but I'm glad you did it. You'll be smarter next time.”
Here’s hoping.
