Life of Pi

He’s married. I am bent down, taking my shoes off, when I hear him say, “I would like you to meet my wife.” I look up and there beside him is… Mrs. Patel. “Hello,” she says, extending her hand and smiling. “Piscine has been telling me lots about you.” I can’t say the same of her. I had no idea. She’s on her way out, so we talk only a few minutes. She’s also Indian but has a more typically Canadian accent. She must be second generation. She’s a little younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hair woven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and lovely white teeth. She has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in a protective plastic film. She’s a pharmacist. When I say, “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel,” she replies, “Please, make it Meena.” After a quick kiss between husband and wife, she’s off on a working Saturday.

This house is more than a box full of icons. I start noticing small signs of conjugal existence. They were there all along, but I hadn’t seen them because I wasn’t looking for them.

He’s a shy man. Life has taught him not to show off what is most precious to him.

Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract?

“I’ve made a special chutney for you,” he says. He’s smiling.

No, he is.

C H A P T E R 3 I

They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and the teacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the wish to see the zoo. “All these years and I’ve never seen it. It’s so close by, too. Will you show it to me?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” I replied. “It would be an honour.” We agreed to meet at the main gate the next day after school.

I worried all that day. I scolded myself, “You fool! Why did you say the main gate? At any time there will be a crowd of people there. Have you forgotten how plain he looks? You’ll never recognize him!“ If I walked by him without seeing him ‘he would be hurt. He would think I had changed my mind and didn’t want to be seen with a poor Muslim baker. He would leave without saying a word. He wouldn’t be angry—he would accept my claims that it was the sun in my eyes—but he wouldn’t want to come to the zoo any more. I could see it happening that way. I had to recognize him. I would hide and wait until I was certain it was him, that’s what I would do. But I had noticed before that it was when I tried my hardest to recognize him that I was least able to pick him out. The very effort seemed to blind me.

At the appointed hour I stopd squarely before the main gate of the zoo and started rubbing my eyes with both hands.

“What are you doing?”

It was Raj, a friend.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re busy rubbing your eyes?”

“Go away.”

“Let’s go to Beach Road.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Well, you’ll miss him if you keep rubbing your eyes like that.”

“Thank you for the information. Have fun on Beach Road.”

“How about Government Park?”

“I can’t, I tell you.”

“Come on.”

“Please, Raj, move on!”

He left. I went back to rubbing my eyes.

“Will you help me with my math homework, Pi?”

It was Ajith, another friend.

“Later. Go away.”

“Hello, Piscine.”

It was Mrs. Radhakrishna, a friend of Mother’s. In a few more words I eased her on her way.

“Excuse me. Where’s Laporte Street?”

A stranger.

“That way.”

“How much is admission to the zoo?”

Another stranger.

“Five rupees. The ticket booth is right there.”

“Has the chlorine got to your eyes?”

It was Mamaji.

“Hello, Mamaji. No, it hasn’t.”

“Is your father around?”

“I think so.”

“See you tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Mamaji.”

“I am here, Piscine.”

My hands froze over my eyes. That voice. Strange in a familiar way, familiar in a strange way. I felt a smile welling up in me.

“Salaam alaykum, Mr. Kumar! How good to see you.”

“Wa alaykum as-salaam. Is something wrong with your eyes?”

“No, nothing. Just a bit of dust.”

“They look quite red.”

“It’s nothing.”