CANADIAN GIRLS HAVE NO MANNERS

There was something about the way that the woman in the waiting room carried herself. I'd heard about the sluts in Canada, especially the way they dressed. I'd even now seen it for myself. But this one was really getting to me.

It wasn't much of a waiting room, just a few chairs against the wall on the civilian side of the metal detector. Me, I was there to visit my father. I had seen mom the previous day in another facility. She was doing well. Had my brothers with her. Kept saying, "What I would do to get one decent, competent martha."

I wondered if father had to do his own laundry. Or scrub floors. That would be a sight worth the price of admission.

There she was again. Was that what flirting was? It's not as if we got much practise in Gilead. She kept glancing at me. Looking away. Trying not to look. Me, I just glared at her. A voice deep in my head kept telling me that she needed to be put in her place. Show them. Make it immediate.

Yet - as they say, this wasn't Kansas any more, whatever that meant - and wherever Kansas was. I was still stinging from being 'flipped off' by a group of women, on my first day of unaccompanied leave. It was in a mall. Consumer goods on steroids.

I hadn't known what the middle-finger meant. I was being myself, wide-eyed at all the stores, all the bright-flashing electronics, etc. Stuff of the Devil. Nearby a group of women dressed like sluts. Of course, I stared. I got the one-finger salute, as I was to find out. I yelled at them. It seemed like everyone in the food court that day had a version of, "Go back to Gilead, asshole!"

So much to learn in Canada. Believe me, I would go back to Gilead if I could. There're no manners here.

Back in the waiting area, she stood, walked towards me and asked, "When did you get out?"

Instinctively, I replied, "Mind your tone."

She smiled, and said with a small giggle, "oh." She sat down beside me, "You must be a rarity. Someone here who wants to be there."

This woman wasn't for correcting. I had no plan 'B' for this conversation.

Fortunately, she continued. "The guy I'm visiting probably is like you. Wants to be there, but chose Canada. Canada is all he knows. Prefers Gilead."

I said, "look, lady. I'm nothing like your friend. For one thing, he's in here."

She did that little giggle again. "So who are you visiting? If you don't mind me asking."

"I'm not accountable to you."

"Wow, you really are just off the boat."

What did that mean? I didn't know why I was even talking to her, but I said, "Not a boat, lady. A truck. Me and my brothers."

She said, "Ok, no problem. Say, I'm from Gilead myself. Ever heard of 'Angel's Flight'? The Great Child Theft?"

I course I'd heard of it. Well the latter one. Never heard of angel's fleeing anything. What sane man from Gilead hadn't heard of the trafficking of children?

She said, "Well, that's me. Most of us still get together, after all these years." What? She was one of those children? Why wasn't she clamoring to get back home, like we'd been told?

She pulled out a small business card, handed it to me. Her name was Rebecca, with another name 'Kiki' in quotes. The card had an e-mail address. They allowed women to have business cards with writing on it, and e-mails!? She said, "We can help you find your way around Toronto." I tried to hand the card back to her, but instead she stood. "Look, keep it. I get it."

At that her name was called. She finished with, "it's going to be harder for you, I get it. When you're ready, just shoot me an e-mail. We can help. There's a lot of us."

I said, "I'm not on the Internet. I'm not a terrorist."

As she was picking up her things she said, "Neither am I. Look, just go to a local library. Get the staff there to set you up with a g-mail account. You'll do fine." She started to walk away, then turned and said, "And above all, chill. Relax. This is not Gilead, buttercup."

What did I say? No manners.

KUNAAR'S PUPPY

Kunaar collected puppies. I thought that one of my siblings would eventually make it here, given the shit show in Gilead. I just didn't think he would bring along strays.

Me, I'd been here in Canada since the beginning. I wasn't going to put up with Gilead's shit. Even though dad had been a loyal Son of Jacob, initially we had not been spared dictates from Gilead as they developed in those early years. Fortunately, neither Kunaar nor any of my other brothers were going to have it. Their sister, me, was not going to be a Handmaid.

In fact, my brothers had fashioned the first truck to accommodate me. Me, and a dozen of my desperate friends. My sister, Ranjani, and the boys, they got to work to retrofit the very first 'femaleroad' truck.

I hear that since then, they've fashioned a virtual underground railroad! "Accommodate" is a bit of a euphemism, it meant being sandwiched under the deck of the truck-bed. In such a manner that it was not obvious that there was even any space to be had. I'd almost frozen to death. They've refined things in the meantime.

In the years after, I'd only had one communication with any of them. That was the hard part. I'd not known that dad had died. For us Dhillon's, family is everything.

Kunaar told me that after dad's death, their activity on the femaleroad had picked up. Kunaar himself had gone off to the western campaigns, fighting for Gilead. Was a distinguished cadet at Guardian Academy. Assigned to one of the prominent New Gilead Commander's homes. In old Boston.

Much to catch up on.

Long story short, last month he showed up at my door without so much as a, how do you do. Ok, ok, hugs and kisses and all that. But it's not just him. He had three teenage boys in tow. Commander's boys. Real sexists. What can I say, but 'Gilead'!

Their parents had either defected from Gilead, or had themselves been kidnapped. They'd not been picked up by the media, and Kunaar never said. Upshot was that quite quickly the two younger ones got shipped off to their mother, who herself was in some minimal security incarceration that allowed kids.

The eldest - a real prick - stayed with us. Me and Kunaar. The kid was my project now. I'm not going to take any of his sexist shit, we had too much of that growing up in Syracuse when dad wanted our house to conform.

In a way it's funny. It's hilarious the way that the little prick thinks he's still lord of the manor. Mom, a martha, and Guardians at his beck and call. Good thing that he's a neat-freak. Took him a week to get disgusted with the sheets on his bed and the smell of his clothes. He'd wanted me to do his laundry. I showed him where the machine and detergent were, said, "Have at it!"

I wish I'd had a camera, the look on his face.

Kunaar's puppy.

At that, a key went into the doorlock, it opened, Kunaar and the kid came in, "Paavarasi, are you home?"

They came into the kitchen, Kunaar poured himself some coffee and sat at the table with me. It was all I could do not to laugh. The kid just stood there, obviously wanting some coffee of his own. But it always took a good three or four seconds for his brain to kick in. If he didn't get it for himself, he went without. That's a lesson dad never learned.

I asked, "How was it?"

Kunaar said, "well, he tells me," pointing to the kid, "that The Commander doesn't know I'm in Canada."

I looked at the kid, now pouring a cup for himself, but said to Kunaar, "Do you believe him?"

"I doesn't make much difference."

At that the kid sat with his cup and said, "I didn't say a thing about you people."

Kunaar continued, "It's not as if I can go back anyway. I'm really worried about the rest of us Dhillon's back in Syracuse." Kunaar looked at the kid, said, "getting those boys out seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. Me, I don't see how Gilead security **doesn't** figure this one out."

Kunaar took a sip, then added, "I guess if we stop hearing from the garage, we'll know."

I looked at the kid. "How was your dad?"

He corrected me. "My **father** is strong. Neither Americans nor Canadians scare him. You people will have your hands full with him."

I said, "And yet, there he was."

"Betrayal, pure betrayal. If you guys knew your scripture, you'd know about the Thursday night of betrayal for our Lord."

I giggled. Yes, that's what we'd been taught back in Syracuse. "Well, now we know. Your dad will soon be walking on water."

Kunaar bristled, "Paavarasi! Give it a rest."

I bristled back. "Why are you protecting him? Why is he here, Kunaar?"

Kunaar shrugged. "He's family."

He then caught me completely by surprise, "Paavarasi, how many sisters did dad have?"

Kunaar must be going nuts. He knew damn well how many sisters dad had. Apparently, there had been one more. A martha. In that Commander's house, way back when.

CHILDREN OF HAM

Kunaar was waiting in the kitchen of the Commander's house. Although his family had always had trucking facilities there in the New Gilead District, the main trucking HQ (as his dad had always called it) was in Syracuse in the newly constituted Eastern District.

The martha of the house was helping him cool his heals. This Commander must be particularly high up the food chain, Kunaar thought. That was because in his own world, Kunaar was high up in his own smaller pond. A hero of the Western Campaigns. Finished first in his class at the Guardians Academy. The first, if not the only, person of South Asian descent to even have graduated.

Indeed, the whole question of the Children of Ham had been put aside at the Academy. Commandant's orders. Were South Asians Canaanites or weren't they? Such was the theological debate in Gilead. Many jurisdictions still had anti-Children of Ham laws on their books, most Commanders Chanceries just ignored them. As far as Kunaar knew, the Academy was the only institution in Gilead which had consciously struck down those views within their purview.

Which does not totally explain what Kunaar was doing sipping coffee and having a nice chat with this martha.

It didn't save him, though, from always being quizzed about it. It would be innocently asked, "Where are you from?" He would steel himself, but refused to say anything other than, "I'm from Syracuse."

So the martha started in. "Kunaar, where are you from?"

By rote, Kunaar replied, "I'm from Syracuse, in the Eastern District."

He recited the words in his head as the martha spoke them, "No, I mean your people. Where are your people from?" Those people never 'meant anything' by it. To them it was as natural a question as asking what one's favourite colour might be.

But the coffee was good, so from rote Kunaar gave the memorized reply. "My great-grandfather come here after India's independence. We were a Christian family, caught out in the Hindu-Muslim fights back there."

"Oh," was all she said as she continued with her work. She turned and said, "Do you need a refill?"

"Yes, please."

Kunaar knew enough not to ask why he was there, not while the martha was in the kitchen. At that, the martha noticed that a small light went on, on a panel beside the door to the main part of the house. She said, "You're on. Commander's study is to the left behind a big ornate door. Leave the coffee here. Knock before going in. Don't open the door - wait until he summons."