Fiction: For Jalandhar boy Sukhpreet, Canada is a land of promise and prosperity. A shock awaits him

The assistant wasn’t looking up at him. Sukhpreet tried raising his voice a little, then lowered it almost instantly, worried about coming across as rude. There were around forty other men behind him, patiently waiting their turn at the counter. It had taken him five weeks to get an appointment and he wanted to convince the woman behind the counter that his application was genuine. Her name was Rita, and he couldn’t tell if she was Punjabi because there was no last name on the plastic tag affixed to the front of her blouse.

It was 12.45 pm, and he had already been here for four hours. He knew the assistants were overworked and would probably dismiss him within minutes, moving on to the next student if he wasn’t good enough to be assigned an education counsellor. The centre was called Student Abroad Consultants, a relatively new institution that had been in Jalandhar for a little over two years, but that claimed to have sent over five thousand students to foreign universities in that period. There were other centres, some that had been around for over a decade, but Sukhpreet had heard good things about SAC. He was told by students from his college who had secured visas over the past year that SAC knew what it was doing.

“I have the application fee,” he said, and she finally looked up.

“You have to apply to four or five colleges if you want to improve your chances.”

“Yes, madam, I have the fee for three applications.”

She picked up the sheaf of papers he had placed before her and flipped through them. “Diploma is best. Fastest to process, but you only get two years. After that, you have to manage.”

“Yes, that is fine,” he replied, feeling his palms start to sweat.

He had done his research and knew a diploma was his only option. A degree was out of the question, not only because the cost was prohibitive, but because he knew how poorly he had done in the IELTS. Most colleges insisted on a minimum score of 6 out of 10, but a degree required better grades as an undergraduate, which almost none of his classmates possessed. Colleges also asked for more paperwork, and a statement of purpose that would require him to pay another consultant. It was impossible, and he knew it. He could tell that Rita knew it, too, just by the way she looked at him. She finally picked up the papers and placed them in a binder, moving it to her right, atop a pile.

“Okay,” she said, “I will create a profile for you. We can begin working on your application after you pay a processing fee. Come back with a receipt from the cashier and you will receive an email from our head office about your follow-up appointment. Bring your bank statement and proof of funds. The counsellor assigned to you will guide you through the next steps.”

“Thank you, madam,” he said, almost bowing before he stopped himself. It felt as if he had run a marathon, although this was just the first step. But he was in, one foot through the door, and all he had to do was keep moving, ticking one box after another, until he had that student visa stamped on his new passport. He could almost taste it, a subtle shift in the air, as if he had been placed in a capsule and separated from the tired, sweating hordes in the office.

He stepped out minutes later, blinking in the afternoon light, his eyes adjusting to the glare after a morning spent in the gloomy air-conditioned room. He looked for a small dhaba he could eat lunch in, wondering if it made more sense to head back to college for a cheaper meal. He was hungry, but also felt a lightness in the pit of his stomach. He had taken a decisive step towards his future, and would stop only when he landed in Brampton, in beautiful Canada.

It still felt unreal, the possibility of moving to a place where he could go boating in lakes that seemed impossibly blue in colour, or wrap himself in fur and look up as snowflakes landed gently on his tongue. It was a world at odds with the streets of Jalandhar, perennially blanketed with dust from passing automobiles, where every breath was marked with the sharp tang of petrol.

This was a fancier part of the city, which reassured him, because a counselling centre on one of the more rundown streets would not inspire confidence. The older institutes didn’t charge high processing fees because they were paid by Canadian colleges for every successful application, but he hoped the payment to SAC would make them spend more time on him and increase the chances of his application being accepted. He could think about paying off his loans later.

Spotting a dhaba that looked less expensive than the restaurants alongside, he stepped inside. It was a simple place, and he was grateful, knowing the meal would be filling but affordable. He had to save as much as he could. Ordering a kulcha with dal, he thought about calling his mother, then decided to wait until he met the counsellor. He didn’t want to raise her hopes. He would get all the facts, start the application process and then tell her what his chances of getting through were. After that, they could have a conversation about whom to approach for a temporary transfer of funds to inflate his bank account before applying for a visa.

Waiting for the food to arrive, he flipped out his phone. There were no messages from his cousin Dan on WhatsApp because it was long past midnight in Toronto. The messages would come by late evening when Dan awoke, before he headed out to his job. Sukhpreet didn’t fully understand what his cousin did, but knew it had something to do with the delivery business. The company he worked for had given him a bicycle, and there were often photographs of Dan leaning against it, with some tall building in the background. Once, there were even a few photographs of him with a white woman, and Sukhpreet had zoomed in, marvelling at how a boy who had never spoken to a girl while growing up in Chukhiara had found the courage to stand next to a gori. It made him wonder if he would meet a white woman too. What if he fell in love with one and invited her home to meet his mother? How would she react? What would their neighbours say when he pulled up in a car with his gori girlfriend?

He was interrupted by a waiter, who placed a steel thali before him. Sukhpreet put away his phone and reached for the kulcha, tearing off a piece and dipping it into the dal. He continued to think about Dan, and how his cousin had done what no one thought he could. A man without a real education and no work experience had managed to leave Punjab and start a new life in Canada. It made Sukhpreet feel superhuman; if his cousin could get out, nothing would stop him. It had been four years, and he missed Dan, but knew he could count on him when he arrived in Brampton himself.

“I’ll take you to this club where women take their clothes off,” Dan had told him a few weeks ago, and Sukhpreet had almost shouted in shock. It had taken him hours to fall asleep that night. Toronto. It was such a strange word, but one he heard often in college, from classmates who had family or friends in the city. They all pronounced it differently, and he kept forgetting to ask Dan how the locals said it. Was it Turranto, Toe-run-toe, or Tarr-honn-toh? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe they were free to call it what they wanted after they were accepted and welcomed into Canada.

Finishing his meal, he paid and walked out of the dhaba, after checking to make sure he hadn’t left any of his papers behind. They were all originals – his birth certificate, school leaving certificate, and HSC certificate declaring that he had scored 54%. There was also a copy of the IELTS test he had given a few months ago. He had scored just 4.5, but knew he could do it two more times; he’d convince the counsellor that his score would improve. He would work on practice tests over the weekend now that SAC had accepted him as a candidate.

Making a list on the bus ride back to college, he considered what he would have to do over the coming weeks. The first thing was to finalise the diploma courses he could apply to and find out what each institution wanted as part of the application. He had all the papers, but wanted to check with the counsellor; he put it down as one of the things he needed to ask.

There was the big question mark around funds. They wanted him to bring a bank statement, which meant asking his uncle to transfer a certain amount as soon as possible. He had heard of students being asked for statements for six months, as opposed to three, and hoped that wouldn’t happen. If it became a rule, it would mean asking for a loan now and applying six months later. There were other options, but he didn’t want his mother to mortgage what was left of their fields. His uncle would not be happy, but Sukhpreet could convince him by offering a higher interest and faster repayment options. Dan had told him that earning in dollars meant being able to pay back any loan in a few years, and he would remember to mention that while speaking to his uncle. The thought of earning in dollars made him look out of the bus window, his mind drifting to what that first trip home would look like. Would he wear a suit? Rent a car from the airport?

Dan had not returned to Jalandhar, despite promising every year. He blamed it on work and how it was impossible to get time off because his company relied on him. Sukhpreet didn’t mind. If he got to Canada, he hoped to spend time with his cousin and find stability. Work was important. It was only after their loans were repaid that they could breathe a little and take time off for a holiday.

As the bus approached his stop, he stood up and put away his pen and notebook. He looked forward to a nap in the hostel room he shared with two other students. They were usually out all day, roaming the streets on a motorcycle. The room would be empty, and he would be able to think about the day’s events more carefully. He walked up the dark stairs and unlocked the door, putting away his papers before lying down. The room was musty despite an open window, and he wished the hostel would do something about the fans. They were impotent machines, swirling desultorily, their motors weak and on the verge of giving up. Some of his classmates rented rooms outside campus or stayed with relatives, but this was his only option.

Thinking about his classmates reminded him of his mother. Maybe he should have called to let her know about the consultant, even if it was premature. He could picture her, sitting on the mud floor of their home, washing the plate she must have used for lunch, before lying down. He wished he could be with her, but knew that his presence here, in college, meant more. It sometimes felt as if his family was cursed, but it was wrong to think of circumstances that way. It was Waheguru alone who decided how their stories would turn out, and he mouthed a silent prayer by way of apology for questioning fate.

Excerpted with permission from Super: A Novel, Lindsay Pereira, HarperCollins India.