It was kind of like when I see a little kid from India or Pakistan. We pass each other, and they look up at me. I mean, they stare at me hard with a look of recognition in their eyes, turning to look back at me when we pass. Even Trudy can see it: they know. They know I’ve got some of that blood. The little kids, they can just tell.
So we were wandering around the McGill campus, having peeked into the Rutherford Physics Building in search of The Rutherford Museum. Trudy and I had also spent a little time in the Redpath Museum looking at fossils and rocks and other geological things. We’d been walking a lot, and I’m sure Dad’s knees were hurting as we walked down hill, so we were walking slowly.
And we came upon a bright blue section of pavement marking two handicapped parking spaces. It hadn’t been there on our way up the hill earlier, so I figured it was still wet, and I steered around it, but Trudy, Khadija and Dad walked across it, making me cringe.
Two painters were taking a break on the other side of a little grass strip, evidently having just finished their painting. As we approached, they had stopped talking and watched us closely. I was waiting for them to yell at us.
And just then one of them did shout something. I looked over, and he was addressing himself to Dad.
“Pardon?” Dad said.
The painter repeated himself, but I couldn’t understand what he said. Dad replied using words and a tone of voice that were equally foreign. And of course it was at that point, just as the first “Acha!” came out, I realized they were speaking Urdu.
So we stood there, Trudy, Khadija and I, as Dad had this long back-and-forth conversation with this guy. They were clearly talking about where they came from and when they came to North America, and they were smiling broadly.
This went on for a few minutes with the two of them speaking in animated tones, periodically waving a hand to emphasize a point. And then the two men said goodbye, and we continued our walk down the hill back to the hotel.
So here’s the thing of it…
We were strangers in this French-speaking town wandering around this English-speaking university as tourists. And these two guys were painters taking a break in the shade. And the one looked at Dad and instantly broke out in Urdu as if Dad had a sign hanging from his neck saying, “I speak Urdu.”
He knew. He could just tell, just like those little kids.