In Focus

Hard day's night

· Jaswinder Jaura, businessman from Chandigarh, drives a cab in Toronto   Doctors, teach- ers, engineers and lawyers. Businessmen and academics. Accountants and ad professionals. They come from different corners of the world. They come with the common dream of making it in their new country. Some do fabulously well. Others don't. Some pursue their dreams in their own line of expertise. Others take up jobs they never in their wildest dreams saw themselves doing. A doctor works as a butcher. A chemical engineer pumps gas, and an accountant bangs nails at a factory. A marketing professional uses his power of persuasion as a telemarketer. A journalist delivers newspapers, and a restaurant owner flips burgers at a fast food place. For some, 'compromise' is an ugly, soul-destroying word. Others discover new strengths...

Jaswinder Jaura had a successful business sell-ing medicines in Chandigarh, India, and also ran a Punjab-wide courier service.

Wanting to catch up with friends who were lawyers and white collar professionals, the B.Com graduate was doing his mba when a marriage proposal came for him.

He was 28 at the time and his brothers teased him about becoming an old bachelor. So Jaswinder, who hadn't thought of going abroad, except perhaps to study or for a holiday, got married and came to Canada where his wife's family lived.

That was in 1995.

Since then, Jaura has worked in a travel agency, in a factory as a punch press and break press operator, done lathe machine and milling machine courses as well as courses in income tax.

"Bahut kuch kiya hai. (I have done everything). I was new and I feel my in-laws had kept me in the dark about the realities here. I had no Canadian experience and did whatever anyone suggested would help me earn a steady income."

Unable to handle the stress, Jaura went into depression and was on medication for a year.

"Outside forces were dictating my life and the conditions were such that the only way I could survive was by killing all feeling inside me. I became an automaton."

Jaura used to be the secretary of the Samajwadi Party in Punjab and had some social standing. Here, he felt stripped of all dignity.

"There, people used to work for me. Here, I'd stand in line and ask for a job."

His attempts at starting an import-export business fell through and he is owed a lot of money.

Though he was making $14 an hour, Jaura was not happy working in a factory. He got a licence to drive a cab in Mississauga and Markham and then one to drive airport taxis.

The businessman from India now works for a company that owns airport taxis.

"It's not a bad job. I wear a smart uniform and drive a clean cab. The income is comfortable though we took a big hit after September 11. It had become difficult to meet our expenses."

He enjoys the fact that he is an independent operator, there is no supervisor to report to. And unlike those who drive cabs downtown, it is relatively safe.

Most of the time.

He talks of the time a passenger told him to turn into a dark alley in downtown Toronto. Jaura was immediately on the alert, expecting trouble.

"You never really know who is sitting behind you. I removed my seat belt, turned slightly in my seat so as to be able to maintain eye contact and engaged him in conversation."

The ride turned out to be without incident, but Jaura says many of cab drivers have not been so lucky.

He dreams of going independent, but it's an extremely expensive proposition. A licence plate costs $250,000. Just to rent a cab for a 24-hour shift, one has to pay $150-$200 and gas is extra.

Jaura says he feels like he's trapped between two worlds ­ the India he left behind and his present life in Canada.

 

 

"Yahan dil nahin lagta (my heart is not here) but now I feel I don't belong even in India."

On his last visit to india, he found his friends had all moved on, he didn't feel good telling them about being a cab driver and everything was so expensive.

"Here you know how we buy everything at a sale? There, everyone thought I was this big shot with loads of dollars in my pocket while I was in a state of shock over the prices!"

Back in Toronto, he lives from day-to-day.

"I am so tired. I don't know what a weekend is anymore."

What future does he envisage for his two boys aged four and one?

"Main kuch nahin sochta (I'm not planning anything)," says the 34-year-old.

"What's the point? Whatever I'd hoped for didn't work out for me.

"I used to say kismat bakwas hai (there's no such thing as fate). That man made his own life with hard work. But I lost everything..."

* * *

Manzoor Khan (not his real name) came to Canada so his children could get an education in the first world.

"But maine kabhi nahin socha tha meri zindagi kitni battar ho jayegi." (I'd never imagined how hard my life here would be.)

The civil engineer failed to land a job. After months of trying, when savings ran dangerously low, a friend put in a word for him with a company that looks after and cleans commercial properties.

Khan got a job as a janitor.

"I know we talk about the dignity of labour. I know that many people work as janitors and make a decent enough living and what's more, are not ashamed of what they are doing. But to think like that, one has to grow up in this mahoul (atmosphere). I feel ashamed to write to my family in Pakistan and tell them what I am doing in Canada. What will they say? Bade gaye the, bathroom saaf karne (big deal, he went there to clean washrooms)."

* * *

K. Raja's wife had relatives in Canada and the us and they sent back glowing reports of life in the West.

The Rajas came to Canada on a holiday a year and a half ago and fell in love with the place.

"But when you come here for good, the reality is very different," he smiles ruefully.

 

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