BHUCHANDRA SHARMA SAVED FOR FIVE YEARS TO BUILD HIS CANADIAN NEST-EGG. He spent it all in two weeks -- at a luxury hotel.

Sharma and his bride arrived from India with nothing but four suitcases, the money carefully hidden in one of them. His brother here in Canada paid their passage to Ottawa. But somehow things had been mixed up, or misconstrued. They arrived early.

And while Sharma's brother searched for a cheap apartment, they stayed at the Lord Elgin. Sharma had liked the name.

Sharma's brother arranged a part-time job for him at Leemans -- where my husband, Hal, was sales manager. Hal had come home to tell me about the new "boy."

"He's Hindu. Brahmin." He put on his scholarly look. "That means he's upper class in their caste system. Aloof, but rightfully so."

"I know what a Brahmin is Hal. I'm not stupid."

"I was just laying groundwork." He looked at me over his fork of instant mashed potatoes. "To explain why I've decided to help him."

"Does this mean 'we'?" I asked. "Is this going to cost us money?"

He flipped a meatball through the canned gravy before he spoke, not looking at me. "A little." Money was tight when I wasn't working. "I thought, the Neighbourhood Services, or the Sally Ann. It doesn't need to be anything fancy."

"What do they need?" I felt myself relenting. Charity was supposed to be good for the soul.

"Everything. I mean everything. Their apartment is completely bare and Sharma has to pay the brother back with his first paycheck." Hal looked across at me, not blinking. "They hardly have enough for food ... and his wife is pregnant."

We got them a queen-size mattress; a six-drawer dresser; a matching sofa and two armchairs; a low, round coffee table; a kitchen table; and three white chairs that didn't match.

"The difference is in their minds," Hal said. "They feel like us; but they think differently. Don't try to understand them."

It had been three months since we helped out Sharma's family and no invitation had arrived. By telephone, mail, or mouth. I was ticked.

"So he doesn't have a telephone," I said, "but there are such things as pay phones. And he works in the same building, for heaven's sake. He could come up to you and at least say, 'Thank you.'" I handed Hal his lunch bag.

"Obligation sits heavy on his shoulders," he said.

"Oh, don't spout that psychology stuff at me. One course and you think you're an expert. People -- black, white or purple -- people say thank you."

"You don't understand."

Hal stood in the open doorway for a second, then bent and kissed me on the forehead.

"Don't patronize me!" I yelled as he walked to the car.

A few weeks later, Hal came home swelling with news. "You'll never guess," he said.

"Sharma invited us over."

He stopped in the middle of taking off his jacket, "Uh, no," and continued pulling his arms from the sleeves. He sat down heavily and sighed. "Who would have thought it?"

"Who would have thought what? Tell me, for heaven's sake."

Hal smiled as only a male can smile. "Sharma's having an affair."

"The bastard!"

Hal looked shocked. "No. You don't understand. It's different for them. When a wife's pregnant --"

"This is Canada," I cut in. "In India they murder people at the drop of a hat. That doesn't make it all right here." We were both silent for a while. "Who is it, anyway?"

"Sheila Drummond."

"Sheila? Little Sheila? But she's ... she's not even eighteen!"

"Well, she sleeps around. I guess Sharma heard."

"I didn't hear. Sheila ... but that still doesn't give him the right." I handed Hal a coffee and started to lay the table. "How did you find out?"

"He told me. Quite open about it. They have a different attitude to sex than we do."

"He seems to do a lot of talking to you," I said.

"I'm approachable."

"You're top brass, is what you are. He probably thinks everyone else is beneath him." I watched as Hal shook his head. "So tell me what he said."

"It's crude."

"I'm not a kid, Hal."

"Well, okay." His reluctance was pure sham. "They do it in the back seat, back seat of his car. Can you imagine? Right out there in the parking lot. Sharma said she's 'suitable for the act' but not too good at it."

"I get the feeling Sharma thinks all white people aren't 'too good at it.' Referring to anything," I said.

Sharma's baby, a boy, was almost a year old when we were finally invited over. Sharma, his wife and the child had just come back from a trip to India.

"To show his son off to relatives," Hal said.

"If they're still so poor how can they afford a trip like that?" I asked.

"Oh, the family paid. First sons are top priority over there. Sharma said that his son received many gifts. Mostly cushions. If they'd stayed longer they would have had more. But Sharma was afraid his son's skin would darken. And the heat, he said. It really --"

"Back up a bit, Hal. What do you mean 'afraid he'd darken up'? And just what's so great about cushions?"

Hal smiled his "boys will be boys" smile. "The cushions are ingenious. Sharma says it's common practice. Saves a hell of a lot on duty. You wouldn't believe what those people can dream up." He started to smile, remembering other conversations, I guessed.

"Hal. Get on with it, will you? The cushions. The dark part."

Hal looked offended. "I was telling you." He paused for a few seconds just to make me squirm, and continued. "They take these real expensive saris -- silk with gold and silver threads woven in -- fold them to cushion size and sew a covering over them. The covers are cotton embroidered with cotton thread, and decorated with those little mirrors. You've seen them. Sell for about $12.99."

I nodded. "Go on."

"They pay duty on the cushions, then sell the saris over here for a fortune. Sharma said he brought back seven of them."

"I think that's awful," I said. "The man's a sexist pig and a criminal."

"Oh, come on now. You don't even know him. Fact is, you've never even seen him."

Sharma's apartment smells like coriander and cinnamon, with a faint undertone of flowers. His son, Sharma tells us, is sleeping. Would Hal's wife care to join his wife?

His wife is in the kitchen rolling chapatties on the table we have given them. The rest of the ingredients for the meal are there also. I realize that I do not know her name and ask the sister-in-law who is there to translate. Sharma's wife speaks little English.

The sister-in-law wears a turquoise and gold sari. It is quite beautiful on her. Sharma's wife wears orange. The sari is very plain, and faded in spots. It is ugly.

Sharma's wife is ugly also, and at least ten years older than he is. But maybe not. Who knows what may age Indian women and leave the men young. But she is ugly.

Sharma is handsome. The marriage was arranged by their families.

I learn that her name is Chuckpa. I was hoping for some name I could compliment. "What a beautiful name," I would like to say, but what can you say about Chuckpa?

I ask about their son. Her eyes light up. The sister-in-law translates. "She says, 'Sharma's son is beautiful. His skin like milk.'"

"Like milk?" I ask.

"Oh, yes." The sister-in-law smiles broadly. "Sharma's son is blessed with very light skin."

I watch as Chuckpa drops a chapatty into the oil boiling on the stove. It swells like a pregnant woman. She turns it with tongs, holds it under the oil for a few seconds and lifts it out onto the newspapers that cover the kitchen counter. The counter is covered with blistered chapatties.

"I smell coriander," I say.

"It is the chicken," the sister-in-law answers. "It has been cooking in yogurt and coriander since this morning."

"And the cinnamon?"

"Walnut balls in syrup. For dessert."

There are other things bubbling on the stove. Bowls of condiments -- coconut, chopped green peppers, sliced bananas, raisins -- are scattered about the kitchen. They have set us a feast and there seems no place to sit down and eat it.

"How does she like Canada?" I ask.

"She says, 'Sharma thinks it is fine.'"

"But what does she think?"

The sister-in-law looks surprised. "She thinks what her husband thinks, of course."

Sharma walks into the kitchen. He doesn't acknowledge our existence but moves directly to a paneled door and opens it. It is a closet. Inside are the three white mismatched chairs that we have given them. Two are stacked neatly, one upside-down on the other. The third chair is haphazardly placed on top, one leg hooked under a rung.

Sharma lifts off the top chair, sets it down, removes the second chair, and then carries both from the room. I turn to see Chuckpa and the sister-in-law working at twice their previous pace. The master, it seems, has signaled time to eat.

"Eat," Chuckpa says. She smiles, revealing large, brown teeth. I follow the two women, each carrying bowls of food into the living room. My offer of help is declined.

They place the bowls on the round coffee table we have given them and return to the kitchen for more food. Cushions of various sizes surround the table. Two white chairs stand nearby.

"For Hal and his wife," Sharma says, pointing to the chairs. He grins. His teeth are a perfect white.

Chuckpa and the sister-in-law return. They sit down on the cushions and Chuckpa giggles.

"She is excited," the sister-in-law says. "To eat with the husbands is great honor."

Chuckpa says something, looking at her husband all the while. The sister-in-law translates.

"Sharma hopes the meal is satisfactory. Sharma gives this meal as a token of his esteem."

Sharma nods to his wife, but he doesn't smile at her. Nevertheless, she blushes. Then Sharma smiles at Hal and points again to the chairs, motioning us to sit down. A nod to his wife and she is busy filling plates for us.

Hal smiles at me, as if to say, "See. A place of honor."

I shrug, walk toward the chair, and feel Sharma's hand as it runs lightly across my behind.

[ Story copyright © 2000 Joy Hewitt Mann. All rights reserved. ]

    Another Stoy by Joy Hewitt Mann:
    The Tree

A writer for ten years, Joy Hewitt Mann has seen her work appear in such print journals as Whetstone and The Malahat Review. New to online publication, her first electronically transmitted story, "Teller," appears on Storyteller.UK. She has stories due in March 2000 on Jackhammer and The Danforth Review. Joy is presently the editor for The Valley Writers' Guild (Ottawa, Canada), producing its bimonthly newsletter and annual literary anthology. Her first short story collection, Clinging to Water, is due out this year from Boheme Press, Toronto. When not writing, she runs a large junk store in Spencerville, Ontario.

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