Searching For Godot

The Last White Bison in Toronto

Godfrey Pereira

The Reward was enticing. The posters said, find the last white bison, shoot it, bring back the head as proof, and you will be bestowed with a million dollar reward. Book deals, television appearances and newspaper interviews would be the natural fallout, naturally.

Legend had it that the great white Bison herd, headed by Pale Face, the fearsome alpha male, had crossed into Buffalo one winter night and disappeared into the forests.

Godot, First cousin to Pale Face chose to stay in Toronto, alone on the range at Humber Bay Park in Etobicoke.

He had seen the poster. He felt like Chief Sitting Bull being forced out of Wood Mountain the prairie province in Saskatchewan.

From the Chudidhar and Saree stores in Brampton to the Halal mutton shops dotting Highway 10, people talked about Finding Godot.

Theological debates, fierce with religious passion, rent the air in holy Temples, social clubs and restaurants.

Godot was a bison. He was a relative, five times removed of the cow. So…. If the cow was sacred, that means her relatives were sacred, too. Cow slaughter is a sin, so the call to kill Godot was a sin.

Deductive logic said so.

Aslam Khan laughed scornfully and told them exactly which orifice they could stuff their deductive logic into. He told them he was ready to kill Godot if he could find him.

Halal style, of course.

That was the right way.

And this fuelled new fiery debates.

Torontonians were excited. The hunt was on.

How was Godot to be killed?

Halaal style or jathka method?

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

This was no ordinary killing.

Ancient, sacred tradition had to be followed.

Sigmund Singh, brother of Harry Singh and first cousin to Sing Singh said that the Torontonians had scared the herd of White Bison away. “Look around,” he shouted,” you don’t see the White Bison here anymore. Why? Why did they leave? Does anybody know? What are the sociological implications?” They called Sigmund an idiot and a traitor to the cause and banished him from any further Godot meetings. He had to leave without his sword in case he tried to hurt himself. His ailing mother publicly proclaimed that she was ashamed of her only son, and demanded that Sigmund shave and change his name to Twelve O Clock.

BJP Choudhary said he did not care about these mundane matters. He was busy demolishing a mosque, and overseeing the construction of sacred twenty four carat gold bricks, embedded with the word RAM in real diamonds .He was going to build a Temple of all Temples in the place where the mosque stood. This was going to be the Light house of Toronto, the shining beacon on the hill. Who cared about some miserable Godot hiding like a bloody coward! Saffron Thackeray said, Toronto was only for Asians and pledged extreme violence against anybody else who chose to stay. He also promised to change the name of Toronto to Pratapgad.

Francis De’souza said something about integration lost, and a possible backlash from Godot’s kit and kin. They laughed at Francis. Told him to go home to his short, fat, ugly wife, Feni and pig meat.

The debate continued.

Living and hiding in solitary confinement, Godot was starving. He foraged for food all over Toronto when the sun went down. Darkness shrouded his hoof beats as he searched for food. Chicken Kadai, Mutton Masala, Tandoori Roti and Andhra Mouth Burners. He could not stomach this food. He needed a simple meat and potato dish, a Sheppard's Pie, if possible. Godot was wasting away. His kind of food had disappeared.

What had happened to Butter Tarts, Jigg’s Dinner, Fish and Brewis. Ahaaa.. to wash that down with a stiff Bloody Caesar! Where did it all go? The grass was sparse in Toronto he told himself. Godot could not understand the signs on the stores anymore. Jaikishan Halal Mart, Bollywood Treasures and Gulab Emporium confused him and led to a distinctive cultural unease.

He thought about making a run for Quebec but his mother had once warned him that those animals from Quebec were rude beasts, whose xenophobia prevented outsiders from joining the herd. It was too late to hoof it to Buffalo, so here he was in the land of his birth, a stranger to the new customs, mores, and traditions.

And why were turbaned men walking the roads with swords?

Before the posters went up, Godot remembered going into town and feeling like a stranger. He thought about changing his clothing style and decided that he would look rather stupid in a Kurta- Payjama with rubber bathroom slippers. He even toyed with the idea of changing his name to Gaby Patel.

It was getting extremely difficult to exist as a White Bison in Toronto. And now, there was a price on his horns. Should he make a stand? Or should he try and hot trot to Vancouver?

All over the 630 square Kilometers of Toronto the debate raged. At the intersection of Dundas Street and University Avenue, a youth gathering turned ugly when The Goan Club, brandishing uncooked Goa sausages attacked The Mangolearian Club and accused them of being backstabbers. The East Indian Club, claiming that Sorpotel was their creation disrupted the proceedings by playing their ghumets very loudly. Voices were raised in anger over the swiftest and most humane way to kill Godot. The Telegu club joined the fray and The Maharashtrian club walked away in disgust, muttering nasty things about South Indians and the dark color of their skin.

Backstabbing so common was now the accepted norm.

The Toronto East Goan Seniors Association went on a hunger strike and refused to listen to the Goa Overseas Association. The Goan Konkani Troupe performed manddos and dulpods, at the “Goddamn, Get Godot” Function. The Sikhs not to be outdone slammed dholaks and danced to the latest Rap Bhangra.

It was carnival time.

Revolution was in the air.

The legend of Godot, the last white Bison grew.

In Toronto today, rumors of the White Bison herd making a comeback can be heard intermittently.

Godot’s prairie has turned into a paan shop and that’s a leaf Bison don’t eat.

Sometimes at night, hidden in a cave he thought about Toronto.

He thought about his White Bison herd. Wondered where they were.

He thought about the present, and the past made him cry.

Somewhere along the way, for him, the green grass turned brown.

There could have been a better way.

Outside his cave, Godot heard the sound of footsteps.

He waited silently, in confusion, fear and anger.

In the land of his dying.

In Toronto, Canada.

Last night, the last white Bison passed away.

Nobody cared to listen to his final words.

Echoing in the brown dusty wind.

In Toronto, Canada.