i.  Listen for the beacon. It will be faint during the day but pulse distinctly at night. That’s how you’ll know you’re still here and that each breath matters. In and out. There is something burgeoning in your rib cage. You don’t need to give it a name. It will ripen, then decay. Rot. Your bones know this: they don’t fight back.

ii.  You wonder what happened to Harminder, will always wonder. The last time you saw her she looked happy, sounded happy but you’re not sure because you’re equally good at deceiving your own emotions. Small smile, chiclet teeth. She was working as a cashier at Safeway. Safe. In many ways. Independent. You hope she survived, dream she did.

iii.  Driving on the Trans-Canada Highway is the best kind of therapy. Music on, bad thoughts parked until you restart them. Remember to pay attention to the green signs along the road. In big white letters, they shout the English names for these ancient lands. Stolen lands. A tarmac ribbon from sea to bloody shining sea. The green signs will tell you things you may have forgotten, point to places you may want to visit. Wildlife corridor. Drive with care. Scan the edges for signs of life and be prepared to stop abruptly for animals both small and large. They deserve at least that much from you.

iv.  Stop wrestling with the notion of kal and accept that it can mean both tomorrow and yesterday. Accept that you now live in the land where the present is paramount. Nod and smile when people ask you if you’re good at living in the moment. Pretend you know what this means and don’t tell them that there is so much more than this moment. That you have existed in the past and are unsure if you can make it to the future.

v.  Don’t make eye contact with the babas and bibis in the elevator. Look away from their buckets, mops, and brooms. Their tired brown hands. Their dignity. The cleaning cart with its wastebasket overflowing with corporate memos and greasy fast-food containers. Make eye contact with the bibi and tell her you saw a movie where a woman rides away on a broom. Maybe her broom has the same power. She could escape these night shifts, urinal scrubbings, brutal winters, basement suites and return to saffron fields. Sun-ripened guava.

vi.  You have never been on the SS Komagata Maru, so why do you remember what it smelled like? The extension of collective memory. That Smell of salt and cedar, of mold, and fear. The extension of fear. Exclusion. You never set foot aboard, but you can feel the coolness of the planks on deck. Sometimes, you feel the jab of a splinter in the ball of your foot. Your feet are unmoored, aching to chart postcolonial trajectories.