"The Canteen" by Shaza Syed — Our March 2021 Silver Medal Winner

Shaza is our second place winner from the contest posted in our March 2021 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“This is a touching story about friendship and the power of art to bring people together.”

“I enjoyed the quiet mood of this story and its gentle portrayal of a progression in friendship.”

“A fresh take on what might have easily been a cliché, this author introduces us to the lives of immigrants; their loneliness and their tenacity. A very enjoyable and readable story that anchored readers in unique features from the image prompt. ”

Meet Shaza

Shaza is a second year student at the University of Waterloo. She has always had an interest in creative writing, and looks forward to growing and becoming a better writer through her experiences.

The Canteen

the unedited story by Shaza Syed

Imtiaz stood staring through the microwave window, listening to the soft mechanical buzz of the machine and the gentle sizzle of the curry in its tupperware. He carefully carried his food to the factory canteen, found an empty table, gently rolled up his sleeves and ripped a piece of roti with his hands.

He chewed thoughtfully, stopping in between bites for big gulps of water. He had a long shift ahead of him, might as well fuel up now. It had been four months since he started working in the factory, and six months since he arrived in Canada. He didn’t mind the factory or the overnight shift, it was tiring but it paid well and gave him the entire day to himself. He spent most of his mornings sleeping, and got up in the afternoon to cook and clean his small one bedroom apartment. The evenings were the best, with a cup of chai in one hand and a book in the other, Imtiaz sat out on the rusty balcony and watched the sun set.

Tim was the closest thing he had to a friend at the factory. He was Japanese, and usually ate lunch with the other Japanese workers. Most people either kept to themselves or those they were comfortable with, but Tim had walked over to introduce himself on Imtiaz’s second day. Imtiaz was a man touched by kind gestures, and found himself talking to Tim whenever they ran into each other. They never ate together, but a wave across the canteen went a long way.

Almost seven months after his first day at the factory, Tim held up his phone proudly in front of Imtiaz’s face, showing him a heavily pixelated picture. At first Imtiaz wasn’t sure what it was, but it slowly began to take the form of a thin sheet of wood.

“8 micron!” Tim proudly chirped.

Imtiaz didn’t really understand - 8 microns of what?

“That’s how thin the wood shaving is.” Tim responded to the perplexed look on Imtiaz’s face.

Imtiaz just nodded, still unsure why this was something impressive. That day, after they both ended their night shifts and were putting on their coats, Tim asked Imtiaz to accompany him to his house.

“I want to show you how I shave the wood.” Tim’s excited eyes glinted behind his wire rim glasses. Imtiaz was too polite to refuse, but he secretly wished he had packed some chai in his thermos. It was difficult to stay awake.

Tim parked outside his house, a modest townhome with a tiny garage accompanying it. He opened the garage door, only to be hit with a cloud of sawdust and wood chips. He swatted away the sawdust with his hands, and Imtiaz followed him inside reluctantly.

A variety of blades and tools lay on the work table alongside long planks of wood. Tim carried over a blade seemingly embedded into a small block of wood. He pulled the blade over a long plank, peeling off the thinnest slice of wood Imtiaz had ever seen. It resembled a thinly sliced apple, flimsy and almost translucent.

He carried the slice of wood to the micrometer, and proudly announced, “10 micron!” Imtiaz was amazed, the pixelated photo he had seen earlier certainly didn’t do the wood shaving justice.

“Hand planing is what it's called in English.” Tim smiled, clearly amused by Imtiaz’s amazement. “Do you want to try?”

Imtiaz had never done anything like it before. He had whittled sugar cane with a blade back in the fields of his village in Pakistan, but this was something entirely different. It required attention, precision and the most delicate touch imaginable. His hands shook and he stood foolishly behind the wood.

The first slice didn’t even make it down the entire plank of wood, instead getting caught halfway through and breaking off. The second time was a little better, but it eventually broke off again. Imtiaz grew agitated as he tried again and again. He didn’t want Tim to think he was stupid.

Tim encouraged him, stopped him to readjust the blade and explained what he was doing wrong. It was almost 2 hours later that he managed to shave off a slice of wood that could be measured with the micrometer.

“20 micron! Not bad at all.” Tim announced, holding up the strip of wood proudly.

The sun was up in the sky now, the sounds of children walking to school could be heard from outside the garage. Imtiaz picked up his things, hesitant to ask the question that lingered in his mouth, watching Tim clean up the wood shavings.

“You can come back any day to try again.” Tim’s eyes crinkled warmly as he looked up at Imtiaz, still standing awkwardly halfway out the garage door.

Imtiaz thanked him and began walking to the bus stop. Small wood chips tickled his neck and littered his clothes, and he smelt distinctly like the inside of a wood shop. The people on the bus glanced at him funnily, but this was the most normal he had ever felt.

Imtiaz went back to Tim’s garage after almost every shift. At first he worried that Tim would grow sick of him, but he didn’t seem to mind. They would work on their shavings for a few hours, and then sit outside with Imtiaz’s thermos of chai and talk about their families, the life they left behind, and the factory. It was the time of day Imtiaz looked forward to most, even more than his evenings on the balcony.

More than a year after his first day at the factory, Imtiaz was offered a better paying job at a different factory. On his last day, Imtiaz sat with his container of curry and roti at the small canteen table.

He saw Tim across the canteen and waved at him. Tim waved back among his group of friends, and then walked over to Imtiaz’s table. He sat down. They drank chai from the thermos.